Iconophilia

Between the late seventh and the mid-ninth centuries, a debate about sacred images –
conventionally addressed as ‘Byzantine iconoclasm’ – engaged monks, emperors, and
popes in the Mediterranean area and on the European continent. The importance
of this debate cannot be overstated; it challenged the relation between image, text,
and belief. A series of popes staunchly in favour of sacred images acted consistently
during this period in displaying a remarkable iconophilia or ‘love for images’. Their
multifaceted reaction involved not only council resolutions and diplomatic exchanges,
but also public religious festivals, liturgy, preaching, and visual arts – the mass media
of the time. Embracing these tools, the popes especially promoted themes related to
the Incarnation of God – which justified the production and veneration of sacred
images – and extolled the role and the figure of the Virgin Mary.
Despite their profound influence over Byzantine and western cultures of later
centuries, the political, theological, and artistic interactions between the East and the
West during this period have not yet been investigated in studies combining textual
and material evidence. By drawing evidence from texts and material culture – some of
which have yet to be discussed against the background of the iconoclastic controversy –
and by considering the role of oral exchange, Iconophilia assesses the impact of the
debate on sacred images and of coeval theological controversies in Rome and central
Italy.
By looking at intersecting textual, liturgical, and pictorial images which had at
their core the Incarnate God and his human mother Mary, the book demonstrates
that between c.680–880, by unremittingly maintaining the importance of the visual
for nurturing beliefs and mediating personal and communal salvation, the popes
ensured that the status of sacred images would remain unchallenged, at least until the
Protestant Reformation in the sixteenth century.

Francesca Dell’Acqua is Associate Professor in History of Medieval Art at the

Università di Salerno. She received her Ph.D. at the Scuola Normale Superiore di
Pisa. She has since held research fellowships at the American Academy in Rome,
the Dumbarton Oaks Center for Byzantine Studies, and the Centre for Byzantine,
Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies at the University of Birmingham, where she was
Marie Skłodowska Curie Fellow of the European Commission.
Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies
General Editors
Leslie Brubaker
Rhoads Murphey
John Haldon

Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies is devoted to the history, culture and
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Eastern Trade and the Mediterranean in the Middle Ages

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The Eloquence of Art

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Andrea Olsen Lam and Rossitza Schroeder

Iconophilia
Politics, Religion, Preaching and the Use of Images in Rome, c.680–880
Francesca Dell’Acqua

Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies

University of Birmingham
Frontispiece: The bust of the Virgin Mary, pigments on parchment, Homiliary of Agimundus,
Rome, c.800, Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fol. 64r, detail.
Photo: © BAV.
Iconophilia

Politics, Religion, Preaching, and the Use

of Images in Rome, c.680–880

Francesca Dell’Acqua
First published 2020
by Routledge
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It is the way of those who are consumed with love for something to have it
always on their tongue, to have an image of it in their mind night and day
John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 1 (730–40s)

*****

I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you

That I almost believe that they’re real
I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel
The Cure, Pictures of You (1989)*

*****

In memory of my beloved father Giovanni (1922–2014). That his intellectual

curiosity, unconquered dignity, spiritual strength, and political engagement
may be ‘living images’ for my children.

*Words and music by Paul Thompson, Robert Smith, Boris Williams, Laurence
Tolhurst, Roger O’ Donnell and Simon Gallup. © Copyright 1989 Fiction Songs
Limited. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by
Permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited
Contents

List of illustrations xii

Colour plates xviii
Foreword and acknowledgements xx
Abbreviations xxiii
A note on translations, names, and place names xxvi
List of popes xxvii

Introduction 1
1 A word on words 2
2 The standpoints 3
3 A question of method 5
4 The objectives 8
5 The outline 10
6 A final remark 14

1 Before iconoclasm and its early echoes (680s–750s) 16

1 The ‘visual’ before Byzantine iconoclasm 17
2 The Sixth Ecumenical Council 19
3 The Council in Trullo 21
4 Urban processions in honour of Mary 23
5 Proto-iconoclasm, or damnatio memoriae? 29
6 A ‘mural icon’ in S. Sabina 30
7 The life of Gregory II 32
8 An inscription from a Lombard court 35
9 The life of Gregory III 39
10 With the help of Mary 41
Conclusions 43
x Contents

2 Words, images, and religious practices in the iconophile

discourse (754–790s) 45
1 The Council of Hiereia (754): against or according to tradition? 46
2 John of Damascus. A living icon of ‘orthodoxy’ in Rome? 49
3 Germanos of Constantinople: an alleged exile in Rome? 52
4 Later echoes of iconoclasm in Rome 57
5 Dissenting refugees 59
6 The apse of S. Maria Antiqua: Mary above all saints 61
7 Synods and florilegia (760s) 69
8 Pope Hadrian I’s Synodica and the iconophile Council
of Nicaea II 71
9 The Hadrianum to Charlemagne 74
10 Words matter: adoration versus veneration 76
11 Papal artistic patronage as an iconophile argument 79
12 The authority of Gregory the Great between Rome and Francia 80
13 Raising the bar: The Libri Carolini 82
Conclusions 85

3 Textual icons: Iconophile thinking and preaching in central Italy 87

1 A witness of iconophile thinking in central Italy 89
2 Autpert and the popes of his time 92
3 Autpert and iconoclasm 95
4 Textual icons 100
5 Mary in central Italy 106
6 Homilies and iconophile propaganda? 109
7 Graeca consuetudine 113
8 Texts and images 118
Conclusions 120

4 A glimpse of salvation: Christ as light between the first and second

iconoclasm 121
1 Christ as the ‘Redeeming Light’ in Rome 123
2 The case of S. Zeno 128
3 Beyond the transfiguration in S. Prassede and S. Cecilia 145
4 A stained-glass panel with Christ from S. Vincenzo al Volturno 156
5 Circumscribing the uncircumscribable 159
6 The context of the Crypt of Epyphanius 168
7 The legacy of Autpert 180
8 Iconophilia as official policy 182
9 Again on dissenting refugees 186
10 The Synod of Paris (825) and the papal response 188
Conclusions 190
 Contents xi

5 Christ Child as the Lamb of God on the altar 192

1 The Presentation as epiphany between the fifth and the eighth
centuries 195
2 Christ on the altar 203
3 The feast of light in Jerusalem and Rome 218
4 Other themes of the feast 220
5 The earliest Latin homilies on the Presentation 222
6 Autpert’s novel approach 225
7 Going to embrace the Christ–Light 228
8 The idea of the altar 231
9 On the circulation of iconophile (?) amulets 235
Conclusions 240

6 Figuring intercession: The Assumption of Mary 241

1 John VII and Mary orans as Adsumpta 243
2 Mary orans as Adsumpta on a Merovingian fabric 250
3 A paradoxical image: Mary in the Greek tradition 253
4 The triumphant Mary: early western arts and texts 259
5 A ‘cameo’ of the Adsumpta in the Homiliary of Agimundus 264
6 The Carolingian controversy on the Assumption and Paschal I 268
7 A Theotokos–Adsumpta in S. Maria in Domnica? 270
8 Mary as threshold and gate of heaven 278
9 A humble queen in the Crypt of Epyphanius 280
10 Prefiguring her own Assumption 289
11 The Assumption in the late Carolingian period 295
12 The Dormition in Rome 300
Conclusions 303

Appendix 1: Mary as queen of heaven 305

Appendix 2: Mary as gate of heaven and ladder to heaven 310
Epilogue 315
Bibliography 318
Index 377
Illustrations

1.1 Route of the procession established in Rome on the vigil of Marian

feasts by Pope Sergius I (687–701). 24
1.2 Virgin Mary as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’),
Christ Child, Peter, Paul, two female saints, two donors and Pope
Constantine I, mural painting, Rome, Santa Sabina, narthex,
c.712–15. 31
2.1 Virgin Mary, ‘effigiem . . . in statu’, gilt silver, embossed,
commissioned by Pope Paul I (757–67), artistic impression. 62
2.2 Christ, Mary, and Pope Paul I (757–67), mural painting, 757–67,
Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, apse. 64
2.3 Christ, Mary, and Pope Paul I (757–67), mural painting, 757–67,
Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, apse. 65
2.4 Christ and saints, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua,
east aisle. 67
2.5 Christ among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome,
S. Maria Antiqua, east aisle. 68
2.6 Christ among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome,
S. Maria Antiqua, east aisle. 69
2.7 Libri Carolini, incipit, Reims, c.869–70, Paris, Bibliothèque de
l’Arsenal, ms. 663, fol. 1r. 84
3.1 Map of Italy in the late eighth century. 90
3.2 Ambrose Autpert, Expositio in Apocalypsin, incipit, fifth book,
S. Vincenzo al Volturno, late eighth century, Benevento Biblioteca
Capitolare, ms. III. 9 fol. 153r. 98
3.3 The abbot of Farfa, Thomas of Maurienne, washes the feet of the
three young Beneventans Tato, Paldo, and Taso, future founders
of S. Vincenzo al Volturno, pigments on parchment, Chronicon
Vulturnense, S. Vincenzo al Volturno, early twelfth century, Rome,
BAV, ms. Barb. Lat. 2724, fol. 33v. 102
4.1 Rome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, interior. 125
4.2 Rome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, apsidal arch, mosaics, c.815–16. 126
4.3 Rome, S. Prassede, interior. 129
4.4 Entrance to the Chapel of S. Zeno, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 130
4.5 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, with altar and Transfiguration mosaic,
Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 132
 Illustrations xiii

4.6 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall and vault, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 133
4.7 Transfiguration, mosaic, detail, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, Rome,
S. Prassede, 818–19. 133
4.8 Deesis, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, Rome, S. Prassede,
818–19. 134
4.9 Theodora ‘Episcopa’, Praxedis, the Virgin Mary, and Pudentiana,
mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 135
4.10 Christ, the apostles, Mary and Christ Child, two clerics, eight
crowned female martyrs, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, entrance wall,
Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 135
4.11 Altar, thirteenth-century mosaic with Virgin and Child mosaic,
Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 136
4.12 Etimasia flanked by Peter and Paul, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, west
wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 138
4.13 Agnes, Pudentiana, and Praxedis flanking a former window, mosaic,
Chapel of S. Zeno, north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 139
4.14 Lamb of God, with the Harrowing of Hell or Anastasis on the right,
mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, niche in north wall, Rome, S. Prassede,
818–19. 140
4.15 Harrowing of Hell or Anastasis, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, right
side of niche in north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19. 141
4.16 Harrowing of Hell or Anastasis, enkolpion, silver, gold, niello,
10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e
S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni
Culturali Ecclesiastici. 142
4.17 Harrowing of Hell or Anastasis, enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 ×
0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Representative Collection,
National Archaeological Institute with Museum at the Bulgarian
Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822. 143
4.18 Christ and angels, Chapel of S. Zeno, vault, Rome, S. Prassede,
818–19. 144
4.19 Rome, S. Prassede, triumphal arch and apse, mosaic, 818–19. 146
4.20 S. Prassede, apse, mosaic, detail. 147
4.21 Rome, S. Cecilia, apse, mosaic, 819–20. 147
4.22 Rome, S. Cecilia, apsidal wall and arch, mosaic; graphic
reconstruction: from Ciampini, 1699, 2, tav. LI. 150
4.23 The Theotokos, Rome, S. Cecilia, apsidal arch, mosaic; graphic
reconstruction: from Ciampini, 1699, 2, tav. LI. 150
4.24 Rome, SS. Cosma e Damiano, apse, mosaic, 526–30. 151
4.25 Christ, glass and lead cames, 190 × 105 × 25 mm, obverse, San
Vincenzo al Volturno, from the riverbank sector, stratigraphic
layer 17107, first half of the ninth century, Venafro (Isernia),
Archaeological Museum. 158
4.26 Christ, glass and lead cames, reverse. 159
4.27 Geometrically cut window-glass panes, from San Vincenzo al
Volturno, sector CL/W, stratigraphic layer 3168, ninth century,
Venafro (Isernia), Archaeological Museum. 160
xiv Illustrations

4.28 The Genoa Mandylion or ‘Sacro Volto’, panel painting, thirteenth

century, Genoa, Monastery of San Bartolomeo degli Armeni. 163
4.29 St Cuthbert’s Cross, gold, cowrie shell, garnets, 60 × 60 mm,
seventh century, Durham, Durham Cathedral Collections. 166
4.30 Lateran Cross, gold, red garnets, amethysts, pearls, c.255 × 240 ×
45 mm, fifth–ninth century? Rome, Museo Sacro of the Biblioteca
Apostolica Vaticana, stolen in 1943–4. 167
4.31 Cruciform casket, wrought, embossed and gilded silver, niello, 10 ×
29.5 × 25 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 60985. 168
4.32 Castel S. Vincenzo (Isernia), S. Vincenzo al Volturno, Crypt of
Epyphanius and South Church (Santa Maria in insula?), early ninth
century. 170
4.33 Crypt of Epyphanius, pictorial scheme: 1 Christ?, 2 John offering
the Book of the Revelation to Christ?, 3 Wise Virgins, 4 Virgin Mary
as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the Heavens’) with donor, 5
Christ in the vault, 6 Virgin Mary Adsumpta into heaven, 7 donor,
8 five archangels, 9–10 Annunciation (Incarnation), 11 Nativity,
12 Bath of the Christ Child, 13 Crucifixion with Epyphanius,
14 Weeping Jerusalem, 15 Women at the Sepulchre, 16–17–18
Resurrected Christ between the protomartyrs Laurence and Stephen,
19–20 Martyrdom of Stephen and Laurence, 21 donor, 22 The hand
of God casting a ray of light, Castel S. Vincenzo (Isernia), early
ninth century. 171
4.34 Crucifixion with Abbot Epyphanius (824–42) in proskynesis, Crypt
of Epyphanius, mural painting, 824–42. 172
4.35 Christ in majesty, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault, mural painting,
early ninth century. Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua. 174
4.36 Christ as ‘King of Kings’, Homilies of Gregory the Great, San
Vincenzo al Volturno, early ninth century, Vercelli, Biblioteca
Capitolare, ms. Cap. CXLVIII/8, fol. 8r. 175
4.37 Resurrected Christ between Stephen and Laurence, Crypt of
Epyphanius, mural painting, early
ninth century. 176
4.38 Crypt of Epyphanius, window in the north arm (40 × 142 cm);
early ninth century. 178
4.39 Hand of God casting a ray of light, mural painting, Crypt of
Epyphanius, vault of the north window, early ninth century. 179
4.40 Christ between the Evangelist Mark, Pope Mark, martyrs, and
Pope Gregory IV, mosaic, c.830, Rome, S. Marco, apse. 185
4.41 Deacon Felicissimus (?), mural painting, Rome, S. Crisogono,
lower church, 731–41. 190
5.1 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, staurotheca of
Paschal I, gilded copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 × 3.5 cm,
Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61881. 193
5.2 Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Presentation of the Christ Child in the
Temple, tempera on wood, 257 × 168 cm, Siena, 1342, Florence,
Uffizi Gallery. 194
5.3 S. Maria Maggiore, triumphal arch, mosaic, 432–40. 196
 Illustrations xv

5.4 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, Rome, S. Maria

Maggiore, triumphal arch, right side, detail, mosaic, 432–40. 196
5.5 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mosaic, 565–74,
from the church of the Theotokos Kyriotissa (Kalenderhane Camii),
Istanbul, Archaeological Museum. 199
5.6 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting,
705–7, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, presbytery, right side. 200
5.7 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting,
705–7, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, presbytery. 200
5.8 Adoration of the Magi, mural painting, detail, 705–7, Rome, S.
Maria Antiqua, presbytery, left side. 201
5.9 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mosaic, Rome, Old
St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII, 705–7, drawing from Grimaldi,
1621, fol. 97r, detail. 202
5.10 Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII, mosaic programme,
705–7, drawing from Grimaldi, 1621, fol. 97r. 202
5.11 Staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 ×
3.5 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61881. 204
5.12 Casket for the staurotheca of Paschal I, gilt silver, 19.7 × 6.2 × 3 cm,
Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61888. 205
5.13 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, enkolpion, silver,
gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S.
Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio
Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici. 207
5.14 Enkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano
(Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia
Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici. 208
5.15 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, enkolpion, gold,
niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia,
Representative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with
Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822. 209
5.16 Enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth
century, Sofia, Representative Collection, National Archaeological
Institute with Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv.
no. 4822. 210
5.17 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on
parchment, Chludov Psalter, Constantinople, ninth century,
Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129, fol. 163v, detail. 211
5.18 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting,
c.780, Müstair, abbey church of St Johann. 213
5.19 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, ink on parchment,
Utrecht Psalter, Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, Reims or
Hautvilliers, ninth century, MS Bibl. Rhenotraiectinae I Nr 32, fol.
89b, detail. 214
5.20 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, embossed gold
lamina, Golden Altar, 840s, Basilica of S. Ambrogio in Milan. 215
5.21 Golden Altar, gold, silver, cloisonné enamels, gemstones, 840s,
Milan, Basilica of S. Ambrogio. 216
xvi Illustrations

5.22 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on

parchment, Drogo Sacramentary, mid-ninth century, Paris, BnF,
lat. 9428, fol. 38r, detail. 217
5.23 Ambrose Autpert, In ipopanti sanctae mariae, Reichenau, ninth
century, Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug. Perg. 197,
fol. 145r. 224
5.24 Lupo di Francesco, Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple,
marble, from the pulpit of San Michele in Borgo, Pisa, first half of
the fourteenth century, Pisa, Museo Nazionale di S. Matteo. 231
6.1 Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII, 705–7, drawing
from Grimaldi, 1621, fol. 97r, detail. 245
6.2 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, from Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope
John VII, 705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco. 246
6.3 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, detail, from Old St Peter’s, Oratory of
Pope John VII, 705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco. 249
6.4 The Assumption of the Virgin, linen brocade, 65 × 80 cm, late
sixth–eighth century?, Sens, Musées de Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale. 251
6.5 The Assumption of the Virgin, linen brocade, 65 × 80 cm, late
sixth–eighth century?, Sens, Musées de Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale. 252
6.6 Madonna della Clemenza, panel painting, 200 × 133 cm, Rome,
sixth–early eighth century?, Rome, S. Maria in Trastevere. 255
6.7 Maria Regina, mural painting, detail, c.520s–30s, Rome, S. Maria
Antiqua, apsidal wall, also known as ‘palimpsest wall’. 256
6.8 Maria Regina and angels, mural painting, c.520s–30s, Rome, S.
Maria Antiqua, apsidal wall, also known as ‘palimpsest wall’. 257
6.9 Sarcophagus, marble, fourth century, Zaragoza, S. Engracia,
crypt. 260
6.10 The Virgin Mary, pigments on parchment, Homiliary of Agimundus,
Rome, c.800, Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fol. 64r, detail. 266
6.11 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, Sinai, Monastery of St Catherine, apsidal
wall, sixth century. 267
6.12 Rome, S. Maria in Domnica, apse, mosaic, 818–19. 272
6.13 The Theotokos, Pope Paschal I (817–24), angels, S. Maria in
Domnica, apse, mosaic, detail, 818–19. 273
6.14 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, five archangels, dado with eagles,
mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, San Vincenzo al Volturno,
apse, early ninth century. 281
6.15 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, mural painting, Crypt of
Epyphanius, vault of the apse, early ninth century. 282
6.16 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, detail (right: in UV light), Crypt
of Epyphanius, mural painting, early ninth century. 283
6.17 The Virgin’s book with a quotation from the Magnificat hymn
(Luke 1, 48): ‘ECCE ENIM EX HOC/BEATAM ME DICENT
[omnes generationes]’ (‘For behold, from now on [all generations]
will call me blessed’), mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault
of the apse, detail, early ninth century. 284
6.18 Ascension with Mary, the apostles, and Pope Leo IV (847–55),
mural painting, Rome, S. Clemente, lower church, entrance wall,
847–55. 290
 Illustrations xvii

6.19 Pope Leo IV (847–55), Ascension, mural painting, detail, Rome,

lower church of S. Clemente, entrance wall, 847–55. 291
6.20 Enkolpion Działyński, gold and niello, 6.9 × 5.3 × 1.2 cm,
ninth century, Gołuchów Castle Museum, stolen during the
Second World War. 293
6.21 Ascension and Assumption, enkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 ×
6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e S.
Giovanni, verso, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile,
Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici. 294
6.22 Ascension and Assumption, enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 ×
0.5 cm, outer cross, verso, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia,
Representative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with
Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822. 294
6.23 Incipit, Adsumptio Sanctae Mariae, Reichenau, late ninth century,
Karlsruhe, Cod. Aug. Perg. 229, fol. 184v. 297
6.24 Tuotilo, Assumption, ivory carving, Evangelium Longum, St.Gallen,
Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 53, back cover, c.895. 298
6.25 Tuotilo, Ascension, ivory carving, Evangelium Longum, St.Gallen,
Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 53, front cover, c.895. 299
6.26 Cycle of the Dormition, mural painting, Rome, S. Maria de
Secundicerio, c.870s. 301
7.1 Inscription of dux Eustathius, Rome, S. Maria in Cosmedin, main
entrance, mid-eighth century. 308
Colour plates

1 Route of the procession established in Rome on the vigil of Marian feasts by

Pope Sergius I (687–701).
2 Virgin Mary as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’), Christ Child,
Peter, Paul, and Pope Constantine I, mural painting, Rome, Santa Sabina, narthex,
c.712–15.
3 Virgin Mary, ‘effigiem . . . in statu’, gilt silver, embossed, commissioned by Pope
Paul I (757–67), artistic impression.
4 Christ among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Anti-
qua, east aisle.
 5 Transfiguration, mosaic, c.815–16, Rome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, apsidal arch.
6 Christ, the apostles, Mary and Christ Child, two clerics, eight crowned female
martyrs, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, entrance wall, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
7 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, with altar and Transfiguration mosaic, 818–19,
Rome, S. Prassede.
8 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall and vault, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
 9 Deesis, detail with the Virgin Mary, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, 818–19, Rome,
S. Prassede.
10 Christ, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, vault, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
11 Pope Paschal, the phoenix, Praxedis, Paul, mosaic, Rome, S. Prassede, apse,
detail, 818–19.
12 Christ, with Pope Paschal, the phoenix, Cecilia, and Paul on the left, and Peter,
Agatha (?), and Valerianus (?) on the right, mosaic, Rome, S. Cecilia, apse, detail,
819–20.
13 Christ, the phoenix, Paul, and Peter, 526–30, Rome, SS. Cosma e Damiano, apse,
mosaic, detail.
14 St Cuthbert’s Cross, detail, gold, cowrie shell, garnets, 60 × 60 mm, seventh cen-
tury, Durham, Durham Cathedral Collections.
15 Christ, glass and lead cames, 190 × 105 × 25 mm, obverse (in transmitted light),
San Vincenzo al Volturno, first half of the ninth century, Venafro (Isernia),
Archaeological Museum.
16 Christ, glass and lead cames, 190 × 105 × 25 mm, obverse, San Vincenzo al Vol-
turno, first half of the ninth century, Venafro (Isernia), Archaeological Museum.
17 Crucifixion with Abbot Epyphanius (824–42) in proskynesis, Crypt of Epypha-
nius, mural painting, 824–42.
18 Christ in majesty, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault, early ninth century.
 Colour plates xix

19 Resurrected Christ between Stephen and Laurence, mural painting, detail, Crypt
of Epyphanius, early ninth century.
20 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault of
the apse, early ninth century.
21 The Virgin as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’), mural painting,
Crypt of Epyphanius, early ninth century.
22 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded
copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 × 3.5 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican
Museums, inv. no. 61881.
23 Staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 × 3.5 cm,
Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61881.
24 Casket for the staurotheca of Paschal I, gilt silver, 19.7 × 6.2 × 3 cm, Rome,
817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61888.
25 Enkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve
di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni
Culturali Ecclesiastici.
26 Enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia,
Representative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with Museum at the
Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822.
27 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Chlu-
dov Psalter, Constantinople, ninth century, Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129, fol.
163v, detail.
28 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, embossed gold lamina, Golden
Altar, Milan, 840s, Milan, Basilica of S. Ambrogio.
29 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Drogo
Sacramentary, mid-ninth century, Paris, BnF, lat. 9428, fol. 38r, detail.
30 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, from Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII,
705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco.
31 The bust of the Virgin Mary, pigments on parchment, Homiliary of Agimundus,
Rome, c.800, Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fol. 64r, detail.
32 The Theotokos, S. Maria in Domnica, apse, mosaic, detail, 818–19.
Foreword and acknowledgements

Every book, even a scholarly one, is a sort of autobiography in that it reflects both the
transitory and long-term interests and inclinations of the author, and this one does not
escape such a definition. From a scholarly point of view, I have been concerned with
Rome and central Italy, and with their early medieval culture, since my early twenties,
especially, but not exclusively, through the evidence offered by the former monastery
of S. Vincenzo al Volturno. It was my participation in the exhibition project about the
Mandylion or Holy Face, led by Gerhard Wolf (Genoa, 2004), that first aroused my
interest in Byzantine iconoclasm. But the idea of developing the research project that
finally turned into this book matured in late 2009, after a public lecture I delivered in
the countryside of Salerno, at S. Ambrogio alla Rienna (Montecorvino Rovella). The
lecture involved a ninth-century mural painting of the Theotokos preserved there, and
an eighth-century monk and theologian active at S. Vincenzo al Volturno. However,
it was not until 2013, when I managed to get some time off for research, that I could
finally put into practice my lingering idea of investigating the iconophile attitude of
popes and monks as opposed to Byzantine iconoclasm. A one-month stipend at Dum-
barton Oaks, Washington, DC, for which I thank the Director Jan Ziolkowski and the
then Director of Byzantine Studies Margaret Mullett, allowed me to get back in touch
with the local lively community of Byzantinists, and make new friends, among which
I would like to mention Rebecca Darley, Beatrice Daskas, and Nicholas Marinides
(later Fr. Evgenios Iverites). A Summer Stipendium at the Bibliotheca Hertziana/Max-
Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome, for which I thank the then Director Elisa-
beth Kieven, enabled me to make good use of its extraordinary resources. Elvira and
Beat Brenk kindly offered me their Roman apartment for that and later stays.
In 2014 Leslie Brubaker backed my request to develop this project into an applica-
tion for a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Individual Fellowship. The process was facilitated
by the professional support of the Research and Knowledge Transfer Office of the Col-
lege of Arts and Law at the University of Birmingham. In early 2015 I was awarded
a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Individual Fellowship of the European Commission (no.
657240) that allowed me to undertake the project at the Centre for Byzantine, Otto-
man and Modern Greek Studies, at the University of Birmingham (2015–17). The Fel-
lowship included two secondments at the Bibliotheca Hertziana in Summer 2016 and
2017, for which I thank the Director Tanja Michalski. A sabbatical year (2017–18)
granted by the Università di Salerno allowed me to write this book. I am especially
grateful to Maria Galante, Renata Cantilena, and Mietta Napoli for supporting my
request. To Claudia Rapp I owe my affiliation (2017–20) to her prestigious project
 Foreword and acknowledgements xxi

‘Moving Byzantium’ financed through the Wittgenstein-Preis, which put me in contact

with wonderful scholars at the Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna.
Papers I presented at conferences or in seminar series at the following institutions
gave me the opportunity to receive invaluable feedback on strands of research which
I have developed into this book: the universities of East Anglia, Maynooth, Oxford,
Oslo, Rijeka, Vienna, and the Abbaye Saint-Martin de Ligugé, the Bibliotheca Hert-
ziana in Rome, the Courtauld Institute in London, the Hans Belting Library in Brno,
the INHA in Paris, the Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, as well as the
Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies in Birmingham.
To the following scholars and institutions goes my gratitude for providing profes-
sional support, information, bibliographic and photographic material, or for allowing
private views of objects and monuments discussed here: Marcello Andria, Direzi-
one Centro Bibliotecario di Ateneo, Università di Salerno; Michele Abbate, Mario
D’Ambrosi, Diego Ianiro, Ernesto Sergio Mainoldi, Università di Salerno; Alexander
Alexakis, University of Ioannina; Thomas Arentzen, University of Oslo; Antonella Bal-
lardini, Università degli Studi Roma Tre; Francesca Barsotti e Veronica Baudo, Ufficio
Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici, Curia Arcivescovile di Pisa; Massimo Bernabò, Univer-
sità di Pavia; Fr. Lucien-Jean Bord, Abbaye Saint-Martin de Ligugé; Prisca Brülisauer,
Stiftsbibliothek St. Gallen; Lidia Buono, Università di Cassino; Krastyu Chukalev,
Sofia, National Archaeological Institute with Museum, Bulgarian Academy of Sci-
ences; Guido Cornini and Barbara Pinto Folicaldi, Rome, Musei Vaticani; Theodore
De Bruyn, University of Ottawa; Ivan Drpić, University of Pennsylvania; John Duffy,
Harvard University Emeritus; Chris Fern and Pieta Graeves, Birmingham Museum and
Art Gallery; Ernst Gamillscheg, Vienna; Virginie Garret, Musées CEREP, Sens; Chris-
tian Gastgeber, Dirk Krausmüller, and Andreas Rhoby, Österreichische Akademie der
Wissenschaften, Vienna; Vincenzo Gheroldi and Sara Marazzani, Kos Arte Indagine;
Jürg Goll, Archäologischer Dienst Graubünden, Müstair; Michael Hare, Deerhurst/
Gloucester; Timothy Leonardi, Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare; Marc Lauxtermann,
Oxford University; Fr. Evgenios (Marinides) of Iviron, Mount Athos; Fr. Damaski-
nos (Olkinuora) of Xenophontos, Mount Athos; Éric Palazzo, Université de Poitiers;
Elena Papastavrou, Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities
of Pieria Department; Johann Röll, Regina Deckers, and Marga Sanchez, Biblio-
theca Hertziana, Rome; Jean-Marie Sansterre, Université libre de Bruxelles, Emeritus;
Francesco Santi, Università di Cassino; Elisabetta Scirocco, Bibliotheca Hertziana;
Naomi Standen, Simon Yarrow, and William Purkis, University of Birmingham; Alek-
sandra Sulikowska, Warsaw, National Museum; Francesca Tasso, Castello Sforzesco,
Comune di Milano; and Leandro Ventura, Polo Museale del Molise.
I need now to warmly thank the following colleagues, friends, and mentors, who
patiently read parts of this book and offered precious advice: the reading group at
the Department of Classics, Ancient History, and Archaeology – University of Bir-
mingham, Thomas Arentzen, Armin Bergmeier, Eve Borsook, Beat Brenk, Marianna
Cerno, Beatrice Daskas, Hugh Doherty, Fr. Evgenios Iverites, Giandomenico Fer-
razza, Ivan Foletti, Clemens Gantner, Vladimir Ivanovici, Herbert L. Kessler, Anthony
Lappin, Maria Lidova, Federico Marazzi, Katherine Marsengill, John Mitchell, Dimi-
tris Pallis, Bissera V. Pentcheva, Adriano Peroni, Jean-Marie Sansterre, but especially
Mary Cunningham, Beatrice Leal, and Natalia Teteriatnikov. Leslie Brubaker, Celia
Chazelle, John Osborne, and an anonymous peer reviewer generously offered their
xxii Foreword and acknowledgements

meticulous criticism on the entire manuscript and invited me to re-parcel its contents,
which ultimately enhanced its clarity. To all, I owe a debt of gratitude for pointing out
instances where I was wrong, although it goes without saying that I remain the only
one accountable for any surviving inaccuracies or mistakes. Special thanks go to Bea,
Bissera, Clemens, Dan, Ernesto, Eve, Ivan, Herb, John, and Mary for their friendship,
especially in the inevitable dark moments. During the manuscript revisions, Michael
Mackay has offered not only invaluable help in polishing my English, but also a con-
tagious optimism.
Finally, I admit I am profoundly indebted to my late father, who could not see the
beginning of my Marie Skłodowska-Curie Fellowship, let alone its fruits, and to my
mother, husband, and our children. They all have been incredibly patient with me over
the years, putting up with my mood swings and undeterred commitment to work.
Four Oaks, August 2019
Abbreviations

ACO Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum

ActaIRNorv Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, Insti-
tutum Romanum Norvegiae
Ads Ambrose Autpert, Sermo de Adsumptione
AK Aachener Kunstblätter
AM Archeologia medievale
Ap Ambrose Autpert, Expositio in Apocalypsin
Ap, Ep Ambrose Autpert, Epistola ad Stephanum papam
ArtB Art Bulletin
ArteM Arte medievale
BAV Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Rome
BHG Bibliotheca Hagiographica Graeca
BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies
BnF Bibliothèque nationale de France
BollGrott Bollettino della Badia Greca di Grottaferrata
ByzF Byzantinische Forschungen
BZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift
CahArch Cahiers archéologiques
CahCM Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, Xe – XIIe siècles
CC Excerpta Corpus Christianorum Excerpta in usum scholarum seorsum
edita
CCCM Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis
CCCOGD Corpus Christianorum Conciliorum Oecumenicorum Gener-
aliumque Decreta
CCSL Corpus Christianorum Series Latina
CDL Codice diplomatico longobardo
CF Chronicon Farfense
CFHB Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae
ChHist Church History
Co Ambrose Autpert, Libellus de conflictu vitiorum et virtutum
CSCO Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium
CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Christianorum
CSHB Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae
xxiv Abbreviations

CSLMA Auctores Galliae Clauis Scriptorum Latinorum Medii Aeui:

Auctores Galliae
CSSL Corpus Scriptorum Series Latina
Cu Ambrose Autpert, Sermo de Cupiditate
CV Chronicon Vulturnense
DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers
DOS Dumbarton Oaks Studies
EME Early Medieval Europe
EO Échos d’Orient
Ep Ambrose Autpert, Epistola ad Stephanum papam
EphL Ephemerides Liturgicae
ForschKA Forschungen zur Kunstgeschichte und christlichen Archäologie
FS Frühmittelalterliche Studien
GRBS Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies
HL Historia Langobardorum
JbAC Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum
JGS Journal of Glass Studies
JTS Journal of Theological Studies
LC Libri Carolini or Opus Caroli Magni contra Synodum
LCL Loeb Classical Library
LP Liber Pontificalis
Mansi G.D. Mansi, Sacrorum Conciliorum Nova Amplissima Col-
lectio, 31 vols. (Florence, Venice, 1759–1798).
MélRome Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire, École française de Rome
MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica
–, Auct. Ant. Auctores antiquissimi
–, Capit. Capitularia regum Francorum
–, Conc. Concilia
–, DD Kar. Diplomata Karolinorum
–, EMKA Epistolae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi
–, EMKA, EL Epistolae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi, Epistolae Langobard-
icae collectae
–, EMKA, CC Epistolae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi, Codex Carolinus
–, EK Epistolae Karolini Aevi
–, Leges Leges
–, PLAK Poetae Latini Aevi Karolini
–, SRL Scriptores Rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum saec. VI – IX
–, SRM Scriptores Rerum Merovingicarum
–, SS Scriptores
–, SS rer. Germ Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separa-
tim editi
MNIR Mededelingen van het Nederlands historisch instituut te Rome
OCTs Oxford Classical Texts or Scriptorum Classicorum Biblio-
theca Oxoniensis
OrA Ambrose Autpert, Oratio contra septem vitia. Recensio A
OrB Ambrose Autpert, Oratio contra septem vitia. Recensio B
PBSR Papers of the British School at Rome
 Abbreviations xxv

PG Patrologia Graeca
PL Patrologia Latina
PO Patrologia Orientalis
PPS Popular Patristics Series
PTS Patristische Texte und Studien
Pu Ambrose Autpert, Homilia de Purificatione
RBén Revue bénédictine
REB Revue des études byzantines
RendPontAcc Atti della Pontificia accademia romana di archeologia,
Rendiconti
RIASA Rivista dell’Istituto nazionale d’archeologia e storia dell’arte
RQ Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und
für Kirchengeschichte
Tr Ambrose Autpert, Homilia de transfiguratione Domini
RF Regestum Farfense
RP Regesta Pontificum Romanorum
SC Sources Chrétiennes
Settimane Settimane di studio del centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo
ST Studi e Testi
StMed Studi medievali
StP Studia Patristica
VChrSupp Vigiliae Christianae Supplements
Vi Ambrose Autpert, Vita sanctorum patrum Paldonis Tatonis et
Tasonis
ZKunstg Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte
A note on translations, names,
and place names

Unless otherwise stated, translations from Latin and Greek are my own. When exist-
ing, and when reliable, I have quoted published translations, which I have listed in the
bibliography after the modern edition of the text. The Bible has been quoted following
the New International Version.
Latin spelling follows the conventions adopted in the various editions. Standard angli-
cised versions of Greek and Latin names and place names have been preferred when in
common use; otherwise their original Latin or Greek version has been preferred.
Popes

Mid-seventh to late ninth century

Theodore I (626–49) Hadrian I (772–95)
Martin I (649–53) Leo III (795–816)
Eugene I (654–7) Stephen IV (816–7)
Vitalian (657–72) Paschal I (817–24)
Adeodatus II (672–6) Eugene II (824–7)
Donus (676–8) Valentine (827)
Agatho (678–81) Gregory IV (827–44)
Leo II (682–3) Sergius II (844–7)
Benedict II (684–5) Leo IV (847–55)
John V (685–6) Benedict III (855–8)
Conon (686–7) Nicholas I (858–67)
Sergius I (687–701) Hadrian II (867–72)
John VI (701–5) John VIII (872–82)
John VII (705–7) Marinus I (882–4)
Sisinnius (708) Hadrian III (884–5)
Constantine (708–15) Stephen V (885–91)
Gregory II (715–31) Formosus (891–6)
Gregory III (731–41) Boniface VI (896)
Zacharias (741–52) Stephen VI (896–7)
Stephen II (752–7) Romanus (897)
Paul I (757–67) Theodore II (897)
Constantine II (767–8) John IX (898–900)
Stephen III (768–72)
Introduction

Sacred images have for different reasons inspired devotion or spurred violent reac-
tions and cultural opposition world-wide and often in human history. In the period
between the late seventh and the mid-ninth centuries a bitter debate on the cult of
sacred images – conventionally called ‘Byzantine iconoclasm’ for the period c.720–
843 – engaged monks, emperors, and popes on both sides of the Mediterranean and
on the European continent. Its importance in the history of the early medieval period
cannot be overstated in that it challenged the relation between image, text, and belief.1
The reaction of the popes is fundamental to this picture. They were staunchly in favour
of sacred images, as well as of thinking and talking of the divine through images, and
unremittingly maintained their importance for instructing, nurturing beliefs, and medi-
ating personal and communal salvation. In sum, they deemed images an essential aspect
of the housekeeping of the Catholic Church. This book will focus on iconophilia, that is
a favourable attitude to sacred images on the part of the popes between c.680–880. The
development of the iconophile attitude of the popes in this period cannot be separated
from their wider intention to assert the traditions and the doctrinal and ecclesiastical
authority of the Church of Rome, while seeking its political independence. Embracing
the tools of visual media and public liturgy rather than producing learned treatises for
savants, the popes were able to reach a vast, multicultural audience, promote Rome as
the caput Ecclesiae, that is the head of the entire Christian community, and defend the
role of sacred images.2 As a matter of fact, the status of sacred images remained unchal-
lenged until the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century. Even today, visuality
and the power of images deeply characterises the culture of the western world.3

1 McCormick, 1994, 96, only mentions texts and images. The venerable tradition of venerating sacred
images is also an important factor according to eighth- and ninth-century sources.
2 Le Goff, 1974, 92: ‘Mass media were the favoured vehicles and matrices of mentalities: the sermon,
the painted or sculptured image were, in the days before the Gutenberg galaxy, the nebulae from which
mentalities crystallized’. On the attentively devised use of media by Christianity, the following remark by
Pohl, 2018, 23, is particularly neat: ‘Late ancient and early medieval Christianity was perhaps the most
ambitious experiment of social engineering that the world had seen to date, a massive effort to change
peoples’ lives using all available media: preaching and writing, images and light, ritual and architecture,
dress and music, detailed norms for behaviour and punishment’. On the value of material forms as media
in historical contexts, see also a recent review of the concept of ‘objectification’ in Tilley, 2006, 61–2,
who remarks that material forms do not simply mirror ideas, ‘they are instead the very medium through
which these values, ideas . . . are constantly reproduced and legitimized, or transformed’, and also that
‘Material forms complement what can be communicated in language. . . . The non-verbal materiality of
the medium is thus of central importance’.
3 On the importance of the visual in contemporary culture, see for example Kemp, 2012.
2  Introduction

1 A  word on words

The word ‘iconoclasm’ undoubtedly has a sinister connotation, leading the modern
mind to think about past and recent ideological destructions of images, monuments,
and even of human beings. It should be noted that the word ‘iconoclasm’ was not
used in the medieval period. In fact, it derives from the Latin iconoclasmus, a term
which did not appear before the sixteenth century and that was not associated with
the history of Byzantium until the mid-twentieth century. The Byzantines called this
controversy ‘iconomachy’, that is the ‘image struggle’.4
Nor was the term iconophilia used at the time of the controversy; actually that term
is not attested before the eighteenth century.5 Recently, iconophilia has been used by
scholars of nineteenth-century visual arts and literature for its etymological root of
‘love for images’, be they immaterial (mental, textual, liturgical) or material (based
on tangible media).6 Since this book approaches the period and the consequences of
the Byzantine image struggle from the Italian side of the Mediterranean and from the
point of view of a favourable attitude to sacred images,7 the word iconophilia seems
appropriate for its title. The adjective and noun iconophile (‘one who loves images’)
will be used instead of iconodule (from the Greek εἰκονόδουλος, that is ‘one who serves
images’). To name their opponents, the term eikonomachoi (εικονομάχοι) or ‘contesters
of icons’ will be favoured over ‘iconoclasts’, since the latter term implies the destruc-
tion of images, which was rarely the case during the image controversy. The adjective
iconoclastic will be used to indicate this group of people or their position.
Although there was never more than one legitimate pope at any given time, I have
to make clear that I shall often refer to ‘the popes’ in the period under examination.8
Indeed, until the ninth century, those elected to the papal throne, whatever their ethnic
origins or geographical backgrounds, belonged to the Roman clergy, had followed a
specific cursus honorum, and thereby had embraced the interests of the Church of
Rome.9 Their remarkable consistency, at least in artistic patronage, is proudly recalled
by Pope Hadrian I (772–95) in a famous letter to Charlemagne.10

4 Brubaker, 2012, 3–4.

5 It is attested in Holland in the eighteenth century, where it was used, as the adjectival noun ‘iconophi-
lus’, to sign an anonymous article; see Iconophilus, 1761. As adjectival noun, it is used in the title of
a book published in Paris, see Duchesne, 1834. In the Oxford English Dictionary one can find ‘icono-
phile’ to stand for ‘a connoisseur of pictures, engravings book illustrations, and the like’, and ‘iconoph-
ily’ as ‘the taste for these objects’, and both are attested in the late nineteenth-century English prose.
6 Elliott, 2012, 220, 299; Hedley, 2009, 27. See Ó Carragáin, 2013, for ‘liturgical images’.
7 I shall not consider the Byzantine territories in Italy, such as the Duchy of Naples or Ravenna. In Naples
the eventual impact of iconoclasm should be further explored; see Schreiner, 1988, 365–8; Sansterre,
2002, 1016, n. 69, for further bibliography. On Ravenna, see Mauskopf Deliyannis, 1996.
8 Dealing with the same period, other scholars also refer to ‘the popes’, for example: Noble, 1984, 1995;
Delogu, 2000; Dey, 2011.
9 The exceptions are Fabianus (236–50), on which see Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 4, 11, and later Con-
stantine II (767–8), whose vicissitudes have been recently examined by McKitterick, 2018. On the
cursus honorum in the Roman church, defined in the late fourth century, see Dunn, 2013. On papal
consistency of action between the seventh and the ninth centuries, see Noble, 1984, 186–7, 2000,
61–73; Del Buono, 2010.
10  Hadrianum, MGH, EK 3, 2, 49–50, esp. 50, on which see Chapter 2.
 Introduction 3

2 The standpoints
Byzantine iconoclasm and its written sources have been the object of unparalleled
scholarly attention over the last century. This has produced ‘a crisis of over-explana-
tion’, in the words of Peter Brown.11 All the same, many questions still remain open or
not even tackled. For example, scholars have focussed more on the rise of the cult of
icons rather than on the origins of Byzantine iconoclasm itself, which remain blurred.
Also, the modalities in which theological ideas and religious attitudes travelled and
were disseminated, and the specific effects they eventually had on western religious
approaches and on the production of literary and visual imagery, have rarely been
addressed. This is surprising, considering that the way in which cult images stimulate
reactions, are perceived, venerated, and chosen as mediators with the divine was radi-
cally shaped by the intense period of the Byzantine image struggle.
With the aim of offering an innovative perspective on the historical phase of the
image controversy, the present book will adopt alternative standpoints in terms of
attitude, geography, sources, objectives that go across the grain of historiography,
and across the borders of disciplines. Rather than concentrating on the rise or actual
implementation of iconoclasm in Byzantium, the present study will deal with icono-
philia, that is the favourable attitude to sacred images held by popes, monks, clerics,
and kings living on the western side of the Mediterranean. In fact, as for geography,
the standpoint of scholars has largely remained in Byzantium, although more than
forty years ago Brown blamed a ‘parochial’ attitude for preventing scholars from
dealing with the West in relation to the image controversy, a question wrongly seen
as exclusively pertaining to Byzantium.12 In fact, few have approached the period and
the question of the image controversy from the point of view of the West, despite far
more abundant evidence, both textual and material, official and private. Among the
few who have is Jean-Marie Sansterre, who has been studying for decades the role of
images in devotional practices and miracles in the medieval East and West and is cur-
rently re-assessing his thoughts on this vast body of material.13 Another exception is
Thomas Noble.14 His impressively documented monograph on the western response
to Byzantine iconoclasm is the only one so far to offer a thorough account of the papal
and Carolingian reactions to the controversial and inconsistent Byzantine policies on
sacred images. Noble carefully and critically combed through textual evidence, espe-
cially focussing on the contents of dogmatic texts, East–West diplomatic exchanges,
resolutions of Church councils, and Greek and Latin collections of authoritative quo-
tations. He left out non-official texts, as well as the discussion and the illustration of
specific sacred images. However, this choice is to be expected from a scholar with an
expertise in textual documents and Church history, and, therefore, should in no way
be considered a weakness in his very important study.

11 Brown, 1973, 3. The impressive bibliography on Byzantine iconoclasm has been discussed by Brubaker,
Haldon, 2001, 2011; however, it is still growing due to an increasing interest in the historical and con-
temporary iconoclasms.
12 Brown, 1973, 4.
13 Sansterre, 2002, forthcoming. I thank Sansterre for sharing parts of his yet unpublished manuscript that
provides a wide analysis of texts, relics, and images in the West, bearing in mind Byzantium.
14 Noble, 2009, 2, mentions Brown, 1973, 3, to emphasise the uniqueness of his own study.
4  Introduction

As noted by John Osborne, one of the most eminent scholars of early medieval
Rome, with regards to published studies, ‘some sense of the larger context’ of how
the controversy impacted the city, and the West generally, is still lacking.15 The papal
city and central Italy are particularly important in this picture, as they functioned as
‘charnière des deux mondes’, East and West, as Sansterre put it.16 However, Osborne
notes that although apparently ‘a new wave of Byzantine thinking about the art
washed over Italy in the decades immediately prior to the onset of iconoclasm in Con-
stantinople, very little is known about the specifics of that process’.17 To tell the truth,
no explicit source tells us how ‘Byzantine thinking about art’ or a positive attitude
towards sacred images and the visual in general eventually reached Italy.18 Moreover,
the lack of a papal theory of images does not help.
But the impact on theological controversies should not be measured by sifting
exclusively through official and outspoken texts. Walter Pohl suggests that in order
to reconstruct the meanings even of outspoken texts one needs to take into account
indirect references to unwritten things.19 On this note, it has to be admitted that meth-
odological problems have hindered a wider understanding of the image controversy in
the West: firstly, there is the usual separation of medieval from Byzantine studies, and
secondly the separation of textual, from visual, and liturgical studies. The analysis of
‘visual’, ‘material’, or ‘textual’ sources, in isolation from each other, can only offer a
partial view.
This long preamble is to justify my choice of certain sources used in the present
book. I have included eastern and western liturgical texts and practices, devotional
objects and practices, not always explicitly related to the image controversy. They
have nonetheless left traces of an enduring, often implicit iconophile attitude before,
during, and after the image controversy. I have tried to uncover and describe a net-
work of beliefs in the mediatory agency of sacred images and visual thinking on what
remains a largely untracked field, one where liturgy, devotion, material culture, and
religious mentalities intersect.20 That these elements intersected in people’s minds and
memories – and therefore should not be studied separately – is already attested in
the Christian culture that predated the period under consideration. One of the most
influential Christian authors, Augustine, recognised three types of vision: one medi-
ated through the physical eyes, one through the spirit, which can also imagine things it
does not know, and one through the mind, in which even absent things and immaterial
concepts are visualised.21 He also added that what the mind’s eye can see is infinitely
superior to what the physical eye can catch in the immanent world. While an analy-
sis of Augustine’s thought would exceed the scope of the present book, it suffices
to recall that his classification of memory within the operations of the mind is of

15 Osborne, 2014, 333.

16 Sansterre, forthcoming.
17 Osborne, 2014, 333.
18 On the impact of iconoclasm and the doctrine of the icon on the Byzantine ‘iconic thought’ and ‘imagi-
nary’ (a set of images, be they conscious, unconscious, perceived, imagined), see Mondzain, 2005.
19 Pohl, 2001, 351–2.
20 An exception is Ó Carragáin, 2011, 2013.
21  De Genesi ad litteram 12, 6, CSEL 28/1, 386–7; cf. Noble, 2009, 37.
 Introduction 5

pivotal importance to an understanding of how images were assimilated, remembered,

altered, and used as memory aids and creative tools.22
All in all, in the present study I have tried to gather a wider picture of the period by
incorporating eastern ideas and materials, but essentially remaining focussed on how
the image controversy affected western Catholic thinking (especially papal thinking),
image production and consumption, and daily devotional and liturgical practices. As
a consequence of this examination, it has been possible to shed new light on the rise to
prominence of the Virgin Mary within the religious context of Rome and central Italy,
where she took centre stage as a banner of correct faith and as the principal intercessor
for humankind.23

3 A  question of method

For the purposes of this book, I tried to ‘recapture the talk’ that accompanied certain
choices in papal and monastic iconophilia – a ‘talk’ that is not usually recorded in
official documents.24 Traces of controversial matters dealing with iconophilia and the
image controversy emerged in overlooked corners of documents, historical records,
and narrative,25 as well as in the lines of liturgical hymns, homilies, prayers, and
attested practices of private devotion. Side by side with this varied array of sources,
the examination of material culture against the background of the image controversy
has offered new insights.
In a famous article on iconoclasm published in 1973, Peter Brown mindfully
observed that archaeologists and art historians can produce ‘irrefutable surprises’ that
may change the course of historical interpretation.26 However, even in recent collec-
tions of essays written by the most distinguished scholars of the early medieval period,
the analysis of visual and material culture is entirely absent.27 One must conclude
that its contribution is implicitly deemed as merely ‘decorative’ and not ‘structural’
in shaping stories or ‘history’. Occasionally, works of art produced in Rome between
the late seventh and the ninth centuries have been singled out as visual responses to
Byzantine ‘heresies’, such as monotheletism (the doctrine of a single ‘will’ in Christ)
and iconoclasm.28 But generally speaking, material culture has rarely been incorpo-
rated into a wider narrative of Byzantine iconoclasm; notable exceptions are the

22 Carruthers, 1998, 2008, 2009, 2012.

23 On the centrality of Mary in western culture, and her ‘rise from a modest ancillary to a global icon’, see
Rubin, 2009. On Mary as mediator and intercessor in Christian culture, see Reynolds, 2012; Arentzen,
2017, 137–40, noted that these roles appear prominent in the liturgical hymns of Romanos the Melode
(c.560), and this may suggest that an official cult of Mary had been established in sixth-century Con-
stantinople. Costambeys, 2007, 85, lamented the lack of studies on the devotion to, and cult of, Mary
in early medieval central Italy.
24 I owe this expression to Henry Mayr-Harting; see Dell’Acqua, 2018, 44, n. 58.
25 Similar is the approach of Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, esp. 279, with regards to early medieval monaster-
ies of Rome. Since they lack traditional sources such as rules or charters, the authors suggest that their
specific monastic identities can be reconstructed by using narratives of martyr cults as ‘a lens through
which to view other evidence for papal patronage of Roman monasticism’.
26 Brown, 1973, 10.
27 Gasparri, ed., 2008; Gantner, McKitterick, Meeder, eds., 2015.
28 To quote only a few studies, see Melograni, 1990; Bolgia, 2006; Ballardini, 2007; McClendon, 2013.
6  Introduction

studies by Leslie Brubaker and John Haldon, and, recently, by Daniel Reynolds.29
While the analysis of material culture has established roots in the field of ‘Mediterra-
nean history’,30 visual images and material objects are still considered a lower-ranking
kind of evidence when compared to texts or inscriptions in the study of other areas of
the past.31As for material culture, it should also be noted that the scarcity of figural
arts and objects from pre-iconoclastic and iconoclastic Byzantium has sometimes led
scholars to treat western material, especially from Rome, as a proxy for Byzantine art.
This tendency has on the one hand drawn attention to the fertile exchange of ideas,
materials, and objects that took place between East and West,32 but on the other, it
has often led commentators to discount the particular developments of figural arts and
culture in central and southern Italy as merely ‘reflections’ of Byzantium.33
Visual images are indeed powerful tools, as they help to organise and stimulate
thought, strengthen ideas, and disseminate them.34 They may have an implied meaning
following the intention of the patron or maker, but this meaning is subject to interpre-
tation: images impact on different audiences at different times in different ways. There-
fore, a few words about their ‘reception’ are in place here. Although the question of
the reception of images was clearly already uppermost in the minds of pioneers in the
study and effects of visual arts such as Aby Warburg (d. 1929), art historical studies
specifically focussing on their reception have only appeared since the 1970s–1980s.35
Reception studies seek to go beyond iconographic studies, which compare images
with contemporary texts, and beyond phenomenological approaches, which appeal to
supposedly universal patterns of reception. However, no clear theoretical framework,
nor definite modus operandi, has been established for reception studies in the field of
art history. With regard to the audience of medieval sermons and homilies, it has been
noted that ‘our reconstruction of audience reception is impeded by our ignorance of
audiences’ mental furniture’.36 This applies very well also to audiences of pictorial
imagery. An assessment published during the last decade concluded by suggesting a
return to the materiality of the object and to avoid a purely text-based approach in
exploring how the art of the past was seen and understood.37 In the absence of explicit
textual references, which are, in fact, rare before the late medieval period, it is difficult

29 Brubaker, Haldon, 2001, 2011; Reynolds, 2018, on iconoclasm in Palestine under early Islamic rule.
30 Starting from Ferdinand Braudel, 1949, English trans. 1972, to the recent revision of his approach
involving human agency, see Abulafia, 2003, 2011.
31 There are naturally exceptions. For the early medieval West, for example, the work of the historian
Celia Chazelle.
32 This is attested by a specific iconographic theme, the Anastasis, to name but one; Kartsonis, 1986; Mackie,
1989; Labatt, 2012 (I have been unable to consult Labatt, 2019).
33 This is often the case with studies in Byzantine art that make use of the enamelled staurotheca or of the
mosaics promoted by Pope Paschal I, to give just a couple of examples.
34 On figural images, memory and thought, see Carruthers, 1998, 2008, 2009, 2012.
35 Among art historical studies specifically focussed on the reception of visual images, see for example
Kemp, 1987, who used the term ‘sermo corporeus’ to describe how medieval stained glass was used as
a medium for preaching and how preachers mediated the comprehension of the figural image for their
audience. For a lucid summary on the ‘reception theory’ in art history, see DaCosta Kaufmann, 1996.
36 Thompson, 2002, 20.
37 On art and medieval audiences, and the relative rarity of a theoretical debate in art history, see Caviness,
2006, who seems to suggest that “medieval reception” might include viewers up to Protestantism and
the Reformation.
 Introduction 7

to reconstruct how pictorial images were understood by, or impacted on, a specific
audience. Unfortunately, there is no written testimony that explains how specific pic-
torial images were received in the period analysed in this book. In early medieval
Rome, with a population that was multi-ethnic and multicultural, even among Chris-
tians there was considerable diversity.38 However, they had in common a faith, which,
since its origins, had the ambition to be ‘universal’ in its values and scope. In early
medieval Rome, ‘Christendom, with its universal horizon’ had been ‘harnessed to
the cause of one city [Rome]’, where a set of Christian values managed to supersede
those linked to the imperial romanitas (‘Romanness’) and become widely shared.39
This said, we can only assume that by commissioning mosaics, mural painting, and
liturgical furnishings, the popes ideally aimed to address as wide a sector as possible of
their varied flock. They may also have used such commissions in order to respond to
their political opponents, and may have employed them in association with preaching,
which could have helped fine-tune papal messages related to specific circumstances.
In trying to assess the reception and impact of literary and pictorial images in Rome
and central Italy in the period preceding, coinciding with, and following the iconoclas-
tic controversy, I have followed a double-stranded research path. On the one hand,
I have examined the writings of Ambrose Autpert (d. 784), one of the very few authors
from eighth-century Italy for whom we have records. Autpert was a monk, preacher,
and theologian; he was active in one of the main monasteries of central Italy and
appears to have been aligned with the ‘orthodoxy’ of the popes of his time. His writ-
ings suggest that visual thinking and images were pervasive in the Christian discourse
of his time. On the other hand, I have examined the testimony offered by references
in the figural realm. In fact, the persistence, adaptation, or dissemination of specific
images can also be taken as an index of their impact or effectiveness among people
with a shared set of values or interests. Therefore, in the second half of the book,
I will refer to how images created, or re-interpreted, in the period under examina-
tion became in some cases ‘standard’ ways of representing Christ and the Virgin that
would last for centuries, while in other cases they were abandoned.
While I do not intend to offer a comprehensive census of works of art that are
possibly related to the image controversy,40 nor catalogue those produced in Rome
in that period, nor defend their ‘Byzantine’ or ‘Roman’ origins in a world that was
more connected to the East than we concede, I will demonstrate how material objects
and the visual in general were essential tools in conveying, buttressing, or changing
ideas. Fully embracing the lesson of Aby Warburg about objects, pictorial images, and
their migration as ‘cultural capsules’, but not renouncing a comparative–formalistic

38 Gombrich, 1961, rejected the idea of ‘an innocent eye’, because individuals perceive the visual differ-
ently according to various factors which change according to social and historical contexts. The notion
of ‘visual literacy’, once defined as a set of visual competencies or cognitive skills and strategies one
needs to make sense of visual images (Fransecky, Debes, 1972, 70), more recently has been seen as per-
taining to social practices as much as to an individual ability; for a recent appraisal, see Serafini, 2017.
39 Pohl, 2014, 414; who adds at 416: ‘When the western Roman empire disintegrated, Roman identity . . .
had two strong foci. One was the city of Rome, recharged by its Christian symbolic capital. The other
was Byzantine Romanness’.
40 McClendon, 2013, has collected visual evidence as for St Peter’s and other churches refurbished by
eighth- and ninth-century popes.
8  Introduction

approach in their analysis,41 I shall treat objects and images, along with texts and
liturgical practices, as primary sources. In this, I subscribe to the manifesto on early
medieval Rome that John Osborne proposed at a Settimana in Spoleto. He remarked
on the necessity to consider material culture ‘less as documents for the history of art,
and more as documents of history, including political, economic and cultural his-
tory’, and to widen the geographic perspective of its investigation in order to highlight
connections.42

4 The objectives
The present book has a twofold objective: first, to gather more evidence about the papal
and central Italian monastic attitude to the visual and its importance in papal communi-
cation strategy between c.680–880; second, demonstrate that in this process the Virgin
Mary gained a greater importance in the religious landscape of Rome and central Italy.
It goes without saying that Mary was important from an early period in the religious
landscape of Rome – as she was in Constantinople.43 This is well manifested, if only
by the unusual number of devotional images painted on wood still preserved.44 Dur-
ing theological controversies about the natures of Christ and the visibility of God, the
‘system of values’ represented by the Virgin was used to regulate the debate, with the
result that her theological framing, official cult, and private devotion were enhanced.45
Noting the establishment of Marian processions in Rome, Osborne posited that the
Sixth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople (680–1), that reaffirmed the doctrine of
the two natures and two wills of Christ against the doctrine of monotheletism, ‘may
also have served as a catalyst for the burgeoning cult of Mary’ in the papal city.46
Soon afterwards Pope John VII (705–7), followed by Gregory III (731–41), and Paul
I (757–67), dedicated oratories to the Virgin in the basilica of St Peter in which they
would be buried. These oratories were strategically positioned along the conventional
route taken by visitors in the basilica, clearly for intercepting their prayers. The dedica-
tion to Mary of these oratories reveals the intention of their patrons to entrust their
souls to her intercession.47 In a period in which the popes styled St Peter’s as a ‘symbol

41 See a recent re-assessment of the comparative approach in Elsner, ed., 2017.

42 Osborne, 2001, 706–8. For a critical assessment of the cultural-historical approach to (material) cul-
ture, of which Aby Warburg has been a promoter, see Ginzburg, 1966; Diers, 1995; and the recent
collaborative project ‘Bilderfahrzeuge – Aby Warburg’s Legacy and the Future of Iconology’, at https://
iconology.hypotheses.org/uber, consulted on 17 January 2018.
43 On Mary in Constantinople, the literature is vast; see Mango, 2000, and also Arentzen, 2017 for a
recent and stimulating study. He argues that the public cult of Mary was already in place in the fifth
century, when her main feasts were introduced, and that it cannot be clearly distinguished from private
devotion, which was widely practised.
44 The literature on the icons of Rome is abundant; see Wolf, 1990, 2002; Andaloro, 2002; Pace, 2004b;
Leone, ed., 2012. I shall not treat the icons of Rome since their imagery is traditional and static and do
not reflect the specific theological preoccupations of the late seventh–mid-ninth centuries.
45 Iogna-Prat, Palazzo, Russo, 1996, 5–12; Mimouni, 2011, 321–2; Arentzen, 2017, 36, wrote that since
the fifth- and the sixth-century Christological controversies, the human Mother of God got ‘more clearly
interlaced into the weave’, that is integrated into the discourse of the divine economy of salvation.
46  LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84; see Osborne, 2014, 334.
47 See Gem, 2008, 9–19 for the pilgrims’ route in the basilica; McKitterick, 2013b, 105–14, on the crea-
tion of a papal necropolis in St Peter’s from the time of Leo I (440–61).
 Introduction 9

of orthodoxy’ as noted by Charles McClendon,48 crucially, the Virgin Mary was staged,
through her pictorial depictions, as the physical threshold between earth and heaven.
Indeed, in the medieval period the depiction of Mary appears situated at the centre of
a political–religious history in which the defence of ‘orthodoxy’ was one of the main
issues.49
The rise and consolidation of the cult of Mary in the West has never been specifi-
cally discussed against the background of the ‘image struggle’ and other theological
controversies. Moreover, her position in Byzantium is not clear yet, despite a growing
attention on the part of Byzantinists in the past decades. Recent investigations suggest
that, in Byzantium, the importance of Mary became more perspicuous only after icon-
oclasm.50 A few years ago, Averil Cameron, one of the most notable scholars of Mary
in Byzantium, noted however that ‘it would be a mistake to be too firmly wedded
to this schema’ essentially for three reasons. First is that the evidence on which this
assumption is based, especially from the point of view of art history, is in most cases
the output of elite patronage, while objects of lesser importance offer testimony to an
earlier importance of Mary in her role of intercessor in the daily life of the Christians.
Second is that liturgical literature between the sixth and the eighth centuries bears
witness to a continuity of themes in praise of Mary, and that in the eighth century this
literature appears to be a response to the fear that iconoclastic emperors would also
target the devotion to Mary. Third is that ‘some of the most striking writings’ about
Mary in this period were composed by the main defenders of images.51 Although the
centrality of her figure in private veneration, public liturgy, and debates over sacred
images during iconoclasm in Byzantium and in the West should be evident at this
point, nevertheless, the connection between Mary and the iconophile stance is sup-
ported only by a few commentators.52 It is my intention to explore this connection and
to offer further materials for consideration. The contesters of icons did pay respect
to the Mother of God.53 However, the devotion towards her almost equalled icono-
philia, or love for images: she made God visible, hence there could not be any image
of God, his angels, martyrs, and saints without the woman through whom he became
incarnate. Since the early phase of the image controversy, between the late 720s and
the 750s, the Incarnation had been the main argument used by eastern iconophiles to
justify the production and veneration of sacred images,54 and the doctrine of the Incar-
nation would remain central in medieval Christianity and its approach to physicality

48 McClendon, 2013, 215 (quoting an oral statement of Rosamond McKitterick), and 228.
49 Russo, 1996, 175.
50 Kalavrezou, 1990; Brubaker, Cunningham, eds., 2011.
51 Cameron, 2004, 18–20.
52 Tsironis, 2000; Krausmüller, 2015.
53 This assumption is however debated especially with regards to Emperor Constantine V (741–75); see
for a recent appraisal Krausmüller, 2015.
54 For example, in the first phase of the controversy, see John of Damascus, On the Divine Images, I, 8
(= III, 8), PTS 17, 80–3; trans. Louth, 2003, 24–5. Vasiliu, 2010, 181–7, 299–328, contests that the
Incarnation served as justification to the veneration of figural images in the iconophile discourse, since
in her view it is the ‘value of revelation’ that images grant to any material of divine creation that justi-
fies them.
10  Introduction

and materiality.55 As we shall see, the Incarnate God and his Mother are the protago-
nists of the papal visual strategy against the ‘heresies’ and controversies that vexed
the Church between the seventh and the ninth centuries. It is on these considerations
that I based my decision to discuss themes related to the Virgin Mary in her capacity
of Mother of God.
The results of my analyses reveal that the development of Mariology – the theology,
veneration, and visual representations of Mary – was immensely boosted in the West
between the late seventh and the mid-ninth centuries, coincident with the theological–
political controversies including Byzantine iconoclasm. There is much evidence to
suggest that this development had ‘Greek’ roots, as I shall indicate throughout the
book.

5 The outline
My arguments are articulated in the following six chapters, in which I analyse inter-
secting textual, liturgical, and pictorial images produced between the late seventh
and the late ninth-century. These images had at their core the Incarnate God and his
Mother and were intended to promote the idea that the visual could uplift the mind
and therefore lead to spiritual salvation. In this sense, these images manifested an
iconophile attitude on the part of their patrons.
Before offering an outline of the book, I wish to state immediately that, in my treat-
ment of pictorial images, the notion of artistic ‘style’ will not have much space. In fact,
if not otherwise documented, what the term ‘style’ may suggest could be misleading.
Having acknowledged its importance as a category of investigation in visual arts,
we should be wary of using ‘style’ for the purpose of defining chronologies until we
understand better what it meant to people in the early medieval period.56 In fact, in the
study of the early Middle Ages, when the idea of authorship was not yet fully defined,
it is wiser to think in terms of cultural affinities among objects or texts.57
The first two chapters illustrate, in chronological order, the controversial relation-
ship the papacy had with Byzantium and the Carolingians in matters of faith, doc-
trine, and images in the period between the late seventh and the mid-ninth centuries.
The third chapter’s central subject is an author active in central Italy in the mid- to late
eighth century, whose writings reflect an iconophile attitude – that is an attitude which
favours thinking of and appealing to God, his Mother, and his saints through images.
With the fourth chapter, the focus moves to a consideration of three pictorial and tex-
tual case studies which revolve around the Incarnate God and his Mother; the Incar-
nation being one of the key arguments for justifying the production and veneration of
sacred images. In particular, the case studies I have selected are Christ as Redeeming
Light, the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, and the Assumption of the
Virgin Mary. The first and the last were prominently illustrated in the apses of Roman

55 Bynum, 2011, 33, and 35, remarks that the importance of physicality and materiality in medieval Chris-
tian culture did not depend entirely on the doctrine of the Incarnation, but also on a wider discourse on
how the material can manifest God.
56 This is the line of thought also of Osborne, 2001, 704–6, on early medieval Rome.
57 For overviews on the idea of authorship in the visual arts of the medieval period, Castelnuovo, ed.,
2004; in the written culture, Ziolkowski, 2009; D’Angelo, Ziolkowski, eds., 2014.
 Introduction 11

churches, while the other was illustrated on objects of devotion. All of them had an
eschatological dimension, in that they were related to the question of the final destiny
of humankind, and to the possibility of salvation offered by the Incarnate God, and
they are often referred to in contemporary homilies. They all manifested the idea that
visual images were essential tools in personal devotion and liturgical ceremonies, and
that they could stimulate the beholder to practise good deeds, and thus seek salvation.
While mostly centred on Rome and on the pontificates of Leo III (795–816) and Pas-
chal I (817–24), occasionally, the exposition will include works of art produced earlier
or later, and from further afield, because they make useful comparisons. I will clarify
if, and how, the imagery formulated in words and pictures in the period between the
early eighth and the late ninth centuries differed from what came earlier in order to
make manifest specific theological positions, including the iconophile agenda. I will
note when this imagery was either abandoned or continued after the period of icono-
clasm, and if it exerted a long-lasting impact on the visual arts and the religious men-
tality of the medieval West.
What follows is a more detailed treatment of the book’s themes. Chapter One
addresses the early phase of the iconoclastic controversy,58 and highlights how in Italy
popes, monks, and sovereigns reacted to it. It introduces new evidence in favour of
an early reception of the image controversy in Lombard Italy – as early as the 730s.
However, the popes did not write theological treatises to combat what they perceived
and condemned as a ‘heresy’.59 In their staunch defence of ‘sacred’ images, they essen-
tially had recourse to two arguments: the tradition of the Church, and the authority
of the Fathers. More importantly, in order to reach a wider and multilingual audience,
they deployed public liturgy and a visual strategy, which ultimately projected Rome
as head of the Catholic Church. Public processions established in honour of Mary in
the late seventh century, in particular, seem to have contributed to a reinforcement of
the political and religious identity of the Christian populace of Rome under the aegis
of the Mother of God. She would become pivotal in the papal iconophile defence of
‘orthodoxy’ against heresies, including the image controversy.
Chapter 2 follows the reactions of the popes to the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia
(754) and examines the resolutions they made in the light of the image controversy in
the second half of the eighth century, until the Synod of Frankfurt (794) summoned
by Charlemagne. As mentioned, the main papal arguments in favour of the produc-
tion and veneration of sacred images were based on the tradition of the Church and
the authority of the Fathers, without venturing into complex theoretical justifications.
The chapter also shows that in the decades preceding and following the Council of
Hiereia, early eastern champions of iconophilia, magnified by iconophile partisan lit-
erature in the late eighth and early ninth centuries, already enjoyed reverence in Rome.
The city, indeed, became a centre of anti-iconoclastic resistance, where eastern clerics
contributed to dossiers of written testimonies in favour of sacred images, but also

58 For an effective summary on Byzantine iconoclasm in the West, see Louth, 2007, 82–91.
59 I cannot agree with Mauskopf Deliyannis, 1996, 560, who holds that ‘In the West images had not
become such a central part of Christian practice as they had in the East, and therefore the status of
image worship was not such a pressing concern’ in the eighth and ninth centuries, although iconoclasm
was debated and rebuked. Sacred images were long since part of western devotional and liturgical prac-
tices; see Sansterre, 2002 and forthcoming.
12  Introduction

voiced their dissent through liturgical texts. An example can be found in the appendix
to the Latin translation of the Akathistos, the most famous Greek hymn in honour of
Mary. Soon after Hiereia, Pope Paul I (757–67) promoted a pictorial programme in S.
Maria Antiqua which responded through images to the iconoclastic resolution of that
council and projected Rome as the centre of the Christian oecumene, and Mary as the
main intercessor for the faithful.
Since only dry accounts were left in the official papal chronicle of how the popes
perceived the on-going image controversy, probably to downplay it, in Chapter 3 I use
the works of the monk, preacher, and theologian Ambrose Autpert as a mirror of
Catholic attitudes towards visual thinking and images. He was active at the important
monastery of S. Vincenzo al Volturno, in the Lombard Duchy of Benevento, not far
from the southern border of the Carolingian domains in central Italy. A distinguished
heir to the tradition of the Church Fathers, he seems particularly aligned with the
‘orthodox’ mentality of the popes, whose help he sought to defend his intellectual
independence against his own brethren. He speaks through and of images in his vivid
theological commentaries and homilies – images which he developed in his mind and
which were probably inspired by real-life experience, as well as by Greek liturgical lit-
erature, especially authored by iconophiles of the first phase of the image controversy.
Autpert is particularly articulate when he speaks of the role of the Virgin Mary in
the divine economy. Because of their efficacy, I refer to his literary images as ‘textual
icons’. They were absorbed into the liturgy and the visual arts, and therefore indelibly
shaped the subsequent perception of the Mother of God in western Christian mental-
ity and imagination.60 The expression ‘textual icons’, that gives the chapter its title,
epitomises the process through which Mary finally took centre stage in the religious
life and practices of the medieval western Church.
The importance attributed to liturgical writings in this chapter arises from a consid-
eration of how liturgy and prayer connected official theology and policies with devo-
tion, beliefs, and with daily life. Notwithstanding the fact that the writings of Autpert
are never explicit about iconoclasm, they seem to take the side of papal orthodoxy,
and at the same time verbalise the attention given by the popes to Mary as Mother of
God. In other words, Autpert’s writings can be seen as ‘symptomatic’ of an ‘orthodox’
iconophile mentality developed in central Italy in the mid- and late eighth century,
which is otherwise unrecorded. The relation between Greek iconophile thinking, the
focus on Mary, and the work of Autpert is also a core topic in the chapter. The relation
between texts and images, largely intended as mental, textual, liturgical, and pictorial,
is another.
With Chapter 4, I introduce the first of three case studies chosen to illustrate if and
how pictorial imagery was used to offer a response to Byzantine iconoclasm and other
theological controversies of the same period. As mentioned, these case studies all have an
eschatological dimension, and highlight the agency of pictorial imagery in the economy
of salvation that accords with an iconophile attitude. The chapter is centred on the theo-
logical, pictorial, and liturgical image of Christ as Redeeming Light. Developed on the
figural scheme of late antique theophanies, the Christ–Light in mosaics commissioned by

60 On the impact of Byzantine iconoclasm on the contemporary imagination or ‘imaginary’, that is a set
of conscious, unconscious, perceived, and imagined images, defined with this term in psychoanalytic
theory, see Mondzain, 2005.
 Introduction 13

three popes in the first half of early ninth century marked a change in the development
of medieval imagery. These depictions, like earlier theophanies, recalled the unprec-
edented light and splendour experienced by the apostles during Christ’s Transfiguration
on the mountain, which also clearly revealed his combined divine and human natures.
Like recent texts offering a reading of the Transfiguration, these mosaics also suggest
that his light on Tabor was giving to the apostles a foretaste of his splendour on the day
of his Second Coming. But in the mosaics, the saints, martyrs, and donors depicted,
as well as the beholder, partake of this light, which reminds the faithful of the Second
Coming and nurtures hope in salvation. Thus, these mosaics appear to be promoting
a firm belief in the mediatory power of pictorial images. Such beliefs were not held by
Carolingian and Byzantine sovereigns and theologians. This chapter also contextualises
the endeavours of papal artistic patronage in the decades between the reinstatement of
iconoclasm in Byzantium (815), the Carolingian Synod of Paris (825), and their after-
math, coinciding with the pontificates of Leo III, Paschal I, Eugene II, and Gregory IV.
Among them, Paschal I was the one who put into writing an image theory in a letter
addressed to a Byzantine emperor. The theologians who wrote in his name, articulated
the papal image theory along the lines of Greek iconophilia, thereby finally replacing the
relatively simplistic arguments of the ‘traditions’ of the Church and the ‘authority’ of its
Fathers in defending sacred images on which his predecessors had relied.
Chapter 5 deals with images of, and writings about, the official Presentation of
the new-born Christ Child to the community of Israelites in the Temple of Jerusalem
and its relevance to the period coinciding with the monothelete and iconoclastic
controversies. Many themes are involved: the presentation of the new-born child
in the Temple, the purification of the mother from having given birth, the offering
brought by the parents in thanksgiving, and the prophecy of Simeon and his death
after having recognised Christ as the Saviour. As a result, the event was interpreted
in different ways, as attested by texts and visual artefacts. I will demonstrate how
these various interpretations reflected substantial changes in religious mentalities
between the seventh and the ninth centuries. However, the theme which became
focal in the late eighth and the early ninth centuries was the Presentation of the
Child as a prefiguration of his sacrifice on the Cross for the deliverance of human-
kind. Likely reflecting the on-going theological debate, the earliest Latin homilies
for the feast, imbued with eastern thinking, placed great emphasis on the symbolic
sacrifice of Christ the Lamb (John 1, 29; 1, 36). This emphasis produced a new
understanding and a new mental vision of the Presentation, which led to an impor-
tant iconographic innovation. In the early ninth century, in objects associated with
iconophile circles in the West and in the East, the Infant was depicted above an altar
over which he is held reverently by Mary. This imagery was a powerful reminder of
the physicality of the Incarnate God: as an infant he was symbolically offered on the
altar of the Temple, as an adult his life was sacrificed on the Cross for the redemp-
tion of humankind according to his Father’s will. Henceforth the altar became a
central element in the pictorial images of the Presentation, as many late medieval
examples attest.
Finally, Chapter 6 analyses how Mary came to be perceived, celebrated, and depicted
as the main intercessor for humankind, namely as the ladder to heaven, during the
period of the iconoclastic controversy, affecting thereafter her theological and visual
imagery. Mary’s role as main intercessor for humankind was seen as being inextricably
14  Introduction

related to her exceptional role in the Incarnation. Because of it, she was spared bod-
ily corruption and was granted an exceptional transition to the afterlife, that is her
Assumption into heaven in body and spirit. In heaven, she eternally sits in glory at the
side of her Son and Bridegroom and receives the prayers of the faithful. While there is
no mention of Mary’s transition to the afterlife in the Sacred Scriptures, there is a rich
apocryphal tradition. Hence, its celebration was questioned under the Carolingians.
In the period of the image controversy, the illustration of Mary’s transition to the
afterlife was meant to stimulate belief in her intercession before God and elicit hope of
future resurrection. Between the eighth and the ninth centuries, her intercessory role
acquired once she entered in heaven is visualised in images commissioned by the popes
and others in iconophile circles. The main case studies in this chapter are images of
the Virgin, in various media, in the oratory of Pope John VII in St Peter’s, in a Roman
homiliary, in the apse of S. Maria in Domnica commissioned by Pope Paschal I, and
in the lower church of S. Clemente at the time of Pope Leo IV (847–55). These have
never before been read in the light of Mary’s Assumption into heaven. The earliest
Latin homilies on the feast of the Assumption offer useful elements to help reframe
these images. It will become clear that Mary’s image as queen of heaven, ready to
intercede for the faithful, was consolidated during the period of the image controversy
in order to make a powerful iconophile statement.
In sum, this book explores how the Incarnate God and his Mother were presented
and extolled in visual depictions, liturgical texts and practices produced under the
aegis of the popes – directly or indirectly – in the period c.680–880. This exploration
is meaningful for one simple reason: in some cases, the figural imagery and thinking
which resulted from this period would become standard, characterising for centuries
Christian theology, visual arts, and devotional practices. The end date of this book,
c.880, was chosen so that images produced in the late ninth century could also be
discussed. However, I have not ventured into an analysis of written testimonies about
iconophilia in Italy or in other western regions after the death of Pope Paschal I (824)
and the Synod of Paris (825), that essentially would have confirmed a firm papal belief
in the agency of sacred images in mediating the divine, and their perfect integration in
devotional and liturgical practices. A longer chronological approach, treating earlier
and later periods, is to be found in Jean-Marie Sansterre’s forthcoming book.61

6 A  final remark

The place accorded to images – mental, visual, and textual – in this book has essentially
to do with an indisputable consideration: images shape the way we think, remember,
perceive, feel, dream, plan, act, and are the fabric of memory, thought, and crea-
tion. As noted by Marina Warner in a thought-provoking book on the Virgin Mary
published in the 1970s, it can never be stressed enough that, for most of the last two
thousand years since the Christian religion was established, the faithful were generally
illiterate, and therefore images of all sorts – visual and verbal – were the principal way
of instruction and communication.62

61 Sansterre, forthcoming.
62 Warner, 1976, XXIV.
 Introduction 15

Although the Carolingians came to think differently, believing in the superiority

of the Scriptures and of the written and spoken word in general above visual images,
in practice texts and images were not in competition, as images and sermons served
the same purpose. This is how a scholion to the sermons on the holy images of John
of Damascus puts it: ‘Do you see how the function of image and word [‘είκόνος καὶ
λόγου’] are one?’, with Basil of Caesarea ideally responding to the rhetorical question
‘As in a picture [γραφῇ] . . . we demonstrate by word’.63 In the present book, I show
that the struggle involving holy images in the eighth and ninth centuries was not sim-
ply an art-historical question, but rather a wider issue that contributed to the shaping
of western religious and lay attitudes towards any kind of pictorial image for centuries
to come.

63 John of Damascus, On the Divine Images, I, 45 = I, 41 scholion, PTS 17, 151; trans. Louth, 2003, 45.
The same attitude was later maintained during the second phase of the iconoclastic controversy by the
iconophile Patriarch Nikephoros, Apologeticus maior, PG 100, 748; Antirrhetici tres adversus Constan-
tinum Copronymum, 3, PG 100, 380; see Brubaker, 1989, 33, 1995, 14–16.
Chapter 1

Before iconoclasm and its early

echoes (680s–750s)

Intending to retrace and discuss how the popes first reacted to the new ‘heresy’ of icon-
oclasm, this chapter also analyses the decades preceding this controversy and argues
that their response to major theological and political controversies was inextricably
intertwined with their promotion of the Virgin Mary, the Mother of the Incarnate God.
The first part of the chapter will deal with events occurring between the 680s–720s
which appear relevant to the developments of the image controversy. These events
include the papal reaction to Church councils convened by Byzantine emperors in
Constantinople, during which the place of the visual in Christian belief and prac-
tices was addressed. They will also include the papal response to the last outbreak of
the imperially backed ‘heresies’ of monoergism (the doctrine of the single operation
in Christ) and monotheletism (the doctrine of the single will in Christ). The chap-
ter will reveal how the popes saw themselves as champions of ‘orthodox’ faith and
practices – which involved a favourable attitude to images – and supreme doctrinal
authorities and spiritual leaders in the Christian oecumene. They soon adopted the
Mother of God as their emblem of wisdom, solid foundation of faith, and orthodoxy.
The establishment of four annual processions in honour of the Mother of God in the
late seventh-century Rome will be examined in this light.
The second part of the chapter will examine well-known as well as overlooked evi-
dence to analyse when and how the West perceived the rising controversy over sacred
images. The contours of this controversy in its early stages were blurred, but it none-
theless instilled fears of a schism within the Church, as attested by an inscription from
a Lombard court dating to c.730 which has never until now been discussed in relation
to the iconoclastic controversy.
The last section will reprise the theme of urban processions by looking at an
instance dating to 753. In a critical moment for the history of papal Rome, the pope,
in line with what emperors and earlier rulers had done in the streets of Rome and
other cities in the Mediterranean,1 had recourse to a spectacular public ceremony. His
aim was not only to reinforce his bond with the populace of the city, his immediate
supporters,2 but also to offer a public, multimedia response to doctrinal and political

1 See Dey, 2015 on public ceremonies held by rulers in late antique and early medieval cities in the Mediter-
ranean to reinforce their authority and bond with their subjects. These ceremonies, ultimately, contrib-
uted to keeping cities alive.
2 Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 11, refers to the Traditio Apostolica of c.215 which states that the pope is
elected by the entire populace of Rome (‘ab omni populo’, ed. Geerlings, 1991, 214–18). Until the late
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 17

challenges.3 Images, as well as relics, and consecrated objects, were deployed to assert
that the living body of the Church needed them as a means of contact with the divine,
thus asserting a firm belief in their intercessory power in opposition to Byzantine
iconoclasm. Once more the Virgin Mary was instrumental as a banner of correct faith
against ‘heresy’.
Far from wanting to offer an exhaustive account of papal–Byzantine relations in the
period 680s–750s, or of all the theological questions involved, this first chapter intends
to offer insights on pivotal questions and bring new evidence into the discussion. Its
narrative follows a chronological order, as does that of the next two chapters; together
they lay the foundations for the discourse that will unfold in Chapters 3 to 6.

1 T he ‘visual’ before Byzantine iconoclasm

The Byzantine controversy over sacred images – known at the time as ‘iconomachy’,
that in Greek is ‘image struggle’4 – has been the object of unparalleled scholarly atten-
tion that has itself produced ‘a crisis of over-explanation’.5 This notwithstanding, its
origins remain blurred.6 Similarly, while it is widely accepted that visual elements had
been part of Christian practices, both public and private, for centuries,7 the moment
in which a proper ‘cult’ of sacred images developed is still debated.8 It is beyond the
scope of the present study to elucidate the origins of iconoclasm, or even to summa-
rise the various theories. In fact, its main concerns are firstly to show how iconoclasm
was perceived in Italy; secondly, to reveal how iconoclasm stimulated reflections on
well-attested images of the Incarnate God and his Mother (be they mental, liturgical,

eighth century, the election took place in various churches of Rome, but after the 770s the pope would
be elected and consecrated in St Peter’s, see Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 80–2, who offers a useful overview
on papal elections from its origins until the mid-fifteenth century.
3 On the political use of images on the part of the popes see, among others, Matthiae, 1964; Belting, 1987;
Bolgia, 2006. On papal liturgy as the ‘glue’ of Roman society between the late sixth and the mid-eighth
centuries, see Romano, 2014. On the ‘vibrancy’ of the medieval Rome, with its roads filled with chants,
ringing of bells, and processions, and on the ‘complexity of the relationship between ecclesiastical pres-
ence and urban space’, see Carver, 2017.
4 On the early modern emergence of the term ‘iconoclasm’, see Brubaker, 2012, 3–4.
5 Brown, 1973, 3. For the bibliography on Byzantine iconoclasm, see Brubaker, Haldon, 2001, 2011. See
also the recent appraisal of the contribution of Ernst Kitzinger to the discussion on Byzantine iconoclasm
in Brubaker, 2017.
6 For example, iconoclasm has been seen as a consequence of monotheletism, on which see Brock, 1977,
who has challenged the hypothesis of Ostrogorsky, 1929, 17–18, 23–8, passim, that monophysitism, the
basis of monotheletism, played any formative role in the development of the iconoclastic thinking. On
alleged Jewish or Islamic influences, see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 105–16.
7 Barber, 2002, 39. With regards to late antique, Christian attitude to the function of sacred images,
Spieser, 1998, 67, observed that images ‘whether manufactured or existing only in the mind . . . are a very
efficient means by which to adore a god’.
8 On the period in which the recourse to sacred images in Christian culture began, scholars hold differ-
ent opinions: Mathews, 2016: since the second century AD; Bowes, 2011, Late Antiquity in domestic
contexts; Marsengill, 2013: Late Antiquity; Grabar, 1943–1946, 2: 334ff., and Kitzinger, 1954: second
half of the sixth century; cf. Sansterre, 2002, 995ff., forthcoming: at least the sixth century in the West;
Brubaker, 1998; Barber, 2002: second half of the seventh century. Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 266, write
that the Council of Nicaea II in 787 ‘established a formal cult of images for the first time’. Marsengill,
2013, notes that the council, however, seems to be regulating an on-going cult. On this council, see
Thümmel, 2005, 87–193.
18  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

textual, or pictorial images), and spurred the creation of new ones. However, I shall
briefly refer to the main points in question.
The recourse to sacred images as mediators with the divine was probably rooted in
the highly visual Graeco-Roman pagan culture. Peter Brown held that an increasing
recourse to visual images, relics, and objects, which eventually led to the image con-
troversy, can be seen as a response to psychological needs that in the early centuries
of Christianity had been satisfied through contact with ‘holy men’.9 Averil Cameron
posited that the decline of the traditional system of learning might have led people
(at least the elite) to seek other ways to achieve knowledge and truth, hence the rise
in importance of material objects as tangible signs of the divine. As a consequence
of this, between the sixth and the eighth centuries, when, as Cameron says, ‘Classi-
cal Antiquity finally did become Byzantium’, religious images, ‘which were held by
iconophiles to represent objective truth, came to be seen as one of the guarantors
of knowledge, and were thus an important component in the evolving belief system
of Byzantine society’.10 It is worth noting that already in the early sixth century, the
author known as Dionysios the Areopagite supported the view that visible things, that
he calls ‘symbols’ according to the Neoplatonic philosophical tradition, are important
instruments for elevating the soul to God, and offered a solid theoretical basis in this
regard.11 Dionysios pretended to have been converted by Saint Paul in Athens, and to
have been among the apostles. Not only for his alleged apostolic connections, but also
for his solid philosophical and theological basis, his corpus of writings, which prob-
ably was a collaborative effort,12 would be immensely influential on Greek and Latin
Christian theology.13 However, Dionysios did not specifically speak of the veneration
of sacred images. Generally, not until the late seventh century are eastern and western
written sources explicit about the purpose and use of devotional images.
After critically analysing extant textual and visual sources, as well as earlier litera-
ture, Leslie Brubaker concluded that the faithful came to seek the direct intercession
of heavenly powers through the medium of visual images, perhaps as a consequence
of the political instability brought about by the expansion of Islam in the seventh
century. Devotional images were now seen not only as didactic or commemorative
signs, but actually functioning as ‘intermediary between the viewer and the person
represented’, and as ‘a transparent window’ through which the viewer may look at
the ‘prototype’, and establish a direct relation with the divine or the holy.14 During the
first phase of the image controversy, John of Damascus would resort to the eminent
Church Father Basil of Caesarea to defend image worship, thus stating that ‘the hon-
our shown to the image is transmitted to its prototype’. John underpinned what had

9 Brown, 1973, 12.

10 Cameron, 1992, 2; supported by Sansterre, 1994, 206.
11 For example, see Pseudo-Dionysios, Ep. 9, 1, CD 2, PTS 36, 193, 3–199, 4, trans. Luibheid, Rorem,
1987, 281–4; On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy IV, 3, 1, CD 2, PTS 36, 95, 19–97, 3, trans. Luibheid,
Rorem, 1987, 225–6. See Mainoldi, 2018, 369–71; Tavolaro, 2020.
12 On the stylistic complexity of the CD, I am referring to Mainoldi, 2018, 352–8.
13 For example, see de Andia, ed., 1997; Boiadjiev, Kapriev, Speer, eds., 2000.
14 Brubaker, 1998, 1216. See Belting, 2016 on the ‘iconic presence’ as ‘presence in and as a picture’ of
iconic portraits, which is the object of his current research project which aims to expand his previous
work (1994) on this question. I thank Ivan Foletti for this information.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 19

become a shared perception between the late seventh and the early eighth centuries:
the holy image functioned for the beholder as a ‘transparent window’ through which
to see the divine ‘prototype’.15

2 T he Sixth Ecumenical Council

Sacred images were gaining greater attention already in the late seventh century.
The Sixth Ecumenical Council (680–1), convened in Constantinople by the Byzan-
tine Emperor Constantine IV to settle the monothelete controversy (on which see
infra), also expressed the intention to officially endorse the cult of saints and the
related cult of relics and sacred images. For this purpose, the emperor requested Pope
Agatho (678–81) to send papal representatives to take part in the council, but also
books (‘scripta’), and a florilegium or dossier of testimonies of saints and authoritative
Fathers in support of true faith – in this case, we should imagine, also in support of the
veneration of relics and images.16 The fact that the documents brought by the papal
envoys were accepted, examined by the emperor, and then quoted in the discussions
of the council, implicitly acknowledged the status of Rome as custodian of ‘orthodox’
Christian values and texts.
The Sixth Ecumenical Council also offered the opportunity for a reconciliation
between Byzantium and Rome after the monothelete crisis, which had started with
the Lateran Synod held in October 649. A look at how the popes reacted to monoer-
gism and monotheletism17 sheds light on their sensitivity towards external intrusion in
doctrinal matters. Presided over by Pope Martin I, the synod declared monotheletism
a heretic doctrine (although it actually was a strand of Chalcedonian Christology),
and criticised its main supporters, the Patriarch of Constantinople and the Byzantine
Emperor. The pope and Palestinian monks, in fact, supported dyotheletism, the doc-
trine of Christ’s divine and human ‘wills’. With the aid of learned Palestinian monks
led by the notable theologian Maximos the Confessor, the Lateran Synod formulated a
sophisticated theological response to monotheletism. Martin had already defied impe-
rial authority when upon his election, in July 649, he had not sought the approval
of the emperor or of his main representative in Italy.18 After Martin’s death in exile
in 655, the nature of the papal relationship with Byzantium did not improve until

15 John of Damascus, On the Divine Images, I, 35 (= II, 31 = III, 48), PTS 17, 147: ‘διότι ἡ της εἰκόνος τιμὴ
ἐπὶ τὸ πρωτότυπον διαβαίνει’; trans. Louth, 2003, 42. With reference to Basil of Caesarea, On the Holy
Spirit, 18, 45, PG 32, 149c; trans. Mango, 1972, 47. See Brubaker, 1998, 1216, 1226, 1244, 1251, for
the definition of ‘transparent window’.
16  LP I, 350–1; trans. Davis, 2010, 72–3; Mansi XI, 197–198D, 235–236D; Sansterre, 1983, 120, 177–8;
Noble, 1984, 12–14. On the florilegium, see the acts of the council in Mansi XI, 392E–449B; Alexa-
kis, 1996, 21–31; Auzépy, 1999, 131–44. At the time of the council of 680, a peace treaty was signed
between Lombards and Byzantium: this treaty marked the first official political acknowledgement
between the two parties; see Gasparri, 2012a, v.
17 See Jankowiak, 2013, 335, n. 1, for a bibliography on monotheletism. On the monoenergist and mono-
thelete crises and the Lateran Synod, see Price, 2010; Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014, 14, 39–58; Booth,
2014, esp. 282ff. On the life and works of Maximos the Confessor, see Jankowiak, Booth, 2015; on his
Christology and its influence, see Geanakoplos, 1969; Allen, Neil, 2004; Bathrellos, 2004.
18 On the imperial confirmation of papal elections, see Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 13–19.
20  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

the 680s. Then, the gathering of eastern and western clerics at the Sixth Ecumenical
Council contributed to a conciliation, and to the formation of a political group within
the ranks of the Lateran which was favourable to Byzantium.19
An indirect reference to the controversy and to the enmity that developed between
the papacy and Byzantium as a result of the Lateran Synod of 649 is to be found in a
piece of advice Constantine IV gave to the papal envoys a few days before the Sixth
Ecumenical Council started, in November 680. The emperor recommended that dur-
ing the upcoming council the papal envoys leave out ‘philosophical claims’ (‘philo-
sophicas adsertiones’), probably implying subtle, abstract reasoning, and instead stick
to the ‘approved faith of the Holy Scriptures and the Fathers’ (‘puram sanctarum
Scripturarum Patrumque probate fidem’).20 A few days later, yet again before the
council took place, he reiterated the advice by saying that ‘they should set out the
testimonies of the venerable Fathers’.21 This piece of advice, recorded in Liber Pontifi-
calis, the official papal chronicle, would be treasured by the papacy: in the late seventh
century they radically changed their strategy in responding to those intrusions. They
renounced expounding their reasons in theological treatises, despite having the neces-
sary resources and competences.22 Instead, they complemented their resolute reliance
on the authority of the Church Fathers and on the unwritten traditions of the Church
such as the image veneration with a wide-reaching multimedia public strategy.
In the long run, the monothelete crisis seems to have contributed to the emergence
of the popes as indomitable champions of ‘orthodoxy’.23 However, while it seems
apparent that in this period the popes were indeed defending their doctrinal independ-
ence, it remains ambiguous whether they were also actively pursuing political inde-
pendence.24 They might have had a vested interest in remaining under the rulership
of the Byzantine emperor. Not only did the empire still guarantee military and politi-
cal protection, at least until the Franks appeared on the horizon in the mid-eighth
century,25 but it coincided approximately with the Christian oecumene, over which
the popes intended to assert their doctrinal primacy – a doctrinal primacy which
was indeed acknowledged at the Sixth Ecumenical Council.26 In its resolutions, the

19 I thank Giandomenico Ferrazza, who has recently defended a doctoral thesis on the ‘Greek’ popes and
their complex relation with the Byzantine emperors (Università Roma Tre – Oxford University), for an
exchange about this period of the papacy.
20  LP I, 351; trans. Davis, 2010, 73.
21 Ibidem.
22 A practical attitude in the defence of sacred images would still find place at the end of the thirteenth
century in the refined theology of Christian liturgy of Durandus of Mende. He was a French cleric and
officer at the papal court in Rome; Rationale Divinorum Officiorum, CCCM 140, 35–6; see Kessler,
2007b, 23–4.
23 Noble, 1984, 13. On papal boldness in defying Byzantium with the support of Palestinian monks in the
640s, see Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014, 50.
24 See Delogu, 2000, esp. 206. Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 16, reads the fact that the successors of Conon
(686–7) did not request anymore the confirmation of their election to the exarch of Ravenna, who rep-
resented the imperial authority, as evidence that from around 680 the pope gradually ascended to the
role of principal political leader of Rome ‘in autonomia da Bisanzio’.
25 On the papacy and the Franks in the eighth century, see the next chapter.
26 Letter from the Synod Fathers to Pope Agatho in the Acts of the Sixth Ecumenical Council (680–1),
ACO II, 2.2, 888: ‘῾Όθεν καὶ ἡμεῖς, ὡς πρωτοθρόνῳ σοι τῆς οἰκουμενικῆς ἐκκληςίας τὸ πρακτέον παρατιθέμεθα,
ἐπὶ τὴν στερεὰν πέτραν ἑστῶτι τῆς πίστεως τοῖς παρὰ τῆς ὑμετέρας πατρικῆς μακαριότητος πρὸς τὸν
εὐσεβέστατον βασιλέα τῆς ἀληθοῦς ὁμολογίας ἐμφιλοχωρήσαντες γράμμασιν’; Latin translation in PL 87,
1248D.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 21

Emperor Constantine IV addressed the pope as ‘archbishop of the ancient and glori-
ous Rome and ecumenical pope’,27 thus fully endorsing the aspirations of the papacy.
In the following years, Constantine IV allowed a devolution of authority to local com-
munities in Italy, including Rome. This process, which cannot be retraced here, was
one of the factors which ultimately led to the emergence of the pope as representative
of an authority that was partly derived from the local community, partly from the
legacy of Saint Peter.28

3 T he Council in Trullo

Also preoccupied with visual representations of the divine, as well as with other doc-
trinal questions left open by the previous Constantinopolitan synods (553 and 680),
was the so-called Quinisext Council or Council in Trullo (691–2), convened in the
domed hall (‘trullo’) of the imperial palace at Constantinople by Emperor Justinian II.
The Council in Trullo issued a canon (number 82) dealing with the licit way of repre-
senting the Incarnate God, that is in his human frame, and not through the symbol of
the sacrificial lamb, in order to recall his ‘life in the flesh, his passion, and his saving
death’ in a suitable anthropomorphic manner.29 Arguably, the canon of Trullo has
been seen as ‘the first positive testimony in favour of the incorporation of images into
the life of the church’, in the words of Charles Barber, and the reactions it sparked as
the beginning of the dispute over the role of sacred images in Christian practice and
doctrine.30
The canon 82 was issued, like the other resolutions of the council, under the aegis
of the emperor, who, with it, was de facto dictating what was licit in the Church and
what was not. It is no surprise that it spurred the indignant reaction of Pope Sergius
I (687–701). Although Sergius had been invited to this council, which aimed at being
ecumenical, he did not attend, nor did he send legates, nor did he officially accept its
acts once the Byzantines sent them.31 In particular, he openly took a stand against the
canon 82 about the representation of Christ. The memory of the unprecedented

27 ACO II, 2.2, 832–67, esp. 894: ‘ἀρχιεπισκόπῳ τῆς ἀρχαίας καὶ περιδόξου πόλεως Ῥώμης καὶ οἰκουμενικῷ
πάντα’. A century later, Pope Hadrian I re-asserted the primacy of Rome in letters to the Patriarch of
Constantinople Tarasios (Mansi XII, 1081E–1084A; ACO II, 3.1, 185), and to the King of the Franks
Charlemagne (MGH, EK 3, 2, 5).
28 Delogu, 2001, 20ff., offers a succinct explanation in this regard. Llewellyn, 1977, 30–2, observed that
at this stage papal authority was ‘ceremonial, representative and constitutional’. On the slow emergence
of the papacy as a polity, see Martin, 1930, 3; Bertolini, 1973; Ahrweiler, 1977, 23–4; but especially
Noble, 1984, 2009, 55, who argues that the process which led the papacy to political independence
from Byzantium started in the seventh century at the same time as the monothelete controversy.
29 Mansi XI, 977–80; this would be later discussed at the iconophile Council of Nicaea II (787), see Mansi
XIII, 39E–42B; ACO II, 3.2, 344–7. See Barnard, 1977, 12–13; Sansterre, 1994, 208–9; Barber, 2002,
40–1; Brubaker, 2006, 97.
30 Barber, 2002, 40–1; on the same note, see Barnard, 1977, 12; Neil, 2000, 534; Kessler, 2000, 36–44.
See Brunet, 2011b, 87–101 on the paradoxical reception of the canon 82 among iconophile sources
in the acts of Nicaea II, and on the idea of the Nicene theologians that the Council in Trullo had been
convened to regulate the question of sacred images. In late eighth-century Rome, the canon 82 earned
an iconophile aura.
31  LP I, 372–3; trans. Davis, 2010, 82. On the Council in Trullo and its western reception between the
eighth and the ninth centuries and even later, see Brunet, 2007, 2011b, 83–128, who competently chal-
lenges the idea that the council had not been conceived to be ecumenical.
22  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

abduction and exile of his predecessor Martin I at the peak of the monothelete contro-
versy on the orders of the Emperor Constans II did not prevent Sergius from display-
ing his political boldness, which actually put him at risk.32 Sergius established that
during the Eucharistic celebration, ‘at the time of the breaking of the Lord’s body, the
clergy and people should sing [the hymn Agnus Dei] “Lamb of God, who takest away
the sins of the world, have mercy on us” ’33 – thus creating with their chant a ‘liturgi-
cal’ image of Christ as Lamb.34 For the stance he held about the Agnus Dei, Sergius
is also believed to be responsible for commissioning a mosaic depicting a lamb sitting
on a throne on the apsidal wall of SS. Cosma e Damiano, the first Christian church
established in the ancient Forum of Rome. Technical features have revealed that the
mosaic actually dates to the early sixth century, as does the rest of the mosaic deco-
ration of the apse.35 The depiction of the Agnus Dei had a notable precedent on the
façade of St Peter’s in the mosaic commissioned by Pope Leo the Great (440–61).36
Sergius restored this mosaic in St Peter’s. He also added new furnishing to SS. Cosma
e Damiano, as the Liber Pontificalis reports immediately after listing his restorations
and gifts made to St Peter’s and St Paul outside the walls.37
A Sicilian of Antiochean origins, probably from a family of refugees, Sergius made
a relatively quick career through the ranks of the Lateran clergy after having attended
the Schola cantorum.38 He is presented in the contemporary Liber Pontificalis as a
proud defender of the doctrinal independence of the Church of Rome.39 A few years
before the Council in Trullo, in c.688 Sergius translated the body of Leo the Great
in the transept of the Basilica of St Peter’s.40 This choice is notable because it sets a
precedent for burying a pope in the apostolic basilica,41 in proximity to Peter, the
first vicar of Christ. It also suggests Sergius’s intention to extoll Leo as a role model

32  LP I, 373; trans. Davis, 2010, 82–3. Sergius was saved by the intervention of the populace of Rome, in
his support.
33  LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84. On the resonance of Sergius’s response, see Noble, 1984, 17; Brunet,
2007, 38–41, 50–1, 2011b, 83–128 on the wider, negative reception in the West of the canon 82 forbid-
ding the depiction of Christ as lamb. On the Agnus Dei, that from c.820s in the West was sung in Greek
along with other chants such as the Sanctus, see Atkinson, 1981; Romano, 2014, remarks the involve-
ment of lay people in this and other chants of the Roman liturgy.
34 On ‘liturgical’ images, see Ó Carragáin, 2013.
35 The dating to the time of Sergius, advanced by Matthiae, 1948, 49–65, is disputed because the Agnus
Dei has technical affinities with the early sixth-century apsidal mosaic as revealed by analyses published
in Tiberia, 1998, who, however, still supports a dating to the period of Sergius I as does Wisskirchen,
1999; cf. Osborne, 2008b, 179, n. 24; Foletti, 2015, 76–9, who, on the basis of the same analyses, sup-
port a sixth-century dating for the lamb.
36 On the iconography of the Agnus Dei in Rome, see Osborne, 1994; Kessler, 2000, 110.
37  LP I, 375; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.
38 On the clerical cursus honorum, a ‘career pathway that paralleled what could be found in government
or the imperial bureaucracy’, and which was outlined in Rome already in the late fourth century by Pope
Siricius and his successors, see Dunn, 2013.
39 McKitterick, 2016, 260–2. Since the Byzantine reconquest of Italy in AD 536, the LP tended to cast the
papacy as aspiring to independence from Byzantium. Written in stages, its redaction had been resumed
when the Lateran Synod of 649 was being prepared. On the LP used to shape the civic identity of Rome,
McKitterick, 2015.
40  LP I, 375; trans. Davis, 2010, 84; Sansterre, 1982, 384; Vircillo Franklin, 2017, 618. On the topogra-
phy of the altars in St Peter’s, see de Blaauw, 1994, 566–80.
41 Picard, 1969.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 23

for ‘orthodox’ thinking, since he had been a champion of Chalcedonian Christology

which maintained the perfect union of human and divine natures in Christ. There-
fore, the translation of the body of Leo the Great ordered by Sergius may be read as
an open tribute to the doctrinal authority of the bishop of Rome in focal theological
disputes.

4 Urban processions in honour of Mary

In the late seventh century, while implementing their apostolic mandate, the popes
placed particular emphasis on cultivating the apostolic tradition, promoting their doc-
trinal authority, and nurturing the political identity of papal Rome. As seen, Sergius
I had a share in this process. He is held responsible for facilitating integration between
easterners of recent immigration and locals, as well as for promoting liturgical reforms
and chant,42 and establishing important traditions in the Church of Rome. Among
them, he made an important addition to the public festivities of Rome when he estab-
lished that the feasts in honour of the Mother of God of the Roman liturgical calen-
dar – the Presentation in the Temple of the Christ Child and Purification of Mary (2
February), the Annunciation (25 March), the Assumption (15 August), and the Birth
of Mary (8 September) – should be solemnised with a laetania, that is a penitential
procession.43 Before the pontificate of Sergius I, Marian feasts may already have been
celebrated in Rome, although this is not certain.44
The Ordines Romani, which were rubrics for various liturgical services, describe the
stages of these Marian laetaniae.45 First, the pope would personally distribute candles
to the populace of Rome, thus symbolically conveying the Light of God to the faith-
ful. This was a studied act of mediation which highlighted his apostolic role as God’s
emissary (from the Greek ἀπόστολος, ‘the one who is sent off’) and successor to Saint
Peter. Then, he would lead the procession, which covered a circuit of about 1.5 km. It
started from the Roman Forum at the church of S. Adriano (the former Senate house
or Curia Julia),46 passed in front of the arch of Nerva (the so-called Colonnacce),
ascended to the Esquiline Hill past S. Pietro in vinculis and S. Prassede, to end at
S. Maria Maggiore, where Mass was celebrated, and the Eucharist received by the
participants47 (Figure 1.1, Pl. 1).

42 See McKinnon, 2000 on Sergius’s reform of the Mass Proper, that is the part of the liturgy that varied
according to the date.
43  LP, I, 376: ‘Constituit autem ut diebus Adnuntiationis Domini, Dormitionis et Nativitatis sanctae Dei
genetricis semperque virginis Mariae ac sancti Symeonis, quod Ypapanti Greci appellant, letania exeat
a sancto Hadriano et ad sanctam Mariam populus occurrat’; trans. Davis, 2010, 84. See Saxer, 1989,
964–7.
44 Against what appears to be the more common opinion, McKinnon, 2000, 185–7, argues that Sergius
I established Marian feasts ex-novo and had new sets of prayers composed for them.
45 See Ordo XV, 79, and Ordo XX, in Andrieu, 1974, 113–14, 235–6; Baldovin, 1987, 137, n. 132; see
Dyer, 2011, 2013 on the laetania for the feast for the Presentation–Purification.
46 On the dedication of Pope Honorius (625–38) of the former Senate house to Saint Hadrian, an admin-
istrator who became Christian, was martyred in Nicomedia, and later came to be venerated in Constan-
tinople, see Maskarinec, 2018, 47–9. Elite lay patronage is attested in eighth- and ninth-century mural
paintings at S. Adriano, see Bordi, 2011.
47 On the route of these processions, see also Leclercq, 1948, 1725; Baldovin, 1987, 161.
Figure 1.1 R oute of the procession established in Rome on the vigil of Marian feasts by Pope
Sergius I (687–701).
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi, 2019.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 25

The choice of S. Maria Maggiore as the final destination of the laetaniae was not for-
tuitous.48 Founded in the fourth century, the church was re-founded in the early 430s to
accommodate larger congregations, and it served as a seat for theological debates. The
dedication to Mary of such an imposing building on the prominent Esquiline Hill is to
be taken as an index of Mary’s importance among all saints venerated in Rome. Notably,
it also precedes the earliest dedication of churches to Mary in Constantinople.49 By the
seventh century, the Esquiline basilica came to be addressed as ‘maggiore’, that is ‘main’,
hence suggesting that it was perceived as the main Marian shrine in Rome, and even as
co-cathedral with the Lateran and St Peter’s.50 S. Maria Maggiore greatly benefited from
papal attention and donations.51 For example, Pope Gregory the Great (590–604), one
of the most charismatic leaders of the early Church, chose it as the final destination of
his laetaniae septiformes. These were ‘seven-form’ (septiformes) penitential processions
that he organised to give hope to a population afflicted by flood and plague. Setting out
from seven churches, seven strands of penitents representing various categories of the
Christian populace of Rome (children, widows, married women, secular clergy, monks,
etc.) converged on the basilica on the Esquiline to seek Mary’s intercession.52
It has been argued that with his laetaniae septiformes, de facto Gregory the Great
introduced in Rome the public cult of Mary as ‘civic intercessor’.53 He had prob-
ably been inspired by the ritualised public recourse to Mary’s protection in dramatic
moments, something he almost certainly experienced in Constantinople as papal
envoy.54 Gregory the Great’s penitential laetaniae septiformes were ‘clearly of great
utility in channelling emotion and unifying the city during any period of difficulty’,55
and left an important mark on the history of papal Rome, confirming the cohesive
power of public events.56 One wonders whether the example set by Gregory the Great
with his laetaniae influenced Sergius I’s decision to establish four new processions. By
the mid-seventh century, Gregory’s doctrinal authority was considered comparable to
the authority of the venerable Latin Church Fathers Ambrose, Augustine, and Jerome.

48 On this basilica as destination of Marian processions, see Wolf, 1990, 22; de Blaauw, 1994, 436–43;
Andrews, 2015.
49 The conventionally accepted link between the dedication of S. Maria Maggiore and the Council of
Ephesus (431) has been disputed because the council simply condemned Nestorius, who criticised the
use of the title Theotokos for Mary, while it was not focussed on her; see Wolf, 1990, 19–24; Saxer,
2001; Price, 2008; Arentzen, 2017, 36–79. On a similar note, the original focus of the mosaics in
S. Maria Maggiore probably was the Incarnate God, and not Mary. In favour of the presence of an
enthroned Christ in its apse, are Bertelli, 1961b, 49, 115; de Blaauw, 1994, 355–6; Pace, 2004a, 222;
Brenk, 2010, 71–8. In favour of the idea of a Theotokos in the apse, are Belting-Ihm, 1992, 55, 132–3;
Andaloro, Romano, 2000, 120–1; Cormack, 2000b, 92–3; Lidova, 2015, 64; Folgerø, 2008, empha-
sises Mary’s role as a mother in the lineage of David.
50 Saxer, 1989, 948, 950.
51 According to the LP, S. Maria Maggiore was the church that most benefited from papal donations after
S. Peter’s; see Saxer, 1996–1997, 232.
52 For the procession, see the eye-witness account recorded in Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, X,
1, MGH, SRM 1.1, 479–81, whose authenticity is defended by McClure, 1978, 175–80. The memory of
the procession was transmitted in early medieval historiography starting with Paul the Deacon, HL, III,
24, MGH, SRL, 104–5; on Gregory’s laetaniae, see a recent appraisal in Latham, 2015.
53 Saxer, 1989, 960–4; Andrews, 2015, 157, 159.
54 Andrews, 2015, 162. Against the idea of a translatio of this cult from Constantinople to Rome is T.S.
Brown, 1984, 157–8.
55 McClure, 1978, 136.
56 See Dyer, 2008.
26  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

Sergius certainly held Gregory the Great in great respect, to the point of introducing a
mass for his commemoration related to the mass for Leo the Great, which marked the
beginning of an officially promoted cult of Gregory in Rome.57
Urban gatherings reinforced communal identities, especially, but not solely in a
period of altercation with other polities. They had a socio–political, as well as a spir-
itual dimension, ‘perhaps connected with the consolidation of a clerical elite, bent on
the elaboration of civic ceremonies around the person of the pope’.58 In the eighth
and ninth centuries, the popes increasingly used the built environment of Rome to
stage their authority.59 For the level of public participation they elicited, the Marian
processions established by Sergius I should be included in the political actions of his
pontificate.60 Through them, he not only rebuked the recent condemnation of public
festivals issued by the Council in Trullo because of their alleged pagan associations,61
but also provided the Roman populace with more opportunities for public gatherings
under the aegis of the pope. Possibly modelled on processions held on Marian feasts in
Jerusalem and Constantinople since the fifth and sixth centuries,62 which were ideally
undertaken barefoot while holding lit candles,63 the Marian laetaniae reduced their
participants to the level of penitents seeking spiritual comfort in unison thereby help-
ing to cement the various elements of that society.64 The communal, intercessory, and
penitential character of these laetaniae made them clearly distinct from the stational
liturgy established in fifth-century Rome to commemorate martyrs. Characterised by a
sumptuous papal cortege on horseback, the stational liturgy set out from the Lateran
to reach various churches. Regional notables regularly took part in such ceremonies,
and thus reinforced their bond with the papacy.65 Both liturgical processions and sta-
tional liturgy, however, were ‘liturgically, socially and topographically complementary
in establishing a new concept of the old capital’, as noted by Sible de Blaauw – in other
words, they were complementary in forging the identity of papal Rome.66

57 See Thacker, 1998, 73 on the late establishment of a Roman cult of Gregory the Great, which would
only flourish in the late ninth century; on the recognition of his authority, which took place earlier out-
side Italy, see Leyser, 2010, 215–16, 2014.
58 Thacker, 1998, 74, with further literature.
59 Noble, 2000, 61–73, 2001b, 49–56; Goodson, 2010; Dyer, 2011, with regard to ‘open air’ liturgy; Romano,
2014; for wider considerations on urban space as a setting for public rituals, see Foletti, Palladino, eds., 2017.
60 For example, for the first time under this pope the papal residence is called patriarchium Lateranense
and is intended as the official seat of the papal government, see LP I, 371, and 373; trans. Davis, 2010,
81, 83. See Noble, 1984, 189, 230. Inexplicably, Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 82–4, says the term patri-
archium to mean the residence of the pope is introduced in the Life of Stephen II.
61 Mansi XI, 972A–C.
62 On early processions in Jerusalem, Constantinople, and Rome, see Baldovin, 1987; Brubaker, 2001,
2018; Noble, 2001b, 83–91; Wickham, 2009, 264, 2014, 323–6; Krausmüller, 2011, 221–4; Andrews,
2015; de Blaauw, 2017, 24–8. On Constantinople as the city of the Mother of God or Theotokoupolis,
see Mango, 2000.
63 Dyer, 2013, 28, makes the example of Emperor Maurice, who in 602 during the procession on the eve
of the feast of the Hypapante walked barefoot.
64 See Bailey, 2010, 50, with regard to religious practices reinforcing social bonds in Merovingian Gaul, as
reflected by the sermon collection of Eusebius Gallicanus.
65 The earliest stational list, witnessing practices dating prior to the late seventh century, is in the Comes
Romanus Wirziburgensis (Würzburg, M.p.th.f.62, fols. 1r – 2v, mid-eighth century); see Rusch, 1970;
Baldovin, 1987, 119–25, 147–53; Saxer, 1989; de Blaauw, 1994, 53–65. On the importance of liturgy
in the socio–political system of early medieval Rome, see Romano, 2014.
66 See de Blaauw, 2017, 25–6.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 27

At this point, one may wonder why Mary became the object of commemoration
and worship in four public gatherings. The establishment of processions in honour of
the human Mother of God on the part of Sergius I may also be regarded as a conse-
quence of the Sixth Ecumenical Council, which had reaffirmed the belief in the two
natures and wills – divine and human – of Christ, and thus may have served ‘as a
catalyst for the burgeoning cult of Mary’ in Rome.67 In the late seventh century, Mary
must have been perceived as highly functional in the papal design to consolidate the
image of Rome as a seat of doctrinal authority in the oecumene. In fact, besides being
much venerated in every corner of the Christian world, Mary had been promoted in
liturgical texts as an emblem of wisdom, solid foundation of faith, and orthodoxy.68
Already fifth-century Christological controversies determined eastern authors to focus
on Mary’s role in the salvation of humankind, as participant of her Son’s glory, and as
queen, patroness, and intercessor.69 Among the sources destined for a wide audience,
such as liturgical texts, a homily by the fifth-century author Hesychios of Jerusalem
calls her ‘throne . . . cathedra’.70 The Akathistos, the most famous Greek hymn in hon-
our of Mary, the dating of which is disputed between the fifth–sixth centuries, invokes
Mary as ‘the chair of the King’, or the ‘firm foundation of the faith’.71 Between the late
seventh and the early eighth century, a homily by Andrew of Crete (d. 740), bishop of
Gortyna, then under the jurisdiction of Rome,72 praises Mary as ‘the throne exalted
on high, on which the Lord of Hosts is seated’.73 Andrew also defines Mary an ‘outer
bulwark of Christian faith’.74 It is also worth recalling that before the Sixth Ecumeni-
cal Council started, the papal envoys were involved by the emperor in a procession to
the Constantinopolitan Marian shrine of the Blachernai,75 as if to gain Mary’s protec-
tion in the difficult task of solving the monothelete controversy. Between the seventh
and the ninth centuries, the image of the Mother of God as emblem of correct faith
became functional also in the papal response to major theological and political con-
troversies, which appears to have been intertwined with the promotion of her public
and private cult.

67  LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84; see Osborne, 2014, 334 for the quotation above.
68 On Mary promoted as emblem of faith and orthodoxy, see Iogna-Prat, Palazzo, Russo, 1996, 5;
Mimouni, 2011, 321–2; Tsironis, 2005, 99, who notes that ‘the images surrounding the Virgin which
project her as a symbol of doctrine were constructed over the centuries, but mainly during the period
marked by the iconoclastic dispute’. Even the mother of Mary, Anna, was affected by this process.
Panou, 2018, 30–78, notes that Anna’s cult ‘gained ground in the eighth century’, as is attested not only
by a textual debate about the acquisition of her relics, but also by the introduction of feasts in the liturgi-
cal calendar, and by ‘the attribution of certain ideological associations to Anna’s namesake particularly
related with orthodoxy, iconophilia, and the protection of childbirth (esp. 49–59).
69 Daley, 1998, 6.
70 Hesychios of Jerusalem, In honour of Mary, Mother of God, 1, 7–8, SH 59, 158, which calls Mary
‘θρόνος . . . καθέδρα’.
71  Akathistos, I, 12, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 30: ‘χαῖρε, ὅτι ὑπάρχεις βασιλέως καθέδρα’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 5;
Akathistos, VII, 14, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 32: ‘χαῖρε, στερρὸν τῆς πίστεως ἔρεισμα’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 9.
72 See Delogu, 2000, 199–201 on the ‘ecclesiastical jurisdiction’ the patriarchate of Rome exercised over
Greek-speaking churches.
73 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, PG 97, 1069A: ‘ἅυτη ἐστίν ὁ θρόνος ὁ ὑψηλὸς καὶ
ἐπηρμένος, ἐν ᾧ Κύριος Σαβαὼθ καθήμενος’; trans. Daley, 1998, 133; cf. Andrew of Crete, Dormition III,
8, PG 97, 1100A: ‘ὁ θρόνος ὁ ὑψηλὸς’; trans. Daley, 1998, 144: ‘throne on high’ quoting Isaiah 6,1.
74 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 15, PG 97, 1108B: ‘Ὧ τῆς Χριστιανῶν προπύργιον
πίστεως’; trans. Daley, 1998, 150.
75  LP I, 351; trans. Davis, 2010, 73. On the origins of the shrine, see Mango, 1998.
28  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

That said, the cult of Mary in Rome has demonstrable roots in the late sixth century,
if not earlier. Coincident with, and following the pontificate of Gregory the Great, a
flourishing of Marian dedications of important churches is recorded.76 In the late sixth
century, a chapel originally part of the imperial complex of the Palatine, the hill con-
nected to the mythical origins of Rome and to the universal power of Roman and
Byzantine emperors as their seat of power, was transformed into a church dedicated
to Mary, later known as S. Maria Antiqua, which became the main spiritual focus for
the hellenophone community of Rome.77 In the early seventh century, the Pantheon,
which had been the main pagan temple of the city, was converted into a church and
named S. Maria ad martyres with the permission of the Byzantine Emperor Phokas.78
Between the seventh and the eighth centuries, coinciding with the pontificate of popes
of eastern origins, Rome became an important centre for the cult of Mary. Notwith-
standing the fact that, unlike Constantinople, Rome lacked Marian relics,79 it boasted
a considerable number of holy icons depicting her – several of which, exceptionally,
are still in place.80
In this context, the laetaniae of Sergius I must have created further stimulus for the
local public cult of Mary. However, the fact that he solemnised Marian feasts in a simi-
lar way to how they had been for centuries in Jerusalem and Constantinople should
be situated in his ‘ecumenical’ political strategy aimed at reinforcing the image of the
pope as the authoritative leader of the entire Christian world – a role which indeed
had been acknowledged by the emperor a few years earlier, in 680–1,81 and which
would be nurtured by his successors on the throne of Peter in the late eighth and well
into the ninth century.

76 See Thunø, 2003b, on the official cult of Mary in Rome being attested since the sixth century.
77 The dedication of S. Maria Antiqua to the Virgin Mary has been compared with the promotion of the
cult of the Theotokos in Constantinople by Justin II (565–74); see Cameron, 1978; Maskarinec, 2018,
38, holds that the dedication was sponsored by Byzantine administrators, although admits that her
argument is ‘largely ex silentio’. Serving as diaconia, an institution sponsored by the Church to provide
food and baths to the poor and pilgrims, S. Maria Antiqua was the religious focus of the hellenophone
community of Rome since the sixth century; see Sansterre, 1983, 163. On this church offering care to
the sick, see Knipp, 2002; on charitable institutions in early medieval Rome, see Giuntella, 2001; Dey,
2008.
78 See McKitterick, 2016, 254–5 on the political implications of Boniface’s request to transform the public
building into a sacred one. The date (609 or 613?) and the choice of the dedication to Mary are still a
matter of speculation, since other churches were already dedicated to her in Rome, including S. Maria
Maggiore, S. Maria Antiqua, and S. Maria in Trastevere, see Thunø, 2015b, 234–7.
79 An allusion to the relic of the maphorion, the Virgin’s garment enshrined at the Blachernai church in
Constantinople, has been read in the inscription originally marking the burial place of Pope John VII
(705–7) in St Peter’s. An inscription added to the same oratory by Pope Hadrian I in 783 recorded the
translation of a ‘relic of the Holy of the Holies’ that has been interpreted either as the Veronica, that is
not otherwise recorded in the basilica before the tenth century, or as a relic associated with Mary; see
Ballardini, 2011, 104–6; Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 200–3. Marian relics in Constantinople were ven-
erated at least since the sixth century; see Wenger, 1955, 111–39; Mimouni, 1995, 599–652; Wortley,
2005; Shoemaker, 2008.
80 On Marian images in Rome, the literature is abundant; see for a discussion and further references Wolf,
1990, 2002; Belting, 1994, 121–2; Andaloro, 2002; Thunø, 2003b; Pace, 2004b; van Dijk, 2013.
81 ACO II, 2.2, 894: ‘ἀρχιεπισκόπῳ τῆς ἀρχαίας καὶ περιδόξου πόλεως Ῥώμης καὶ οἰκουμενικῷ πάντα’ ; trans.
‘archbishop of the ancient and glorious city of Rome and ecumenical pope’.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 29

5 Proto-iconoclasm, or damnatio memoriae?

It is now time to turn to an examination of how the hostile attitude toward images
held by imperial authorities in Byzantium was first perceived in the West in the early
eighth century. As the root cause of iconoclasm remains obscure, so do its early mani-
festations. Due to a dearth of explicit textual and material evidence, recent appraisals
on Byzantine iconoclasm have downplayed or radically questioned the idea that Byz-
antine emperors ever implemented iconoclastic policies before the mid-eighth century,
and have thus maintained that early iconoclasm had little or no impact within and
without Byzantium.82 However, iconoclasm, whatever shape it took at first – most
likely a discussion about sacred images, rather than the implementation of an official
policy against them – did have very early echoes in the West.83 These echoes need to
be carefully sifted, since downplaying or questioning the impact Byzantine iconoclasm
had on the West risks producing ‘a discrepancy between papal perception and Byzan-
tine reality’, in the words of Charles McClendon.84 In the next sections, we will look
at textual sources: two from papal Rome, one from northern Langobardia; the latter
source has never been previously discussed in the context of the image controversy.
But before analysing these meaningful instances of an early reception of the contro-
versy over sacred images, it is worth recalling an episode of imperial hostility against
pictorial images dating to c.710 which confirm that pictorial images were indeed per-
ceived as having a great importance in mass communication, and that their destruc-
tion could turn into a powerful political statement.
In the aftermath of the monothelete crisis, the popes were particularly sensitive to
questions of orthodoxy and imperial interference in doctrinal matters. In contrast
to his predecessors Sergius I and John VII, Pope Constantine I (708–15), a Syrian,
embraced a conciliatory attitude to Byzantium, and paid a visit to Constantinople in
710 – the last of the medieval popes to do so.85 On that occasion, papal legates, among
which was the future Pope Gregory II (715–31), discussed the canons of the Council
in Trullo that went against Roman uses, and an agreement was reached. It has been
suggested that one of the consequences of Constantine’s rapprochement with Emperor
Justinian II may have been to raise ‘awareness of diversity in Christian customs and
practices’.86 Only a few months after the return of the pope to Rome, the emperor was
assassinated and his throne was seized by Philippikos Bardanes (711–13). Bardanes
was not only a usurper, but also a ‘heretic’ who supported monotheletism.87 Against

82 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 117–27; Brubaker, 2012.

83 See the extensive treatment Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 69–155, esp. from 79, reserve for Leo III and for
the various facets of his involvement in the image controversy; at 86: ‘while we will never know what
exactly was known in Rome about what was happening in Constantinople, it seems clear that some-
thing to do with images, which was construed in some way as a threat, had attracted comment in Rome
between the late 720s and the early 730s’; see also ibidem, 120.
84 McClendon, 2013, 215.
85  LP I, 389–91; trans. Davis, 2010, 87–90; see Sansterre, 1984, 7–24, for an analysis of related passages
in the LP; Brunet, 2007, 46ff.; Ferrazza, 2019. There is no documentation about the agreement that was
reached between the papacy and Byzantium.
86 Smith, 2018, 471.
87 Sansterre, 1984, 24ff., for a discussion.
30  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

their own will, many clerics were obliged to comply with his religious policy, includ-
ing Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople and Bishop Andrew of Crete – although
they repented after the usurper lost power.88 In 712 Bardanes ordered the destruction
of the representation of the councils which was in the vestibule of the imperial palace
of Constantinople. In erasing their image, the councils, but especially the Sixth Coun-
cil that had condemned monotheletism, were cast as ‘heretical’.89 This violent and
demonstrative act took place only a few years before the conventional start date of
iconoclasm, 726. But perhaps rather than to an instance of proto-iconoclasm, this act
should be related to the practice of damnatio memoriae, that is the condemnation or
erasure of memory of someone or of something which was a recurring feature in the
administration of power since the Roman imperial age.90 The destruction ordered by
Bardanes nonetheless adds weight to the idea that the ‘visual’ was an important aspect
in the culture of the past.
Meanwhile, Pope Constantine I received a document attesting to Bardanes’s support
for monotheletism which spurred a strong reaction in Rome. The Liber Pontificalis
tells that under the aegis of the pope, ‘the whole population of Rome, in their burning
enthusiasm for the faith, erected in St Peter’s the image which the Greeks call Botarea:
it includes the six holy universal synods’,91 because the ecumenical councils, includ-
ing the Sixth, represented the ‘orthodoxy’ of the Church. The councils were illustrated
on the lower part of St Peter’s façade, below the mosaic of the Agnus Dei commis-
sioned by Leo the Great, and their depiction was one of the means through which
the pope and the populace of Rome contrasted and actually negated the authority of
Bardanes.92 This episode reinforces the idea that already on the eve of the Byzantine
controversy over images, images were perceived as effective as any other official act or
written document in broadcasting views.93

6 A ‘mural icon’ in S. Sabina

Read by some scholars as a response to Bardanes’s revival of monotheletism is a large
mural (2.80 × 4.35 m) painted during the pontificate of Constantine I on the upper
wall of the narthex of the Basilica of S. Sabina in Rome (Figure 1.2, Pl. 2).94 Discov-
ered in 2010, it has the Virgin Mary standing under an elegant canopy, holding the
Christ Child in an aureole in front of her. She is flanked by Peter and Paul and two
female saints, possibly the martyrs Sabina and Seraphia, who introduce two clerics
with square haloes, each holding a book with a precious cover. A third donor is in
proskynesis to the right of the Virgin. An inscription running along the left and top
sides of the mural says that it was painted as an ex-voto for the archpriest Theodore

88  See Auzépy, 1995, 4; Allen, 2009, 3–15; Price, 2010; Jankowiak, 2013, 335, n. 1, for an updated bibliography.
89 Mansi XII, 192C–193A; Haldon, 1997, 78–80.
90 I thank Leslie Brubaker for advising me in this regard. About the damnatio memoriae in Roman culture
and ‘writing over’ recorded history, see Hackworth Petersen, 2011.
91  LP I, 391; trans. Davis, 2010, 89.
92 Sansterre, 1984, 26.
93 Grabar, 1957a, 55.
94 Gianandrea, 2010, 2011, 2014; Tempesta, ed., 2010; Osborne, 2014; Foletti, Gianandrea, 2015, 201–
16. McKitterick, 2018, 241–3, relates the mural to the period of the brief pontificate of Constantine II
(767–8), although admits that the identity of the donors ‘remains a puzzle’.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 31

Figure 1.2 Virgin Mary as Platytéra toˉn ouranoˉn (‘wider than the heavens’), Christ Child,
Peter, Paul, two female saints, two donors and Pope Constantine I, mural painting,
Rome, Santa Sabina, narthex, c.712–15.
Photo: © Manuela Gianandrea.

and the priest George, at the time of Pope Constantine.95 The pope has been identified
as the man standing at the far left. Theodore was twice a candidate for the papacy. He
was made archpriest in 687. A few years earlier, Theodore and George had attended
the Sixth Ecumenical Council to discuss the monothelete controversy in the role of
official papal legates of Pope Agatho.96 The former envoys to the council may have
been prompted by Bardanes’s recent backing of monotheletism in 712–13 to commis-
sion this painting, many years after their return to Rome. In fact, defined by those who
discovered it as a ‘mural icon’,97 it has been interpreted as a manifesto on the perfect

95 The complete inscription, giving the name of Constantine I, was uncovered in 2012; see Osborne, 2014,
330–1.
96  LP I, 350; trans. Davis, 2010, 72. See the acts of the Sixth Ecumenical Council (680–1), ACO II, 2.2,
870–1 on the papal embassy to Constantinople in 680.
97 Tempesta, ed., 2010.
32  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

union of the divine and human natures and wills in Christ.98 At the same time, this
painting also reveals the patrons’ gratitude to the Virgin – as well as their hopes in her
future intercession before God.
The aureole which surrounds the Christ Child, almost like a visual reference to
her womb, alludes to the mystery that Mary’s human and finite womb once con-
tained the uncontainable God, and that from her he received also a human nature.
On the basis of liturgical texts, I have elsewhere argued that if the depiction of Mary
enthroned with Christ on her lap manifests the reality of the Incarnation, the depiction
of her holding a mandorla of light that circumscribes the Christ Child on her lap (also
labelled Platytéra tōn ouranōn, that is ‘wider than the heavens’) alludes to the mystery
of the Incarnation of the infinite God in a finite womb.99 Homilies on Mary written
between the early seventh and the early eighth centuries connect Mary’s Assumption
into heaven and her acquisition of intercessory power to the belief that her human,
finite womb had once contained the uncontainable God through the Incarnation.
Early in the seventh century, Bishop Theoteknos of Livias, at the foot of Mount Nebo,
wrote that ‘she who had become wider than the heavens . . . was . . . to be taken up
to heaven’.100 A century later, the earlier mentioned Andrew of Crete salutes Mary’s
womb as ‘the spacious place for God who is nowhere contained, but who was con-
tained in you alone’.101 Germanos of Constantinople adopts the image of the Platytéra
tōn ouranōn to justify the idea of Mary’s bodily Assumption into heaven, where she
is taken by the Son she once contained in her womb: ‘Entrust your body to me, just
as I placed my divinity in your womb’.102 This is to say that the ideas that Mary had
contributed to Christ’s perfect dual nature, and had been empowered by her Assump-
tion into heaven to act as intercessor for humankind, embedded for a century in texts
conceived for preaching to mixed audiences of the faithful, must also have supported
those who conceived the mural in the narthex of S. Sabina.

7 T he life of Gregory II

Under the successor of Pope Constantine I, Gregory II, the Liber Pontificalis makes a
reference to the iconoclastic controversy for the first time. Gregory II is said to have
firmly reacted against a ‘decree’ of the Byzantine Emperor Leo III (717–41) forbidding
the presence in churches of images depicting saints, martyrs, or angels.103 The chroni-
cle does not mention Leo’s alleged destruction of the image of the Christ on the Chalke
gate of the imperial palace (on which see Chapter 2). Immediately after this, the Liber
Pontificalis describes a political upheaval in central Italy which saw the supporters
of the Byzantine exarch of Ravenna opposing those of the pope, and the Lombards

98 Gianandrea, 2011, 404–5.

99 On this iconography, also known as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’), see Dell’Acqua,
2020.
100 Theoteknos of Livias, Encomium on the Assumption, 1, ed. Wenger, 1955, 272, 100–1 (comm.); trans.
Daley, 1998, 71.
101 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Annunciation, 6, PG 97, 896A; see also 11, 905B; trans. Cunning-
ham, 2008, 206 and 214.
102 Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition II, 2, PG 98, 361B; trans. Daley, 1998, 171.
103 There is no extant evidence that Leo III ever issued a ‘decree’ against sacred images; see Sahas, 1986,
24–30; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 119ff.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 33

taking advantage of this situation by seizing the castellum of Sutri (Latium) in 727–8.
This latter date offers a terminus ante quem for the alleged decree of Leo III. The
Liber Pontificalis also reports, with horror, that as a consequence of the decree, many
people in Constantinople were either beheaded or mutilated while trying to prevent
the removal and burning of holy images.104 In order to stop all this, the papal chroni-
cle states that Gregory II ‘armed himself against the emperor as against an enemy,
denouncing his heresy and writing that Christians everywhere must guard against the
impiety that had arisen’.105
This and other passages in the Liber Pontificalis concerning Emperor Leo III and his
son and successor Constantine V (741–75) have been considered interpolations and
falsifications inserted in the late eighth century, tailored to reinforce the image of the
popes as strong supporters of sacred images while discrediting the Byzantine rulers.106
Instead, on the basis of the manuscript tradition and textual criticism, the previously
mentioned passage related to Gregory II and his reaction to iconoclasm has been
cleared of the charge of late interpolation, and securely dated to the early 730s.107 It
was most likely written soon after the death of the pope, as it was usual in the Liber
Pontificalis, with a twofold aim: to make him appear as the champion of ‘orthodoxy’
against the new imperial ‘heresy’ of iconoclasm and to divert the general attention
from a mundane dispute concerning taxes which opposed him to the emperor. In fact,
the papal chronicle aimed at casting the popes as defenders of the true faith ‘against
the machinations of Byzantine patriarchs and emperors’, in the words of Rosamond
McKitterick.108 However, in practice, the popes faced the loss of abundant tax rev-
enues from Sicily and Calabria that the emperor had transferred, together with the
ecclesiastical jurisdiction and the patrimony of these areas, to the patriarchate of Con-
stantinople.109 This was a tremendous blow to the household economy of the papacy,

104  LP I, 409–10; trans. Davis, 2007, 15–6. On Leo III’s ‘official’ iconoclasm manifested around 726, see
Gero, 1973a, 94–112, cf. for a critique Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 69–155.
105  LP I, 404–5; trans. Davis, 2007, 11–12.
106 On interpolations, see Speck, 1990, 637–95, who has postponed the date of documents related to
Byzantine iconoclasm to the late eighth century on the assumption that in that period iconophiles sys-
tematically interpolated them in order to exaggerate the wrongs of eikonomachoi; see also Brubaker,
Haldon, 2011, 323–30; Brubaker, 2012, 27–8; cf. Gantner, 2014, 86–7, who, on the basis of the
manuscript tradition and textual criticism, takes a more cautious attitude towards the idea of interpo-
lations. Firmly against Speck’s ‘somewhat formulaic case for massive interpolation’, see Barber, 2002,
147, n. 34; Sansterre, 2002, 995; Elsner, 2012, 389, n. 48. Interpolations are seen ‘more or less [as]
innocent attempts to edit an old text so that it made sense in the world that the editor addressed’ and
‘promote a particular point of view’, by Brubaker, 1998, 1220–2.
107 Gantner, 2013b, 72–3, fig. 1, and 88–90. On how manuscript tradition and textual criticism help read-
ing and making sense of early medieval sources, see Pohl, 2001, 349–51.
108 McKitterick, 2016, 262.
109 The events, reported in the Chronicle of Theophanes, 410.9–11; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997,
568, as happening in 731/2, probably occurred in the 720s; see Sansterre, 1983, 131; Brubaker, Hal-
don, 2011, 81, note that although Gregory’s opposition to paying taxes or against a tax increase ‘had
more to do with the protection of papal and ecclesiastical financial interests than theology and political
ideology . . . we should not dismiss the exacerbating effect of imperial religious policy at this time’; on
Byzantine taxation system, see also ibidem, 475ff. In the letter he sent to the Byzantine emperors Con-
stantine VI and Irene in 785, Pope Hadrian I invoked the ‘restoration’ of the patrimony of St Peter’s
(Mansi, XII, 1073C; ACO II, 3.1, 165), but he was ignored, as he recalls in a letter to Charlemagne of
c.793 (MGH, EK 3, 2, 57); see Neil, 2000, 538, 546; Ricciardi, 2015, 113–14.
34  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

which used that wealth mainly to support the weak and the poor through charitable
institutions.110
Besides the tax controversy, another factor was contributing to the gradual detach-
ment of Italy from Byzantium: officials presiding over these territories in Italy became
progressively more connected to local communities and less so to the central adminis-
tration in Constantinople.111 This facilitated the dissolution of the Byzantine power in
Italy, and led to political particularism, as is reflected in the circulation of currency.112
Italian territories under Byzantine rule reacted to the loosening of central power by
scheming to elect another emperor instead of Leo III, only to be stopped by Greg-
ory II. He still hoped for the emperor’s ‘conversion’,113 and thus was trying to maintain
order, although dissenting on doctrine and taxes. Possibly, the conciliatory attitude of
Gregory II was the result of an unwritten agreement reached by the papacy with the
Byzantine emperors in the mid-680s coincident with the Sixth Ecumenical Council.114
This notwithstanding, Gregory II may have addressed letters to Leo III to express
his open disapproval of the imperial image policy. But because these letters have only
been transmitted in the acts of the iconophile Council of Nicaea II dating to the late
eighth century, they have been considered a problematic source.115 Two aspects are
worth considering, however, in favour of their authenticity: first, the iconophile argu-
ments expounded by Gregory II appear to have been developed before the mid-eighth
century; second, these letters reflect the political reality of his pontificate with regard
to both the tax and the iconoclastic crises.116 All the same, the reaction of Gregory II
against the imperial measures for taxes and images had indeed long-lasting implica-
tions, since it also contributed to the emergence of the papacy as an independent
political entity.117

110 Noble, 1984, 9–12; Dey, 2008; see Rovelli, 2001, 849–51, for scarce circulation of coinage and
ceramic from the South towards Rome as reflecting this shifting political situation.
111 On the developments of the Byzantine army in Italy between the 640s and the late eighth century, from
an imperial army to a Roman army, see Carpegna di Falconieri, 2012, esp. 567, n. 32 with relevant
literature.
112 Wickham, 1981, 74–6; Noble, 1984, 9; Delogu, 2001, 19–21; on currency circulation, see Rovelli,
2000, 2008.
113  LP I, 404–5; trans. Davis, 2007, 11–12.
114 Ferrazza, 2019; Llewellyn, 1977, 33, does not see any ‘emancipation plan’ of the papacy in this period.
115 See Martin, 1930, 36–7; Alexakis, 1996, 108–10. On the possibility of interpolations, see Gouillard,
1968.
116 Arnaldi, 1981, 373–89; Marazzi, 1993, 272–3, are in favour of the authenticity of these letters; cf.
Noble, 1984, 28, 32–3, 39, 2001a, 194–5, 2009, 381, n. 31 on their significance as eventual reflec-
tions of ‘attitudes in papal Rome in the 750s or 760s’. Against Marazzi’s view are Brubaker, Haldon,
2011, 127, n. 200.
117 On the emergence of a papal political entity before the alliance with the Franks, see Martin, 1930,
3; Bertolini, 1973; Ahrweiler, 1977, 23–4; Noble, 1984, 2009, 55, calls it the ‘Republic of St Peter’,
and dates its establishment to 729–33. Contra Noble, Capo, 2009, xii, calls the papal political entity
‘Church State’. On the formation of papal bureaucracy reflecting its evolution into a state between the
eighth–ninth centuries, see Toubert, 2001. See also Dey, 2011, 247–72, who notes that ‘the establish-
ment of a temporal hegemony on the part of the popes proceeded in lock step with their assumption
of responsibility for the defences of the city’, and therefore sees in the papal restorations and addition
to the Aurelian wall carried out between the early eighth and the mid-ninth century as a sign of their
interest in one of the most powerful symbols of Rome’s glorious past and authority as a capital city.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 35

8 A n inscription from a Lombard court

One source, likely dating to c.730, has never been discussed as evidence of an early
reception of Byzantine iconoclasm in Italy. This was an inscription, now lost, set up
to celebrate the foundation of a church in the newly established royal residence of
the Lombard King Liutprand (712–44) at Corteolona (Pavia). It tells us that in the
time in which ‘the Emperor Leo fell into the pit of schism from the heights of the just
persuaded by a wretched philosopher’, Liutprand dedicated a church to Saint Ana-
stasius the Persian after having paid a visit to his relics in Rome. In order to offer a
chronological reference for the establishment of the church, the inscription recalls the
heterodoxy of Emperor Leo III as if it was a well-known fact. The inscription reads:

At the time Caesar Leo [the emperor] fell into the pit of schism from the summit
of righteousness persuaded by a miserable scholar, I, King Liutprand decided to
have baths built for myself, using these beautiful marble columns. But later I has-
tened, as a devoted man, to Rome herself – when I arrived there, as your [Christ’s]
servant, I kissed the holy head of Saint Anastasius. And see, all of a sudden, you,
Christ, show me in my bosom from your heavenly seat that I am to donate this
magnificent house [church] under the roof [of the palace]. Hence, elevating my
hands towards the stars, I pray with these words: ‘Oh son of God, for the faithful
people, you, who leads the host of angels, you, who reigns everything, I beg you,
make that the Catholic community grow with me and support this temple, as was
promised to Solomon’.118

For some years Leo enjoyed the role of champion of faith in having defended Con-
stantinople from the Arab siege of 717, and for having put an end to the monothelete
revival of Philippikos Bardanes. However, in the inscription he was cast by the Lom-
bard king, his main political opponent in Italy, as a supreme ruler fallen ‘into the pit
of schism’. The expression ‘schism’ clearly signals that a schism within the Church
was indeed feared as the ultimate consequence of Leo’s heterodoxy. Decades later, the
sacra or opening letter addressed by emperors Irene and Constantine VI to the bishops
convened at the iconophile Council of Nicaea II insists on the importance of the unity
of the Church (‘peace and concord’) which had been affected by the controversy over
sacred images.119 Actually, the Corteolona inscription seems to put the blame for the
heterodoxy of the emperor on a wretched philosopher (‘misero doctore’), who alleg-
edly persuaded Leo ‘into the pit of schism’. There is no hint as to the identity of this

118  Versus xii, In Ecclesia Beati Anastasi, MGH, PLAK, 106, esp. vv. 1–2 and 11–14: ‘Quando Leo cecidit,
misero Doctore suasus, / scismatis in foveam recto de culmine Caesar, / tunc ego regales statui his
mihi condere thermas / marmoribus pulchris Leutbrant Rex atque columnis. / Sed Romam properans
postquam devotus ad ipsam / perveni atque sacro capiti mea basia fixi / Sancti Anastasii, servus tuus,
ecce repente / paterna de sede meo hanc in pectore, Christe, / praeclaram fundare domum sub culmine
monstras. / Talibus unde meas tendens ad sidera palmas / vocibus oro: “Dei Fili, pro plebe fideli, / qui
regis angelicos coetus, qui cuncta gubernas / Fac, precor, ut crescat mecum catholicus ordo, / et templo
concede isti ut Salomoni locutus” ’; trans. Dell’Acqua, Gantner, 2019, 93, adapted from Everett, 2003,
248–9). On the inscription, see Badini, 1980; Everett, 2003, 248–50; for its contextualisation in the
period of iconoclasm, see Lauxtermann, 2020; Dell’Acqua, Gantner, 2019.
119 Mansi XII, 1002–1008, esp. 1003; ACO II, 3.1, 42–8, esp. 42: ‘εἰρήνην καὶ ὁμόνοιαν’; Noble, 2009, 77–8.
36  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

learned individual.120 In the acts of Nicaea II, a priest recalls a story in which a Jewish
soothsayer, the Caliph Yazid, and Leo III feature together. Scholars maintain that this
‘legend’ is first attested in the council acts, dating to the 780s, and that this is the earli-
est reference to an alleged Islamic or Jewish influence on Leo’s iconoclasm.121 Instead,
the Corteolona inscription already alludes to the bad influence of an impostor, what-
ever his origins, on the emperor.
At the end of the inscription, Liutprand is contrasted to Leo III: he is styled as a cham-
pion of ‘orthodox’ faith, who invokes directly the Son of God to help him make the
‘Catholic community’ grow with him.122 Liutprand’s reference to Rome and his desire
to emerge as the paladin of the Catholic community can be explained by considering
that, despite territorial controversies, the Lombards saw the Roman Catholic Church
as the main reference for religious matters.123 In the final verse, King Solomon is men-
tioned, being the Biblical model of a righteous sovereign.124 Also the appropriation of
the cult of Anastasius on the part of Liutprand should be seen as a manifestation of his
wish to appear as the defender of orthodoxy. The relics of Anastasius were associated
with the cult of the True Cross and with the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius (610–41).125
He had rescued what was claimed to be the True Cross from pagan hands in Persia.
There, the Cross was paraded, and led to the conversion of the young Anastasius. Later
Heraclius returned the Cross to Jerusalem, where it belonged and, because of this, he
was deemed righteous and victorious, a defender of faith and of its symbols.126
The relics of Anastasius, martyred in Persia in 628, had been brought to Jerusa-
lem by Palestinian monks. In the aftermath of the Arab invasion, they were taken
to Rome.127 In the Roman countryside, Palestinian monks found shelter in a monas-
tery later known as S. Anastasius ad aquas salvias, not far from St Paul outside the
walls. The relics performed miracles before and soon after arriving in Rome, where
Anastasius was certainly being commemorated by 645.128 The head of Anastasius, in
particular, performed a miracle in 713 which was recorded in writing immediately
afterwards.129 We may not know whether the Lombard king had been enticed by
miraculous accounts about Anastasius’s relics. However, upon his visit to the

120 For a discussion, see Dell’Acqua, Gantner, 2019, 98–9.

121 See Speck, 1990 on the developments of this legend, that involved at one point also Leo III’s son Con-
stantine V. On Islam and Byzantine iconoclasm and their unlikely connection, see also Grabar, 1977;
Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 105–17.
122 Neither Badini, 1980, nor Everett, 2003, 248–50, discuss the figure of the mentioned emperor or the
philosopher or which schism it was. On Liutprand and the monastery of S. Anastasius ad aquas sal-
vias, see Fentress, Gruspier, von Falkenhausen, 2003, 90–1.
123 See Gasparri, 2001, 247, with regard to Liutprand.
124 Paul the Deacon, Versus de Arichi duce, 5, MGH, PLAK 1, 45, recalls Solomon apropos of the Duke
of Benevento Arichis II, who took the reins of the Lombard people after Charlemagne’s conquest of
Langobardia Maior. On Solomon, Justinian, and Arichis, see Everett, 2003, 250. Solomon had been
already used as an ambitious term of comparison for Justinian with regards to his erection of the Hagia
Sophia; see Falla Castelfranchi, 2008, 83; Dell’Acqua, 2009, 80–4. On Paul the Deacon’s praise of
Justinian as an ideal model for a ruler, see HL, I, 25, MGH, SRL, 62; Pohl, 2015, 28.
125 On Byzantium as an ideal model of rulership for the Lombards, see Gasparri, 2001, 222.
126 Flusin, 1992; van Ginkel, 2002.
127 Vircillo Franklin, 2004, 11–12, notes that the transfer of relics remains conjectural.
128 For the Greek dossier, see Flusin, 1992; for the Latin, see Vircillo Franklin, 2004.
129 Smith, 2018, 465–9, comments on a miracle recorded in the dossiers studied by Flusin, 1992, I, 157–
87; Vircillo Franklin, 2004, 129–44.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 37

monastery, as the inscription refers, he kissed the head of Anastasius, and afterwards
dedicated to him the church annexed to his new palatial complex of Corteolona in
the countryside of Pavia. As for the date of this pilgrimage, we should recall that Liut-
prand paid two visits to Rome: the first in 729, the second circa ten years later. A date
soon after his first visit to Rome is the one which enjoys a growing consensus among
scholars for the dedication of the church at Corteolona and for the inscription.130
An image of Liutprand as pious king, ready to cooperate with God for the salva-
tion of his people, is also suggested by documents produced when he was still alive
and after his death, but especially in laws he promulgated in the late 720s.131 He is
portrayed as a ‘pious’ king also in the final book of the History of the Lombards, that
Paul the Deacon wrote in the last decades of the eighth century.132 Like the inscrip-
tion set up in the Lombard royal residence, the History of the Lombards contrasts the
pious Liutprand with the blasphemous Leo III. Echoing the Liber Pontificalis, Paul the
Deacon blames Leo III for the burning of sacred images in Constantinople, persecut-
ing those venerating images, and ordering the pope to dispose of sacred images if he
wanted to retain imperial favour. Paul also recalls that because Patriarch Germanos
did not consent to Leo’s error, he was removed from office.133
A few words are apposite here about the transmission of the text from Corte-
olona. In the late eighth century the inscription from Corteolona and others from
Pavia and its surroundings were transcribed and hence transmitted to posterity. In
the early medieval period, it is probable that travellers, some of which were Anglo-
Saxons, transcribed inscriptions of Rome, Ravenna, Milan, and other sites.134 Those
from Pavia, with others, were then copied into a scriptorium in north-eastern France.
They finally arrived at the Carolingian monastery of Lorsch between 821–35, where
they were collated with other transcribed inscriptions from Lombard Italy, Rome, and
Ravenna, thus forming the so-called Sylloge Laureshamensis.135 Dungal, a learned
Irishman living in Pavia, who is also known for having responded with a treatise to
the iconoclastic Bishop Claudius of Turin in the 820s, has been credited with collat-
ing these inscriptions.136 But the date of his arrival in Pavia in 825 makes it unlikely
when considering that the manuscript containing them had already arrived in Lorsch
between 821–35. In his stead, the name of another learned member of the Carolingian
court has been put forth as collector of ancient and Lombard antiquities: Angilbert of

130 Bertolini, 1972, 38–42, supports the idea that Liutprand went to the monastery on his first visit to
Rome; this is accepted by Badini, 1980, 290–1, 299; Everett, 2003, 248; Lopez-Jantzen, 2014, 85;
Dell’Acqua, Gantner, 2019, 94; Lauxtermann, 2020. A later date for the establishment of the church,
connected to Liutprand’s second visit to Rome, is favoured by Vircillo Franklin, 2004, 16.
131 For example, see the prologue to his laws of 726 and 728 in the Laws of Liutprand, in Leges Lan-
gobardorum, MGH Leges IV, 141; trans. Fischer Drew, 1973, 180; or Leges Langobardorum, MGH
Leges IV, 146–7; trans. Fischer Drew, 1973, 185–6. For a discussion, see Badini, 1980, 285–90; Lopez-
Jantzen, 2014, 83–6; Dell’Acqua, Gantner, 2019, 95–6.
132 Goffart, 1988, 340–1, for the debate on the date of the HL.
133  HL, VI, 49, MGH, SRL, 181–2. On the Byzantine Empire in the HL, see Pohl, 2015, 26–31.
134 Vircillo Franklin, 1998; Everett, 2003, 243–4.
135 The earliest testimony of the Sylloge Laureshamensis is in a manuscript from Lorsch (BAV, Pal. lat.
833, fols. 26r – 82r). On the manuscript, see Stevenson, 1886, 292; Bischoff, 1974, 114–15; for a criti-
cal overview on the Sylloge Laureshamensis, see Vircillo Franklin, 1998.
136 Ferrari, 1972. On the iconoclastic attitudes and exegetical work of Claudius of Turin, see Boul-
hol, 2002; Ballardini, 2007. Against Claudius, in c.828 Dungal wrote the treatise Responsa contra
Claudium, PL 105, 465–530, esp. 529; ed. and English trans. Zanna, 2002.
38  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

St Riquier who resided in Pavia in c.781.137 All the same, the identity of the compiler
of the part of the Sylloge (the third, fols. 41r – 54r) including the inscription from
Corteolona remains speculative. A person connected with the Carolingians, if this
was the case, probably would not have had any interest in transmitting a text praising
Liutprand as champion of the faith. Instead, had the person been a Lombard, he might
have had a specific interest in doing so and thus probably amended the bad reputa-
tion the king and his people acquired in papal eyes and documents after they started
threatening territories under papal control in the late 720s.138
In any case, the varied nature of the inscriptions gathered in the Sylloge suggests that
they were transcribed to satisfy an antiquarian interest rather than a political agenda.
A small number of them are still extant and confirm that they had been faithfully
transcribed as memories of a past age.139 Can we also postulate that the Corteolona
inscription was faithfully transcribed? It certainly was a memento of a golden age, when
Liutprand thought of himself as the likely heir to the imperial power in Italy, and as the
brave defender of the values of the Roman Church – a memento to be cherished in a
time in which the Lombard power was in decline. Having escaped the attention of those
interested in the early reflections of Byzantine iconoclasm in the West,140 the text from
Corteolona is an important document on account of its date and contents. It reflects
that by c.730 rumours that Leo III was acting against orthodoxy had reached Italy.
As a coda to this section, a reference needs to be made to another document dat-
ing to 729–31, like the Corteolona inscription, and arguably also attesting to an early
reception of the image controversy in the West. In the exegetical treatise De templo,
written during the pontificate of Gregory II, the Northumbrian monk Bede interrupts
his exegetical description of the Temple of Solomon and its furnishings to make a
digression against those ‘who think we are prohibited by God’s law from carving or
painting, in a church or any other place, representations of either humans or animals or
objects of whatever kind, on the grounds that he has said in the Ten Commandments
of the Law etc.’141 Bede maintains the usefulness of images for devotional and didactic
purposes because, being ‘living scriptures’, they can reach out also to the illiterate.142

137 Vircillo Franklin, 1998, 985–6.

138 The popes labelled the Lombards as nefandissimi, that is most execrable. This affected for a long time
their image and even modern historiography; see Gasparri, 2012b.
139 For a comparison between extant inscriptions and their transcription in the Sylloge Laureshamensis
and other syllogae, see for example Villa, 1950, 87, about the fragments of the founding inscription
of the Basilica Apostolorum in Milan, Lapidge, 2017, 637–9, about the Sylloge Laureshamensis and
other contemporary syllogae as useful for identifying lapidary fragments of late antique and early
medieval Rome.
140 It is absent in the thorough overviews offered by Noble, 2009; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 79–127.
141 Bede, De templo, II, CCSL 119A, 212–13, ll. 809–43, esp. 809–15: ‘Notandum sane hoc in loco quia
sunt qui putant lege Dei prohibitum ne uel hominum uel quorumlibet animalium siue rerum simili-
tudines sculpamus aut depingamus in ecclesia uel alio quolibet loco eo quod in decalogo legis dixerit:
Non facies tibi sculptile neque omnem similitudinem quae est in caelo desuper et quae in terra deorsum
nec eorum quae sunt in aquis sub terra’; trans. Connolly, 1995, 90–2.
142 Bede, De templo, II, CCSL 119A, 212–13, ll. 824–33: ‘Si enim licebat serpentem exaltari aeneum in
ligno quem aspicientes filii Israhel uiuerent, cur non licet exalatationem domini saluatoris in cruce
qua mortem uicit ad memoriam fidelibus depingendo reduci uel etiam alia eius miracula et sanationes
quibus de eodem mortis auctore mirabiliter triumphauit cum horum aspectus multu saepe compunc-
tionis soleat praestare contuentibus et eis quoque qui litteras ignorant quasi uiuam dominicae historiae
pandere lectionem? Nam et pictura Graece Ζωγραφία, id est uiua scriptura, uocatur’; trans. Connolly,
1995, 90–1; like Connolly, also Meyvaert, 1979, 69, translates ‘uiua scriptura’ as ‘living writing.’
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 39

Furthermore, he writes that artisans and preachers cooperate in instructing and inspir-
ing the faithful.143
Celia Chazelle has argued that Bede’s statement about pictorial images and their
detractors actually is a response to local concerns. By the 720s, or perhaps earlier,
dissenting voices had arisen at Jarrow and at its twin monastery Wearmouth about
the decoration of their churches, much of which had been provided by their vener-
able founder Benedict Biscop, and about devotional practices associated with them.
However, there are only indirect hints of such a discussion.144 Instead, others have
contextualised Bede’s statement within the western response to the unsettling situation
sparked by Byzantine iconoclasm.145 Because the monk never left Northumbria, where
he lived at the monastery of Jarrow, it remains difficult to ascertain how he learned
about the rising controversy. In c.725 he came into the possession of a working copy
of the Liber Pontificalis containing entries up to the incomplete Life of Gregory II.146
Even so, the papal chronicle could hardly have contained references to the incipient
controversy. But one cannot rule out the possibility that reports of iconoclasm as well
as of other events that occurred in the East might have reached Britain by word of
mouth. Bede had connections with Rome where he had dispatched the cleric Nothelm
to find documents useful for his Historia ecclesiastica. For this purpose, Gregory II
had allowed Nothelm to study in the papal scrinium. It is possible that the exchange
on the new political–theological controversy as well as on other events that are not
described in extant western sources occurred through verbal communication.147 If
anything, this is another instance indicating that, between the seventh and the ninth
centuries, Rome functioned as an ‘intermediary’ between Byzantium and the West.148

9 T he life of Gregory III

In the Liber Pontificalis, the Life of Gregory III (731–41), the successor of Gregory II,
opens with a mention of his active engagement against iconoclasm. Soon after his
election, on 1 November 731, he convened the first anti-iconoclastic Roman synod.149
This synod has been seen as an open response to the image controversy, which in 730
had issued in the resignation of Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople.150 That the
question of sacred images was perceived as having a political facet is demonstrated by

143 Bede, De Templo, I, CCSL 119A, 152, ll. 214–17: ‘Latomos dicit lapidum caesores. Idem autem lapi-
dum caesores qui et lignorum figurate designant, hoc est sanctos praedicatores qui mentes insipientium
de labore uerbi dei exercent eos que ab ea in qua nati sunt turpitudine ac deformitate transmutare
contendunt ac regulariter institutos unitati fidelium aedificio uidelicet domus dei aptos reddere curant’;
trans. Connolly, 1995, 11; see Darby, 2013, 417.
144 Chazelle, 2010, 91–2.
145 McCormick, 1994, 111–12; Sansterre, 2002, 1000; Noble, 2009, 112–16; Darby, 2013, 399, 403–5,
411–12; O’Brien, 2015, 107.
146 McKitterick, 2016, 271–2, believes he had a copy of the LP containing the lives of the popes until the
year 715.
147 Darby, 2013, 405–6.
148 On which, see McCormick, 1994, 111.
149  LP I, 415; trans. Davis, 2007, 19; see Gem, 2011; McClendon, 2013, 216, n. 9. This synod is recalled
in MGH, EK 3, 2, 15, that is Pope Hadrian I’s letter to Charlemagne known as Hadrianum of c.793,
on which see next chapter.
150 See Angenendt, 2001, 206, on this synod as a demonstrative act against the policy on sacred images;
and Thümmel, 2005, 83.
40  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

the fact that Gregory III also invited lay representatives of the Romans to attend the
synod, and not only clerics. The authenticity of a letter he sent to Patriarch Antoninus
of Grado to invite him to the synod, that had been questioned in the past, has been
convincingly defended as an accurate reflection of the contemporary political climate
and relevant to the early papal reaction to Byzantine iconoclasm.151
The synod took place in the Basilica of St Peter’s in front of the confessio that is the
tomb of the apostle Peter, the first leader of the Christian Church.152 Of Syrian ances-
try, proficient in Greek and Latin,153 Gregory III presided over the synodal discussion
concerned with what the Greek and Latin Church Fathers had declared on the produc-
tion and veneration of images. That politics were at stake in choosing this location is
also suggested by the fact that soon afterwards Gregory III adorned the front of the
confessio with six columns offered by the exarch of Ravenna, the representative of the
Byzantine emperor in Italy, with whom his predecessor Gregory II had only recently
been reconciled thanks to the mediation of the Lombard King Liutprand. On these
columns, Gregory III placed silver-revetted beams decorated with repoussé images of
the Saviour and the apostles on one side with Mary and holy virgins on the other.154
This arrangement has been read as a statement of papal support for visual images.155
Other objects have been associated with Gregory III’s undeterred iconophilia,
including a repoussé image of the Virgin embracing the Christ Child in gold adorned
with gems (‘imaginem auream Dei genetricis amplectentem Salvatorem dominum
Deum nostrum in gemmis diversis’), weighing 5 lbs, which he donated to S. Maria
Maggiore.156 Made with embossed and polished metal, and decorated with gemstones,
bas-relief images such as this one overcame the two-dimensional nature of painting to
render almost three-dimensional statues. Reflecting the natural and artificial illumina-
tion of the interiors, their surfaces gave the impression of pulsing, thus making Christ,
the Virgin, and the saints incomparably ‘present’ and almost as if alive in the eyes of
the faithful.157 This was not the first time such images adorned the churches of Rome.
The Liber Pontificalis recalls among the deeds of Sergius I his donation of a ‘golden
image’ (‘imaginem auream’) of Peter which was placed in the right aisle in the Basilica
of St Peter’s, the aisle reserved for women.158

151 MHG, EMKA, EL, 13, 703; against its authenticity is Speck, 2002, 586ff.; cf. Brubaker, Haldon, 2011,
85; in favour of its authenticity is Gantner, 2014, 108–9, esp. n. 369.
152  LP I, 416; trans. Davis, 2007, 20.
153  LP I, 415. See Sansterre, 1983, 72 on the seventh- and eighth-century knowledge of Greek and Latin
on the part of the popes; Burgarella, 2002 on popes of ‘Greek’ origins.
154  LP I, 417; trans. Davis, 2007, 22.
155 McClendon, 2013, 219. This arrangement evoked a similar one in the Hagia Sophia at Constantinople
donated by Justinian in the sixth century; see de Blaauw, 1994, 554–5. Perhaps also designed with
anti-iconoclastic agenda were the beams revetted in silver laminas decorated with repoussé images of
the face (‘vultum’) of Christ, accompanied by the archangels Michael and Gabriel and Mary, flanked
by the apostles Andrew and John that Pope Hadrian I would later add to the area around the high altar
in St Peter’s; see LP I, 503; trans. Davis, 2007, 151–2; McClendon, 2013, 222; van Dijk, 2013, 246.
156  LP I, 418; trans. Davis, 2007, 23; see Wolf, 1990, 23; Mauskopf Deliyannis, 1996, 575; Davis, 2007,
17; McClendon, 2013, 221.
157 On the ‘iconic presence’, see Belting, 2016; Pentcheva, 2010, 67–71 on metal revetted icons and their
perception in Byzantium during iconoclasm; Foletti, 2019, on the ‘iconic presence’ in western metal
reliquaries.
158  LP I, 374; trans. Davis, 2010, 83.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 41

The papal chronicle also says that Gregory III decorated an image (‘imaginem’) of
the Virgin, probably painted, with a gold diadem encrusted with gems, a necklace, and
earrings. He placed this image in the oratory he built for his own burial in St Peter’s,
in the corner of the triumphal arch on the southern side of the nave, later known as S.
Maria in cancellis.159 The presence of the Virgin was thus evoked in the papal burial
to extend her protection to Gregory III’s transition to the afterlife, but also to oversee
a vast collection of relics of all the saints that he had gathered there, and which were
commemorated each day with vigils and masses.160 The oratory was dedicated to All
Saints, the Saviour, and Mary. In honour of All Saints, the pope also established a feast
on 1 November. On the one hand, the combination of relics, pictorial images, and
liturgical practices has been seen functioning as a multimedia image of papal spiritual
power, and as ‘an unforgettable daily refutation’ of Byzantine iconoclasm.161 On the
other hand, the oratory’s symbolic importance has been seen going beyond the imme-
diate circumstances of the image controversy, in that its collection of relics endowed
Rome ‘with a microcosm of Christian sanctity’s universality’162 which recalled the
city’s aspiration to be in the centre of the Christian oecumene. This process came to
a head in the ninth century. Two factors contributed to put Rome firmly at the centre
of ‘orthodox’ Christianity. One was the relative weakness of the other patriarchal
sees, which were either under Islamic, that is ‘pagan’, rulers (Alexandria, Antioch,
Jerusalem), or under ‘heretic’ rulers (Constantinople). The other was the official incor-
poration of eastern saints in the Roman sanctoral – that is ‘the collection of saints’
commemorated ‘within the liturgy and outside it’.163
In the light of the evidence discussed in the last three sections, it appears that the
image controversy that arose under Emperor Leo III did elicit early responses in the
West. Whatever it was initially, likely a discussion about sacred images, the contro-
versy certainly posed challenges to ecclesiastical traditions, devotional usages, and
to the very unity of the Church. Although ‘what the practice of Roman Christianity
entailed’ was not yet codified at this stage, as noted by Julia Smith, material objects
were indeed instrumental in religious practice, in liturgy as well as in private devotion:
this was commonly perceived, and may have influenced the view of ecclesiastical lead-
ers, in primis the pope.164

10 W ith the help of Mary

A couple of decades later, the state of the papal affairs with Byzantium and the Lom-
bards had not improved. The Lombard King Aistulf had taken advantage of the tense
political situation with Byzantium and threatened the territories of the Romans.165
In October 752 the abbots of two of the most venerable monasteries of central Italy,

159  LP I, 417–18; trans. Davis, 2007, 23. On this space, see de Blaauw, 1994, 665–6, 754.
160 Relics of saints would be gathered also by Paul I in the 760s and Paschal I in the 820s; see Smith, 2000;
Goodson, 2010, 198–218; McClendon, 2013, 221.
161 Ó Carragáin, 2013, 189; see also McClendon, 2013, 216.
162 Maskarinec, 2018, 124–30.
163 Vircillo Franklin, 2004, 1.
164 Smith, 2018, 460, develops this line of thought in a contribution about the practice of Christianity in
eighth-century Rome.
165 Noble, 1984, 28–60; Berto, 2010, 24.
42  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

S. Benedetto at Montecassino and S. Vincenzo al Volturno, were mobilised by Pope

Stephen II (752–7) and sent as official envoys to Aistulf but then failed to find a com-
promise.166 At that point, the pope sent a direct request for help against the Lombards
to the Byzantine emperor. Not only did the pope appeal to the emperor to free Italy
from Aistulf, but also to restore the veneration of sacred images (‘ut sanctorum imagi-
nes pristinam in venerationem vindicet’).167 Since he got no help, he could only resort
to divine intervention – which he did by invoking the direct intercession of Mary and
her Son.
In early 753, Stephen II led an impressive laetania through the city. The Liber Pon-
tificalis states that the procession was held ‘on a certain day . . . in the usual way’.168
Louis Duchesne posited that this must have happened on the occasion of one of the
Marian feasts held in early 753 – either on the Purification of Mary and Presentation
in the Temple of the Christ Child on 2 February, or on the Annunciation on 25 March,
that in 753 coincided with Easter – since only these were celebrated with penitential
processions.169 On this occasion, a carefully devised exhibition of holy images, relics,
sacred objects, as well as papal piety, was deployed by Stephen II in a sophisticated
multimedia and multisensory engagement with the people of Rome aimed at rein-
forcing their spiritual and political bond with Mary, Christ, and the pope.170 The
Liber Pontificalis describes Stephen II with his clergy and the faithful walking barefoot
through the streets of Rome.171 In the course of the procession, humility was displayed
by the pope in carrying various objects – relics, consecrated objects (‘sacra mysteria’),
and a miraculous image of Christ known as the acheiropoieton (not-made-by-human-
hand) – on his own shoulders.172 Mobilised and led by the pope against their common
enemies, the Romans reached S. Maria Maggiore, where they shared a public peniten-
tial act in which ‘ash was placed on the heads of all the people’.173 According to the
Julian Calendar, in 753 Ash Wednesday fell on 3 February, the day after the feast of
the Purification of Mary and the Presentation in the Temple of Christ. Since the feast
of 2 February celebrated the humility of Mother and Son in submitting themselves
to purification rituals prescribed by the Law of Moses and its early celebrations in
Byzantium and Rome were associated with repentance, prayer, and fasting,174 one

166  LP I, 441–2; trans. Davis, 2007, 53–5. RP 1, 2307, 271; Pauli continuatio casinensis, 4, MGH, SRL,
199; Noble, 1984, 72–3. S. Vincenzo and S. Benedetto were pictured as a ‘pair’ by Paul the Deacon. S.
Vincenzo assisted in the refoundation of Montecassino, see Wickham, 1995, 138, 142; Hodges, 2011,
433. Perhaps as consequence of a special relationship cultivated with Rome, Abbot Ato (739–60) of S.
Vincenzo al Volturno founded at a church in Saint Peter’s name where abbots and monks were buried;
see CV I, 162; Marazzi, 2007, 185.
167  LP I, 442; trans. Davis, 2007, 55; the reference to the restoration of sacred images is in RP 1, 2308,
271; Noble, 1984, 74.
168  LP I, 443; trans. Davis, 2007, 56.
169  LP II, 135, n. 10.
170 This view is shared by Sansterre, forthcoming.
171 de Blaauw, 2017, 25–6 on the participatory and democratic character of laetaniae.
172 This is the earliest mention of the acheiropoieton in the LP. See Brubaker, 1998, 1224–5, on the fact
that references to sacred portraits are not very common in early Christianity, and that eventually,
towards the end of the seventh century, they appear more frequently connected with the cult of relics.
173 On the penitential character of processions, see Baldovin, 1987, 161; Dyer, 2008.
174 Dyer, 2013, 27.
 Before iconoclasm (680s–750s) 43

wonders if in the year 753 Stephen II’s laetania was not deliberately made to coincide
with this feast.
This grandiose processional liturgy devised by the Lateran in such a critical moment
for Rome, and its description in the papal chronicle, put sacred images, objects, and
relics in the spotlight. Although the acheiropoieton of Christ had a special status in
that it was not man-made, the fact that it was personally carried by the pope on a feast
day of Mary clearly manifested the papacy’s institutional embrace and defence of the
unwritten tradition of venerating sacred images, as well as of using them in liturgy and
private devotion. On this occasion, images and relics appear to be fully integrated into
papal practices and beliefs.175 Since the visualisation of the Incarnate God was the main
argument in the iconophile discourse, as we shall see in the next chapter,176 the spiritual
and sensorial experience of the Incarnate God through liturgy provided by this proces-
sion appears to be deliberate.177
However, the penitential laetania of Stephen II did not free the Romans from the
Lombards, nor dissuade Emperor Constantine V from an iconophobic policy. In Octo-
ber 753, the pope left Rome to seek the help of Pippin III (known as the Short), king of
the Franks, against the Lombards.178 In 754, a year after the laetania, the first phase of
iconoclasm reached its climax in Byzantium with the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia,
which spelled out the imperial policy on sacred images. Brubaker and Haldon have
remarked that in the Life of Stephen II in the papal chronicle there are no references
to this council or to the image controversy. They also make the point that the pope’s
visit to Pippin approximately coincided with the council and that the pope could not
have been updated about it. They state, too, that the pope was mainly concerned with
the Lombard threat and the Byzantine reluctance to offer help against them.179 None-
theless, we should consider the hypothesis that the account of the procession of 753,
added to Stephen II’s Life soon after his death, which occurred in 757, could be seen
as a retrospective, though still cogent polemic against Byzantium. The resolutions of
the council of Hiereia, which will be outlined at the outset of the next chapter, opened
a strong confrontation between iconophiles, eikonomachi, and iconophobes which
lasted for decades.

Conclusions
This chapter has looked first at the place of the ‘visual’ in the seventh century through
the lens of Church councils and their papal reception and concluded that pictorial
images were solidly understood as ‘transparent windows’ to facilitate contact with
the divine and the holy. Then, it has outlined how the popes reacted to imperial

175 See Brown, 1973, 21 on the public use of images depending ‘on a close association with intense feelings
of local patriotism’.
176 This is attested in John of Damascus, On the Divine Images, I, 8 (= III, 8), PTS 17, 80–3; trans. Louth,
2003, 24–5; cf. with the iconoclastic Nouthesia gerontos, some parts of which can be dated ante 754; see
Gero, 1977, 25–36, esp. 32–3; Speck, 1990, 565–77; Brubaker, Haldon, 2001, 251–2, 2011, 182; Alexa-
kis, 2013, who is preparing an edition in the CCSG which will supersede the one by Mitsides, 1989.
177 See Palazzo, 2010, 2012, 129 on the liturgical employment of images and the apprehension of God.
178  LP I, 445ff.; trans. Davis, 2007, 59ff. On the transition from Lombard to Carolingian rule in Italy, see
Gasparri, 2000; Close, 2010.
179 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 190–1.
44  Before iconoclasm (680s–750s)

‘interference’ in doctrinal and ecclesiastical matters between the late seventh and the
mid-eighth centuries. Its main line of thought was that the popes embraced the oppor-
tunity to combat imperially backed ‘heresies’, such as monotheletism and iconoclasm,
thereby confronting the authority of Byzantine emperors in ecclesiastical and doctrinal
matters. This process eventually consolidated the status of the pope as supreme vicar
of Peter in the Christian oecumene and champion of orthodox faith and practices and
ultimately led to papal political and doctrinal autonomy from Byzantium.
After re-assessing key sources, I have highlighted that the Byzantine threat to the
production and use of sacred images was already perceived in Italy by the late 720s.
Although the authenticity of well-known sources bearing evidence to an early recep-
tion of iconoclasm has been questioned by some scholars, who see them as the object of
falsifications in the late eighth century, an early reception of this ‘heresy’ is confirmed
by an inscription set up to mark the foundation of a church annexed to the Lombard
court of Corteolona, in c.730. Never before discussed against the background of Byz-
antine iconoclasm, this inscription suggests that the Byzantine emperor was holding a
‘heterodox’ attitude, and that this attitude was seen as threatening a schism within the
Church, while giving to the Lombard king the opportunity to emerge as a champion of
orthodoxy and defender of the pope. We should bear in mind that the only doctrinal
controversy in which Leo III was involved was iconoclasm.
In this period of re-definition of papal identity, the role of the Virgin Mary took cen-
tre stage in the religious landscape of Rome and in papal politics. She gained prominent
roles as favoured intercessor, and as a bastion of orthodoxy, as we have seen through
the public actions of popes in office between the late seventh and the mid-eighth cen-
tury. Hence, this chapter re-examined the late seventh-century establishment of urban,
candle-lit vigil processions led by the pope on four annual Marian feasts. They were
not mere liturgical innovation in the steps of the laetaniae septiformes of Gregory the
Great, nor were they simple reflections of the Marian processions held in Jerusalem
and Constantinople. Through public penance and shared devotional aims, the Marian
processions reinforced the political identity and religious cohesion of the Christian
populace of Rome under the aegis of the Mother of God. She was to become pivotal
in the papal iconophile discourse, as we shall subsequently see.
Chapter 2

Words, images, and religious

practices in the iconophile
discourse (754–790s)

The interaction of texts, images, and religious practices will be the key topic of this
chapter, which is focussed on events related to the image controversy in the years
754–790s. The key concepts are the tradition of the Church, doctrinal authority, and
the Incarnation of God. All three were appropriated as arguments by the eikonoma-
choi (or contesters of icons) and iconophiles alike.
The resolutions of the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia, held in 754, offer an oppor-
tunity to review the main points of the discussion between the eastern and the western
Mediterranean. In the decades preceding and following the Council of Hiereia, early
eastern champions of iconophilia, whose stance would be magnified by iconophile
partisan literature in the late eighth and early ninth centuries, seem to have already
enjoyed reverence in Rome. The city had become a hub for anti-iconoclastic resist-
ance: eastern clerics active there in monasteries and in the papal circle contributed to
dossiers of written testimonies in favour of sacred images, but also voiced their dissent
through liturgical texts. An example of this can be found in the appendix to the Latin
translation of the Akathistos, the most famous Greek Marian hymn, which has never
been read in this light before.
From the year 767, we will see involved in the debate over Byzantine iconoclasm for
the first time a continental ruler, Pippin III of Francia. His successors, too, were greatly
concerned with theological disputes, including the image controversy. In taking an
active role in regulating the debate, Charlemagne disputed the doctrinal authority and
primacy in matters of doctrine that the papacy had been fighting hard for between the
seventh and the eighth centuries. Pope Hadrian I (772–95) firmly rebuked this opposi-
tion. But in line with his predecessors, he did not expound an image theory in learned
treatises, rather, he clung to the doctrinal authority of the Church Fathers and to the
antiquity of ecclesiastical traditions, which included the production and veneration
of sacred images. Evidently Rome had treasured the advice Emperor Constantine IV
dispensed to papal envoys on the occasion of the Sixth Ecumenical Council (680–1)
to leave aside ‘philosophical claims’, and instead stick to the ‘approved faith of the
Holy Scriptures and the Fathers’,1 as recalled in the previous chapter. In particular,
Hadrian dealt with the image controversy in letters – known as the Synodica and the
­Hadrianum – he sent to the main rulers in the East and the West. We shall see how
in the exchange between Rome and Francia the authority of Pope Gregory the Great

1  LP I, 351; trans. Davis, 2010, 73.

46  Words, images (754–790s)

would be appropriated by iconophiles and iconophobes alike. In the last decade of the
eighth century, Charlemagne’s court theologians produced a treatise on sacred images
known as Libri Carolini, which seems to articulate a more intellectualised discourse
on the use of images in Christian practice. This notwithstanding, the treatise was
never disseminated: the Carolingians must have soon realised that sacred images were
solidly embedded in liturgical and devotional practices across the Christian world, and
no ‘philosophical claims’ would prevent believers from observing their consuetudes.

1 T he Council of Hiereia (754): against

or according to tradition?
In 754, Emperor Constantine V convened a council at Hiereia (today Kadıköy, on the
Asiatic shore of the Bosphorous) to discuss the production and veneration of sacred
images, and to correct liturgical and devotional practices deviating from ‘orthodoxy’.2
While a recent historical review has downplayed Leo III’s stance against sacred images,
highlighting his achievements in territorial administration and warfare,3 his son, co-
emperor and successor Constantine V left indubitable evidence that he was a contester
of images. The ‘incisive formulation of doctrine’ and the ‘thoroughness of the actual
iconoclastic measures’ taken during Constantine V’s reign make of it ‘the high point’
of Byzantine iconoclasm.4 To the council, the emperor contributed his own theological
writings. He had begun to polemicise against the veneration of holy icons in the previ-
ous few years.5 In c.751/2, in the aftermath of a plague which afflicted Constantinople
and other parts of the empire, Constantine V tried to find a supernatural explanation
for the catastrophe. He sent envoys around his territories, and organised debates to try
and frame the events as a form of divine punishment for unlawful conduct, in which,
he suspected, were to be included the production and veneration of religious images.
This said, in what is transmitted under his name, Constantine V appears to have held
‘orthodox’ beliefs in the Incarnation, in the double nature of Christ, and in his birth
from the Virgin Mary whom he conventionally addresses as Theotokos.6
At Hiereia the importance of the Holy Spirit and of the theological image of the
Trinity were extolled over and above the Incarnate God and his human Mother.7
While supporting recourse to the intercession of the Theotokos, the council negated
the value of images and consecrated objects as a means through which intercession was

2 Alexander, 1953, 1958; Gero, 1977, 53–110; Thümmel, 2005, 63–77; Noble, 2009, 61–4; Brubaker,
Haldon, 2011, 189–97; Gantner, 2015, 257–8.
3 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 69–155.
4 Gero, 1975, 4.
5  Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 182–3. On Constantine V’s theology, see Fogliadini, 2016, who judges the
theological reflection of eikonomachoi, for the most part lost, crucial in stimulating iconophiles to elabo-
rate a theory of images.
6 Gero, 1977, 40, 143–51. See ibidem, 37, n. 1, for the transmission of excerpts from the theological writ-
ings of Constantine by the iconophile Patriarch Nikephoros (r. 806–15), Antirrhetici tres adversus Con-
stantinum Copronymum, PG 100, 206–534. On Hiereia emphasising the honour due to the Virgin, see
Brubaker, 2012, 34. On imperial seals of this period showing the Theotokos until Leo III but not under
Constantine V, see Wassiliou-Seibt, 2015, 234.
7 Auzépy, 2004, 158–9.
 Words, images (754–790s) 47

to be obtained.8 Generally speaking, a superiority of hearing above sight, and word

above image was the undertone to the discourse of the eikonomachoi at Hiereia.9
The horos or definition of the council resulted in a rigorous opposition to icono-
philes, declaring any kind of image to be repugnant to the Church.10 In fact, pictorial
images of the Incarnate God could only represent what was visible, not his divine
nature. The only image of the Incarnate God that was allowed was the Eucharist, as
already stated by the same Emperor Constantine V.11 Therefore, the horos threatened
those attempting to make an icon, venerate one, set one up in a church or in a private
space – they should be defrocked if clerics, or anathematised if monks or laymen12 –
because ‘lifeless and dumb icons, made of material colours’ were ‘the invention of
demonic craft’.13 The ‘magnified role’ acquired by holy images between the late sev-
enth and eighth centuries was finally labelled a ‘deviation’ from the customs of the
Church.14 In other words, the council was likening the veneration of sacred icons to
pagan idolatry, which contravened the second commandment (Exodus 20, 4–5: ‘You
shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on
the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship
them’), or to sorcery. This notwithstanding, the Council of Hiereia was not encourag-
ing the destruction of existing images, rather, it was remarking on their ‘inappropri-
ateness’ for the purpose of approaching God.15 As for the cult of saints and their relics,
the council anathematised those who did not deem the saints honourable ‘in soul and
body’, implying with ‘body’ also their relics.16 Even so, after the council Constantine

8 Cunningham, 2004, 61, remarks that because these sources are only known through later anti-icono-
clastic dossiers, it is not possible to assess what eikonomachoi really thought about the appropriation of
the Theotokos as symbol of orthodoxy and incarnational theology on the part of iconophiles.
9 Sansterre, 1994, 200ff.; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 193.
10 Mansi XIII, 324D–E; ACO II, 3.3, 744; Gero, 1977, 53–110; Thümmel, 2005, 69–77; Brubaker, Hal-
don, 2011, 173ff.; Pentcheva, 2010, 43–4 on eikonomachoi attacking images because they lacked the
pneuma, that is the Holy Spirit, in their matter.
11 Mansi XIII, 261E–264C, esp. 264A, with regard to the Eucharist as the only form (‘εἶδος, τύπος’) chosen
to represent his Incarnation. For the relevant passage in Constantine’s Inquiries or Peusis see PG 100,
332B and D, 336A; Gero, 1977, 45–6, 101–2; Thümmel, 2005, 71–2; Elsner, 2012, 380. In his excur-
sus on the patristic sources of the idea of the Eucharist as ‘image’ (‘εἰκών’) of the Incarnate God, Gero,
1975, notes that the LC in the late eighth century and Patriarch Nikephoros in the early ninth century
would refute Constantines V’s and Hiereia’s statements about the Eucharist as image of the Incarnate
God. The LC (MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 523) criticise the dearth of Biblical underpinning for such a
statement. Nikephoros, in his Antirrhetici tres adversus Constantinum Copronymum (PG 100, 337B–C)
observes that when receiving the Eucharist, the Incarnate God is indeed ‘circumscribed’ in one’s mouth
and therefore Constantine V’s assertion that Christ is ‘uncircumscribable’ (‘ἀπερίγραπτον’) is untenable.
On Nikephoros’s interaction with pictorial images, see Bordino, 2012. On Eucharist as ‘performative
icon’ which eikonomachoi favoured against ‘representational icons’, see Pentcheva, 2010, 63–5, 2017,
76–83.
12 Mansi XIII, 328C; ACO II, 3.3, 748–50; Noble, 2009, 64.
13 Mansi XIII, 345C–D; ACO II, 3.3, 768; trans. Gero, 1977, 91.
14 On this historical development, see Brown, 1973, 5–8; Brubaker, 1998. On Hiereia, for an effective
layman’s summary, see Brubaker, 2012, 33–5.
15 Pentcheva, 2010, 58–65; Elsner, 2012, 380.
16 Mansi XIII, 347D–348D; ACO II, 3.3, 772–3.
48  Words, images (754–790s)

V seems to have changed his mind and rejected the intercession of saints and of their
relics.17
At Hiereia, a fundamental difference between iconophiles and eikonomachoi
emerged: iconophiles thought that the Incarnation justified their veneration of mat-
ter and spirit as embodied by sacred images; the eikonomachoi, without denying the
Incarnation, and venerating Christ’s body through the Eucharist, claimed that man-
made images did not properly represent his corporality since they appear to divide
the human from the divine nature.18 In investigating the theoretical ground for the
two approaches – iconophobic and iconophile – modern scholars have recognised
platonic roots in both: like Plato, iconophobes emphasised the incommensurable dis-
tance between the archetype and its reproduction;19 like Plato, iconophiles conceived
of ‘both natural and artistic’ images in a way ‘which is not altogether derogatory’,
quite the contrary.20 This latter Platonic position and its revision by the Cappadocian
Fathers (Basil the Great, Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory Nazianzos, who lived in Cap-
padocia and in Constantinople in the fourth century, and greatly advanced Christian
theology) was fundamental in the development of the iconophile image doctrine in
Byzantium.21 With the Cappadocian Fathers the term eidôlon (lit. ‘idol’), which in
the Old Testament means a deceptive image, had disappeared from the theological dis-
course, while eikôn, that is the true image of God (i.e. the man he created), at the same
time signifying something that cannot be precisely known but implying a degradation
in matter, came to be used for objects of veneration.22

17 On Constantine V and relics, see: Chronicle of Theophanes, 439.15–27; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex,
1997, 606–7; Gero, 1977, 152–65. On relics during iconoclasm, see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 32–40.
Wortley, 1982 and Auzépy, 1999, 250–1 remark that there is no evidence of animosity against relics on
the part of Constantine V. Krausmüller, 2015, has re-read the sources involved, such as passages in the
Acts of the Council of Nicaea II and in the Chronicle of Theophanes, and has forcefully argued that the
emperor did reject the intercession of saints, thus contradicting the resolutions of Hiereia. Krausmüller
contextualises the change of mind of the emperor in a line of thought that dated back to Chalcedonian
and Nestorian debates about the ‘inactivity’ of saints as intercessors. See Tamarkina, 2015 about the
Chronicle of Theophanes and its use of relics to support the correlation between the religious orthodoxy
of Byzantine emperors and their military success.
18 Tsironis, 2000, 38; Pentcheva, 2010, 66–71, esp. on John of Damascus; cf. Vasiliu, 2010, 181–7,
299–328.
19 Plato, Phaedrus, 250b, 254, OCTs; Republic, 373a, 381–2, 597e, 603b, OCTs. Plato showed distrust
of the φαντασία, lit. fantasy or imagination, in which the apparent and the imaginary are respectively in
contrast with the real and the true. Speaking about imitation, he distinguished between ‘eikastic’ and
‘phantastic’ imitation. He said that while ‘eikastic’ image-making produces accurate likeness, ‘phan-
tastic’ image-making creates a deceptive likeness. The Greek Neoplatonist Synesius of Cyrene would
instead describe the φαντασία as a holy form of perception, likely to reach to the sphere of the divine,
see De insomniis, 4, PG 66, 1289–1292; Sheppard, 1997, 201–5. On Plato and Neoplatonism with
regards to ‘image and prototype’, see Parry, 1996, 20ff.; on the Platonic roots of the discourse of the
Cappadocian Fathers on the eikôn (lit. image), that would have a bearing on John of Damascus and on
the resolution of the Council of Nicaea II, see Vasiliu, 2010, 14–26.
20 Ladner, 1953, 6.
21 See Vasiliu, 2010, 14–26, 299–334; Pallis, 2015, 179–80; on Nicaea II and the iconophile position on
‘images’, see infra.
22 See Vasiliu, 2010, 143–77 on how the term eikôn from Greek philosophy evolved in Christian Scrip-
tures and early Christian exegesis until the period of the iconoclastic controversy. The use of ‘icon’ to
signify a devotional painting on wood in western art history is traced in nineteenth- to early twentieth-
century Russia by Foletti, 2016b.
 Words, images (754–790s) 49

To settle the argument over the use of images, the theologians convened at Hiereia
maintained their position in a quite unsophisticated way by simply putting on the table
the Biblical aversion to idolatry and the ‘correct’ tradition of the Church which com-
plied with this commandment.23 Ultimately, the emperor and his theologians intended
to assess how far the divine was ‘allowed to impinge on the human world’,24 in order
to harness the spiritual power that lay outside the secular Church, and reinforce the
role of secular clergy as mediator with the divine. With regard to sacred images, they
intended to reinstate the true παράδοσις to mean the ‘tradition’ of the Church that, in
their view, made do without images.25 This was explicitly opposing John of Damas-
cus’s appropriation of παράδοσις to mean the ‘tradition’ of venerating images.26 (The
argument for the necessity of reinstating the imageless tradition of the Church would
be re-asserted at the second iconoclastic Council of Constantinople in 815.)27

2 John of Damascus. A living icon of ‘orthodoxy’ in Rome?

Among the authors anathematised at Hiereia, for being ‘cacodox’ (erroneous, against
the correct doctrine) and openly in favour of sacred images, were John of Damascus,
who was deemed ‘Saracen-minded . . . idolater and forger . . . who plots against the
empire’, and Germanos, the former patriarch of Constantinople (715–30), declared to
be ‘double minded and the worshipper of wood’.28 In addition, the accusation against
them implied that they wanted to subvert imperial authority.29
Born in Damascus, the monk, theologian, and preacher John was active in Palestine
under Islamic rule. He may have been prompted to defend holy images in response
to the pressure exerted by Muslims in lands they had recently conquered rather than
in reaction to an imperial policy launched from distant Constantinople.30 The fact
that he was living in a territory outside the Byzantine Empire possibly allowed him
freedom of speech in Christian doctrinal questions in which Muslims did not appear

23 See Gero, 1977, 95 on the unsophisticated horos of Hiereia. The iconophile Council of Nicaea II would
invoke oral tradition, custom, and hagiography to defend the veneration of sacred images while accus-
ing eikonomachoi of having disrupted an age-old tradition; see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 284–5.
24 Brock, 1977, 57.
25 The argument of ‘tradition’, already apparent in Germanos of Constantinople and John of Damascus,
would be among the main ones used to defend sacred images at the Council of Nicaea II: Mansi XIII,
252B, 268B–328A; ACO II, 3.3, 656–748; trans. Sahas, 1986, 84, 97–146. In this regard, see Brubaker,
Haldon, 2011, 139 (on Patriarch Germanos), 248ff. (on the period of the iconophile intermission,
775–813), 284–5 (on the iconophile Council of Nicaea II, 787).
26  On the Divine Images, I, 16, PTS 17, 90: ‘῍Η πάντων τούτων ἄνελε τὸ σέβας καὶ τὴν προσκύνησιν ἢ
παραχώρει τῇ ἐκκλησιαστικῇ παραδόσει καὶ τὴν τῶν εἰκόνων προσκύνησιν Θεοῦ καὶ φίλων Θεοῦ ὀνόματι
ἁγιαζομένων καὶ διὰ τοῦτο Θείου πνεύματος ἐπισκιαζομένων χάριτι. Μή κάκιζε τὴν ὕλην · οὐ γὰρ ἄτιμος’;
trans. Louth, 2003, 30: ‘Either do away with reverence and veneration for all these or submit to the
tradition of the Church and allow the veneration of images of God and friends of God, sanctified by
name and therefore overshadowed by the grace of the divine Spirit. Do not abuse matter; for it is not
dishonorable’. On this topic, see Pentcheva, 2010, 67. The first oration On the Divine Images antedates
Hiereia.
27 Thümmel, 2005, 237–9.
28 Mansi XIII, 356C – D; ACO II, 3.3,780–2; Noble, 2009, 64; Gero, 1977, 64. On this and other sources
pertaining to Germanos, see Stein, 1999.
29 Gero, 1977, 108–10; Thümmel, 2005, 64–5.
30 Griffith, 2009, 73–4.
50  Words, images (754–790s)

to be interested.31 Without doubt John was the most doctrinally eloquent among early
iconophiles: in the eighth century no one besides him engaged in the formulation of
a doctrine in favour of sacred images, and no one elaborated a sophisticated doc-
trine against them.32 In fact, only by the late eighth century, with the resolutions of
Nicaea II (787), did a fully fledged theory of sacred images emerge.33
In order to develop his defence of sacred images, John of Damascus put together
evidence supporting their cult. This was an old practice. Florilegia or dossiers com-
posed of excerpts from the Church Fathers and other auctoritates provided irrefutable
evidence in theological debates. Appealing to tradition, florilegia took the place of an
articulated and argumentative discourse. This had been the case at the anti-monothe-
lete Lateran Synod in 649, at the anti-iconoclastic synod held in St Peter’s in 731, and
at the Council of Hiereia in 754.34 John’s florilegium, or a very similar one, written in
Greek and translated into Latin, was circulating in Rome at the time of the anti-icon-
oclastic synod of 731.35 But since its proceedings are lost, it is not possible to ascertain
if and how John of Damascus contributed to them in some way. Nonetheless the Acts
of 731 seem partially reflected by the Liber Pontificalis, by papal letters, and by later
florilegia which reveal that patristic quotations were indeed presented to the assembly
in 731 in order to support the veneration of icons, as they would be again in 769.36
Although their manuscript transmission cannot be retraced, it seems that the majority
of patristic excerpts used in early eighth-century florilegia were collected ‘no later than
the first appearance of iconoclastic ideas’, and that they were reorganised probably in
Rome soon after the synod of 769.37 The florilegia used in 731 and 769 also served as
the basis for the iconophile collection of texts put together by Pope Hadrian I.38 The
fact that John of Damascus is the only living author quoted in papal florilegia of the
eighth century, along with incontestable Greek and Latin auctoritates, is particularly
significant.39 His inclusion in the papal dossier is an unequivocal endorsement of his

31 Gero, 1973a, 89.

32 Thümmel, 2005, 53–7; Noble, 2009, 88–93; Vasiliu, 2010, 181–7.
33 Mansi XIII, 245D–268A; ACO II, 3.3, 650–76; trans. Sahas, 1986, 80–96. On the lack of a papal
theory of images, see Angenendt, 2001; Auzépy, 1987; Pentcheva, 2010, 71; Elsner, 2012, 376, have
remarked that apart from John of Damascus, iconophiles did not launch into extensive image theory
and that during the iconoclastic controversy ‘images acquired a level of theorization to which they had
never before been subjected in the entire tradition of Graeco-Roman image making’ (Elsner).
34 For Hiereia, see Mansi XIII, 324E; ACO II, 3.3, 744–6; Gero, 1977, 86. On the parallel life of icono-
phile and iconoclastic florilegia, see Alexakis, 1996, 1–42, 226; see Thümmel, 2005, 199–213, for an
overview on florilegia.
35 Sansterre, 1983, 182.
36 Alexakis, 1996, 3, 37–41; Noble, 2009, 93. These meetings are recorded in MGH, Conc. 2.1, 87;
MGH, EK 3, 2, 15, 19, 51; LP I, 476–7.
37 Alexakis, 1996, 92–226, who has specifically focussed on a text dated either to 759/60 or to 774/5 tran-
scribed in a late medieval manuscript, Paris, BnF, gr. 1115, and containing a very extensive florilegium
which has been used as witness to earlier collections. On iconophile florilegia also Sansterre, 1983, 177–
80; Speck, 1990, 108–9; Burgarella, 2002, 976; Thümmel, 2005, 210–3; Louth, 2007, 84–5. On Greek
manuscripts in eighth- and ninth-century Rome, see the overviews of Agati, 1994; D’Agostino, 2013.
38  Hadrianum, MGH, EK 3, 2, 5–57; Alexakis, 1996, 38, 134–7.
39 For a detailed list of excerpts from John’s three orations on sacred images, see Alexakis, 1996, 126.
Their dating is disputed between c.726–50, for example see Speck, 1989. John of Damascus’s sophisti-
cated writings on sacred images would not be mentioned explicitly at Nicaea II; see Brubaker, Haldon,
2011, 284.
 Words, images (754–790s) 51

doctrine on sacred images. While Byzantium anathematised him in 754, Rome raised
him to the status of living authority embodying orthodoxy – a ‘living icon’ of ortho-
doxy, so to speak.40 It has been noted that between the eighth and the ninth centu-
ries, Rome was a seed-bed for anti-iconoclastic polemics, arguably among Palestinian
monks who lived there: this would explain the prominence of John of Damascus.41
The legacy of John of Damascus would still be cultivated in the ninth century in
iconophile circles. This is suggested by a lavishly illustrated manuscript of the Sacra
Parallela (Paris, BnF, gr. 923), a text attributed to him. Associated by scholars with
Rome, Constantinople, or Palestine,42 this manuscript has been recently re-examined.
One study based on style of the illustrations and palaeography has reinforced the
hypothesis of a Greek monastery in Rome as its milieu of manufacture and a date
around 820, given its stylistic affinities with the mosaics of Pope Paschal I (817–24)
and the more or less contemporary Crypt of Abbot Epyphanius at S. Vincenzo al
Volturno.43 Another study has analysed the contents of the Sacra Parallela, and has
brought to light the fact that in the manuscript Paris, BnF, gr. 923 some chapters
have been omitted, probably not to displease the ruling emperor. On the basis of this
assumption, and by supporting a date after the end of Byzantine iconoclasm (post
843), the same study points to the iconophile Emperor Basil I (867–86) as the recipi-
ent of the illustrated manuscript and the monastery of Chora in Constantinople as its
place of origin.44 This monastery hosted Palestinian monks since the early ninth cen-
tury and was an iconophile stronghold. It also held the relics of Patriarch Germanos.45
On the whole, more than one thousand portraits of Biblical authors and exegetes

40 On the holy man as ‘living icon’, see Brown, 1973, 12; on religious men and women as ‘living images
of divine affiliation’, see Karahan, 2014, 78; for a recent overview and transcultural discussion on the
iconic dimension of living people and how they manifested the sacred or political authority, see Ivano-
vici, 2019; Bacci, Ivanovici, eds., 2019.
41 Auzépy, 2004, 165 on the ‘matrice palestinienne’ of this polemical attitude bred in Rome.
42 Weitzmann, 1979, favoured a Palestinian origin for the Sacra Parallela (Paris, BnF, gr. 923); Sansterre,
1983, 170 and 174–88, discussed the hypothetical origin of this and other manuscripts being in Greek
monasteries of Rome (Book of Job, Vat. gr. 749; Dialogues of Gregory the Great, Vat. gr. 1666; Sermons
of Gregory of Nazianzus, Ambrosianus E 49–50). Cormack, 1977b, 44; Osborne, 1981b; Brubaker,
1999b, 36–8, 76, 112; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 49–50; Pace, 2015, 493–5; Declerck, 2017 argue for
a post-iconoclastic date and Constantinople as place of origin of the Paris Sacra Parallela. Agati, 1994,
157–8; Bernabò, 2004, 154–6, leaves the question of its origins open. On palaeographic and stylistic
grounds, some scholars favour the idea of a Palestinian artist at work in Rome: Grabar, 1972, 22–4;
Cavallo, 1982, 506–8, 1988, 505, although with caution; Oretskaia, 2002–2003; Evangelatou, 2008,
2017; Osborne, 2011; D’Agostino, 2013. Supporting the idea of Rome, Evangelatou, 2017, 428, notes
that the city must not have been ‘militantly and polemically iconophile and with extensive and in-depth
interest in relevant theological arguments’ like Constantinople: I cannot agree, since Rome demonstra-
bly was an iconophile bastion with a deep interest in auctoritates.
43 Oretskaia, 2002–2003.
44 Relying on Osborne, 1981b, for the dating, Declerck, 2017, advances the hypothesis of the Chora as
place of manufacture and of Basil as recipient of the Paris manuscript on the basis of two documents:
the Acts of the Eighth Ecumenical Council of 869–70, which record that Basil kissed those who pub-
licly condemned the heresy of the eikonomachoi (Mansi XVI, 389A–B); a letter by Patriarch Photios
to Basil I in response to the latter’s worries about ‘certain difficult problems’ (Ep. 249, in Epistulae et
Amphilochia, eds. Laourdas, Westerink, 1984, 183–6: ‘ἀποριῶν τινων . . . λύσεις’) in which the ‘prob-
lems’ may be the question of sacred images, since Photios speaks of the possibility of seeing God through
Christ, the Incarnate God, thus embracing iconophile arguments.
45 On the associations of Chora with iconophilia, see Herrin, 2006, 10; Panou, 2018, 53.
52  Words, images (754–790s)

illustrated in the Paris manuscript of the Sacra Parallela reveal the intention of those
who produced the manuscript to promote recourse to ‘the authority of sight’ in con-
firming the authenticity of the quoted excerpts.46 In a period vexed by textual forgeries
and polemics this is an ingenious solution. It was even more so, if the original milieu
of the manuscript was either Rome, where the papacy aspired to maintain a role
of repository of orthodox faith and knowledge, or post-iconoclastic Constantinople,
where Basil I seemed preoccupied with the possibility of a recrudescence of the icono-
clastic controversy.47

3 Germanos of Constantinople: an alleged exile in Rome?

In contrast to John of Damascus, who lived relatively undisturbed in his Christian
enclave in Palestine, the Constantinopolitan Patriarch Germanos and Bishop Andrew
of Crete suffered the consequences of their iconophile stance. They were dismissed
from office and sent into exile, although perhaps not only for reasons connected to the
question of sacred images.48 Both, however, came to be celebrated in hagiographical
texts which were either openly or secretly in favour of sacred images. A connection
with eighth-century Rome detected in a previously overlooked text justifies the follow-
ing section about Andrew and Germanos.
In 730 Emperor Leo III relieved Andrew of his episcopal office on Crete and sum-
moned him to Constantinople because of his opposition to the new imperial policy on
sacred images.49 It is possible that during the reign of Constantine V, between 741–75,
the quaestor Niketas the Patrikios wrote a Life of Andrew in which Andrew does
not appear as a victim of imperial iconoclasm. This could be interpreted as a cau-
tious choice made in a particularly exacerbated and dangerous climate. Marie-France
Auzépy has hypothesised that the Life reflects the fact that iconophile polemics had
not yet taken shape as they would in the last decades of the eighth century.50 Auzépy
also noted that the homilies Andrew wrote during the last years of his life in Constan-
tinople seem to distil his hostility against Leo III and his policy.51 That the name of
Andrew of Crete was associated with the iconophile position is witnessed by the fact
that it was used as a stamp of authority on a succinct treatise written in the late eighth
century to justify the veneration of holy images. The treatise mentions the Mandylion
(the acheiropoieton of the Holy Face of Christ which Christ himself produced by wip-
ing his face with a linen towel), and icons of the Virgin painted by the Evangelist Luke,
since they were seen as undisputable examples that Christ and the Virgin allowed
figural reproductions of their likeness.52

46 Brubaker, 1999b, 52–3; see also Corrigan, 1992, 118–19.

47 This the hypothesis of Declerck, 2017, 197: ‘la question des images . . . continuait à occupier l’esprit
de l’empereur’.
48 See Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 80; with relation to the controversy over sacred images, see ibidem, 125,
643.
49  Life of Andrew of Crete; Auzépy, 1995, 4, 11; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 80.
50  Life of Andrew of Crete; Auzépy, 1995, 2; Brubaker, Haldon, 2001, 206.
51 Auzépy, 1995, 5. The position of Andrew towards sacred images is dealt with by Cunningham, 2020.
52 Pseudo-Andrew of Crete, On the Veneration of Divine Images, PG 97, 1301D–1304C; see Auzépy,
1995, 7, 1999, 131–44, 191–2; on the legend of Saint Luke as painter of the Virgin Mary, see Bacci,
1998, 2000.
 Words, images (754–790s) 53

Despite not being overtly quoted, passages from Andrew of Crete have been
detected among the sources used in composing the iconophile Life of Saint Stephen
the Younger. Aimed at justifying the cult of saints and of sacred images, the Life was
written in c.809 and became one of the most famous iconophile sources.53 It portrays
Patriarch Germanos as a staunch defender of sacred images almost as a ‘living icon’
of orthodoxy.54 Indeed, Germanos believed and wrote that pictures make things more
credible even in matters of faith,55 and that images are useful in that they effectively
present concepts and narratives.56 In the Life, Germanos resigns his position as patri-
arch for reasons related to the image controversy,57 but not until delivering a vehe-
ment dogmatic speech to Emperor Leo III in which he justifies the veneration of sacred
images through the Mandylion and the icons of the Virgin painted by Saint Luke.58 In
the final, direct address to the emperor, Germanos warns him that he is ready to die
to oppose the anti-image policy. Moreover, he declares that since the icon of Christ
bears the name of Christ, under which he appeared in the flesh, it is righteous and
holy (‘δίκαιον δὲ καὶ ἅγιόν’) to die in the name of Christ and of his icon, and those
who dishonour the icon actually outrage the one who is portrayed.59 The repeated use
of the adjective ‘righteous’ is noteworthy, in that it is aimed at underlining the

53  Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997; see Auzépy, 1999, 19 on the polemi-
cal nature of the text. Speck, 1990, 228–34 on the possibility it was written after 843. On the sources
used by the author of the Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, among which Andrew of Crete’s homily
on the Nativity, two homilies on saints Therapon and Patapios, the Acts of Nicaea II, and the Adversus
Constantinum Caballinum (against Constantine V and Hiereia), see Auzépy, 1999, 95–176, esp. 119,
where she notes that the text is ‘imprégné de la phraséologie et de l’idéologie du concile’ (of Nicaea II).
54  Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, 5–10, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997, 93–101 (text), 179–94 (trans.).
55 Germanos of Constantinople, Letter to John of Synnada, PG 98, 160B: ‘ἄπερ διὰ τῆς ἀκοῆς ἀληθῆ
πεπιστεύκαμεν, ταῦτα καὶ διὰ γραφικῆς μιμήσεως πρὸς βεβαιοτέραν ἡμῶν πληροφορίαν συνιστάνομεν’; San-
sterre, 1994, 209. See Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 94–8, for a discussion of its contents and dating to or
shortly before 726.
56 Germanos of Constantinople, Letter to Thomas of Klaudioupolis, PG 98, 172D; Sansterre, 1994, 207–
8; see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 98–105, for a critical discussion of its contents and dating to after his
resignation in 730. However, the position of Germanos was not crystal clear since under Emperor
Philippikos Bardanes he had supported monotheletism, like others including Andrew of Crete, most
probably forced by the circumstances; see Allen, 2009, 3–15; Price, 2010; Jankowiak, 2013, 335, n. 1,
for an updated bibliography.
57 While the retirement of the patriarch from his office has been seen by some as unrelated to the issues
around sacred images, it has been linked by others to Byzantine imperial politics in Italy: cf. Gero,
1973a, 85–93; Wortley, 1982, 268; Speck, 1998a, 79; Stein, 1999, 14; Karlin-Hayter, 2006, 65–6; Bru-
baker, Haldon, 2011, 125, 185. For an account of Germanos’s resignation in the iconophile Chronicle
of Theophanes, 407.11–409.21; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 563–5.
58 The contents of Germanos’s polemical speech can be summarised as follows. From the moment God
became incarnate in the immaculate Virgin Mary, he was seen circumscribed (‘περιγραπτοῦ’) and per-
fectly conforming to our human nature. Since Christ’s terrestrial stay, more than seven hundred years
have passed (the fictive speech to Leo III is imagined as having been delivered in 730). In this period,
neither according to the salvific teaching of the Apostles, nor to the righteous Fathers have holy and
venerable (‘ἁγίων καὶ σεπτῶν’) icons been considered idolatrous. After the Ascension of Christ, his image
has been reproduced as he was seen. This is attested by the statue commissioned by the woman healed
from a hemorrage, by the Mandylion, and by the image of the Virgin painted by Saint Luke. Germanos
also recalls that in acknowledging the existence of icons, the Sixth Ecumenical Council prescribed their
preservation and prostration in front of them.
59  Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, 9, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997, 98–100 (text), 189–92 (trans.), based
on the Acts of Nicaea II. On the use of the Acts in the Life, see Auzépy, 1999, 103–20.
54  Words, images (754–790s)

correctness of those who endorse the tradition of venerating sacred images – a tradi-
tion which Germanos claims was as old as the teaching of the apostles and evangelists.
The arguments deployed by the patriarch in his alleged speech resonate with concep-
tual formulae which, already articulated in the eighth century, would be deployed to
their full potential only in the resolutions of the iconophile Council of Nicaea II in
787.
To this speech, the Life of Saint Stephen the Younger holds that Emperor Leo III
reacted with a raging roar appropriate to his name, meaning the ‘lion’. Leo III
thereupon orders the patriarch’s deposition, and the destruction of the ‘sovereign’
(‘δεσποτικὴν’) icon, that is the one depicting Christ on the Chalke gate of the imperial
palace.60 Whether or not the image existed and Leo III actually ordered it to be taken
down from the gate that was ‘the public face’ of the imperial palace61 has been debated
to the point of arguing that its destruction was an invention of c.800, and that only
then did the iconophile Empress Eirene set up an image of Christ on the gate.62 We
do not even know what kind of image it was.63 Scholars have read an act of artistic
patronage on the part of Pope Zacharias (741–52) as a response to the destruction
of the Chalke image, and therefore as indirect proof of its existence.64 In a section of
the Life of Zacharias written before his death, the Liber Pontificalis records that he
erected a portico at the Lateran and adorned it with bronze doors and, opposite these,
he set up a figure of the Saviour (‘figuram Salvatoris’) – if painted or in bas-relief it
is not said.65 No explicit mention, however, is made of the image on the Chalke gate.
Zacharias was the last of the ‘Greek’ popes and took office six months after the death
of Emperor Leo III. His portico has been seen as reflecting typical features of the impe-
rial palace of Constantinople.66 We cannot exclude the notion that Zacharias’s com-
mission was meant as an overt political statement to antagonise the supreme authority
associated with the Constantinopolitan palace.
The iconophile Chronicle of Theophanes, completed shortly after 813, holds that
among the consequences of Leo III’s position against sacred images was the resigna-
tion of Patriarch Germanos and his retirement to his private estate at an otherwise
unknown place called Πλατάνιον.67 A text translated from Greek to Latin or produced
in Latin in Italy says that Germanos found shelter and finally eternal rest in places
whose toponyms are problematic and have been read by modern scholars as alluding
to Bari and Rome. The fact that it overtly defends the memory of Germanos, and that

60  Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, 10, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997, 100–1 (text), 192–3 (trans.).
61 Brubaker, 1999a, 259.
62 Cf. Gero, 1973a, 212–17; Auzépy, 1990, 2004; Brubaker, 1999a, esp. 278; Haldon, Ward-Perkins,
1999; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 123ff.; Humphreys, 2011, 163–5; Niewöhner, 2014.
63 Pentcheva, 2006b, 636–8, 2010, 88, posits that the one on the gate was a bas-relief image in gilded
bronze and that it became the archetype of later Byzantine relief icons.
64 Haldon, Ward-Perkins, 1999, 288 cautiously posit that the Lateran portico might have been an ‘ortho-
dox (iconophile) version’ of the Chalke gate with Christ’s icon restored; see Brubaker, 1999a, 267–70,
for a thorough discussion of the various hypotheses.
65  LP I, 432; trans. Davis, 2007, 43.
66 Krautheimer, 1980, 121.
67  Chronicle of Theophanes, 407.11–409.21; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 563–5. In the bio-
graphical note on Germanos, Stein, 1999, 15–16, does not comment on the place of his exile, exile
which he believes may have been related to the cleric’s position in the image controversy.
 Words, images (754–790s) 55

Constantine V is mentioned as the ruling sovereign has suggested that it was written
between the patriarch’s condemnation at Hiereia in 754 and the emperor’s death in
775.68 Never discussed against the background of the iconoclastic controversy and its
western consequences, this is the historical preface accompanying the Latin transla-
tion of the Akathistos, the most famous Greek hymn in honour of Mary.69 Known as
the Akolouthia, which actually means ‘appendix’, to the Akathistos, it attributes the
composition of the hymn to Germanos. In a convoluted Latin, the relevant excerpt in
the Akolouthia reads:

This aforementioned holy man Germanos (who laboured in the contest of moral
excellence and led an exemplary life, first for forty years in being subject to disci-
pline of learning and then for fifty years teaching as a bishop, and so being now
over ninety years old), since he did not give his consent to that destruction of ven-
erable images, was expelled from his see – shamefully and contrary to the law of
God – and cruelly banished to a certain diaconia, which in Greek is called with the
name Istabiru, by the emperor Leo, who annihilated him with evil intent. He [Ger-
manos] is buried in a monastery called Histaromeus, where, by the religious cult
that is his due, he is assimilated to the glory of the martyrs and is most devoutly
venerated to the honour of our Lord and God Jesus Christ.70

A full historical and philological analysis of the whole preface is certainly needed.
Here, I can only make a few points. Iconoclasm is expressed with the Latin term
confractio which in the abstract sense can be rendered as ‘breach’ or ‘infraction’ of
the law, but also has a literal meaning which is ‘fracture’, ‘breaking’, and thus bears
graphic associations with the physical destruction of sacred images. Because of values
and doctrine acquired during his monastic and episcopal life, Germanos stood against
iconoclasm, and because of his stance, he suffered and died in exile, and consequently
became the object of a ‘religious’, that is a lawful cult which made him equal to the
martyrs. The outcome of this line of reasoning is that Germanos was a martyr of
iconoclasm.
As for the problematic toponyms mentioned, ‘Istabiru’, that is where the diaconia
or charitable institution or hospital where he was exiled, has been seen as deriving
from the Greek εἰς τὰ Βήρου, that is ‘to Bari’; likewise, the toponym of his burial place,
‘Histaromeus’, has been seen deriving from εἰς τὰ ‘Ρωμαίου, that is ‘to Rome’.71 This

68 Daskas, forthcoming. This source is not considered by Stein, 1999, 19–21, in the section ‘Narrations
and Legends’ he has about Germanos.
69  Akathistos, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 17–39; trans. Peltomaa, 2001.
70  Akolouthia or preface to the Akathistos: ‘Qui praefatum sanctum virum Germanum annis quadraginta
in disciplina discendi et quinquaginta in episcopali doctrina moribus et vita agonizantem maiorem ac
nonagenarium, quia illa in reverendarum imaginum confractione consensum non praebuit, contra fas
de sede sua foede expulsum in quandam diaconiam, quae graece proprio nomine Istabiru appellatur,
crudeliter pepulit ibique eum dolo interfecit. Qui sepultus est in monasterio Histaromeus vocabulo; in
quo debito religionis cultu gloriae martyrum adaequatus et ad honorem domini nostri Iesu Christi dei
ibi devotissime veneratur’. For the text, see ed. von Winterfeld, 1904; see also Huglo, 1951; Meersse-
man, 1958, 1: 100–32. The English translation here, which can be improved, was the result of consulta-
tion with Beatrice Daskas, Fr Evgenios Iverites, and Ernesto Mainoldi.
71 On the identification of these toponyms, see Théarvic, 1905, 164.
56  Words, images (754–790s)

identification has been rejected on the basis of lead seals attesting to the existence of
a Constantinopolitan diaconia known as ‘τῶν Βίρου’.72 If this was the case, it would
help relating what the preface notes about the former patriarch being the object of a
cult in the place where he was buried, with the claim found in a source produced at
the monastery of Chora (after 850?) that the patriarch took the vows in this very Con-
stantinopolitan establishment and that he died and was buried there.73 This evidence
would add to the image of the Chora as an iconophile haven mentioned earlier in this
chapter as a place which cultivated the memory of John of Damascus.
As for the place where the Akathistos was translated in Latin, possibly in the eighth
century if not earlier, there have been claims in support of Saint-Denis, Venice, and
Rome.74 The latter possibly has the more convincing claim, because a preoccupation
with the iconoclastic controversy is not attested in the other two centres. A re-exami-
nation of its historical preface may bring new elements to this discussion. For now, it
suffices to note that linguistic oddities in the convoluted prose of the Latin Akolouthia
either reflect a verbatim translation from Greek, or an original composition in Latin
on the part of a non-native Latin speaker. In any case, he must have been active among
Greeks, who had conveyed either written or oral information about Germanos, in an
iconophile milieu, perhaps in central-southern Italy, most likely in Rome. What mat-
ters here is that the Latin Akolouthia to the Akathistos and the Latin translation of the
hymn attest to an interest on the part of a mixed Greek–Latin milieu in translating the
Greek hymn into Latin, to historically frame it as a composition of the former patri-
arch of Constantinople, and to stress that he suffered the most extreme consequences
on account of his anti-iconoclastic stance. Whether hagiographical fiction or not, the
story of Germanos in the Akolouthia speaks of clerics and monks active in promoting
the image of an iconophile martyr during the reign of Constantine V. It also adds to
the existing evidence for documents produced, altered, or forged in mixed Greek–
Latin iconophile circles, possibly in Rome, either in the papal circle, or in Greek mon-
asteries.75 Finally, it offers testimony to anti-iconoclastic propaganda pre-dating the
Council of Nicaea II that officially marked the beginning of the iconophile intermis-
sion in Byzantium (787–815).76
The authority of Andrew of Crete, Germanos of Constantinople, and John of
Damascus grew as ‘orthodox’ and trustful authors and was confirmed in late ninth-
century Rome. In the papal circle, their homilies on the Dormition of Mary were col-
lected and translated into Latin.77 Their homilies depict Mary in vivid textual images
and even mention her pictorial images that can stimulate the faithful to imagine her
taken up into heaven as I highlight in Chapter 3. One could conclude that the firm
stance in favour of sacred images held by Andrew of Crete, John of Damascus, and

72 Gero, 1973a, 187, n. 39, with reference to the seal in Laurent, 1965, V, 2: 141, no. 1221.
73  Life of Michael Synkellos, 28, ed. Cunningham, 1991, 109.
74 Huglo, 1951 supports the hypothesis of Saint-Denis; Meersseman, 1958 supports Venice; Daskas, forth-
coming, is persuaded the hymn was translated in Rome.
75 Auzépy, 2004, 165. On Greek perceived as a language eventually used to forge documents, see Sans-
terre, 1983, 69.
76 This is the line of thought of Daskas, forthcoming. With reference to the literature produced in the
period of the iconoclastic controversy, also before Nicaea II, Wortley, 1982, 271, noted that ‘there is
no smoke without fire, there is no legend without grain . . . of truth’. On this, see also Auzépy, 1998.
77 CCCM 154; Cupiccia, 2003.
 Words, images (754–790s) 57

Germanos of Constantinople earned them anathema in Byzantium and a high reputa-

tion in Rome. This offers a glimpse of how Rome and Constantinople stood not only
on opposite shores of the Mediterranean, but also on opposite sides in the debate over
sacred images.

4 Later echoes of iconoclasm in Rome

Iconophile sources indicate that the last years of the reign of Constantine V, espe-
cially between 765–7, were tainted by gruesome episodes related to his iconoclastic
position.78 Allegedly, he directed his hostility against those who appealed to the inter-
cession of saints and of the Virgin Mary, and he also turned against relics, as previ-
ously mentioned. Having said that, Constantine’s targeting of monasticism was never
systematic, nor had demonstrable connections with the implementation of an icono-
clastic policy.79 Rather, he aimed to enforce central control, renew imperial authority,
and harness the secular power which monasticism had gained through landholding,
and by occupying episcopal sees.80 Nonetheless, the anti-iconoclastic propaganda set
up during the eighth century did achieve the goal of offering a one-sided story of the
period, putting the blame on Leo III and Constantine V, and diverting the attention
from their administrative and military successes.81 In the history of Christianity, there
was a tradition of interpreting contemporary events through the lens of ‘a narrative

78 The first of these episodes was the martyrdom of the iconophile monk Stephen on the streets of Con-
stantinople, see Nikephoros of Constantinople, Breviarium, 81, CFHB 13, 155 (text), 222–3 (comm.),
c.780s or 820s; Life of Saint Stephen the Younger, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997, c.809; Chronicle of
Theophanes, 436.26–437.9, trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 604–5, after 813. Allegedly, Con-
stantine V persecuted officials who prostrated themselves in front of images and imposed on his sub-
jects an oath not to do this, see: Chronicle of Theophanes, 437.9–17; cf. Breviarium, 80, CFHB 13,
153–55 (text), 222 (comm.); Auzépy, 1997, 22–3. In October 767, on Constantine’s orders, the exiled
iconophile Patriarch Constantine was publicly humiliated before being executed, see: Chronicle of The-
ophanes, 441.5–442.16; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 609–10; cf. Breviarium, 84, CFHB 13,
159–61 (text), 224 (comm.). The newly appointed iconoclastic Patriarch Niketas destroyed images in
the Patriarchate, see: Chronicle of Theophanes, 443.22–6; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 611.
On Nikephoros’s anti-iconoclastic position, see Thümmel, 2005, 248–50; on the chronology of the Life
see Auzépy, 1999, 98–9; on Theophanes, see Jankowiak, Montinaro, eds., 2015. On the scarce histori-
cal reliability of these sources, see Gero, 1977, 111–42.
79 In August 766 a defamatory ceremony of monks was staged on the Hippodrome, the main public space
of Constantinople, see: Chronicle of Theophanes, 437.25–438.1; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997,
605; cf. Breviarium, 83, CFHB 13, 157–9 (text), 223–4 (comm.). Some monasteries were destroyed,
and some transformed into military barracks, see: Chronicle of Theophanes, 442.17–443.18; trans.
Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 610–11. However, Gero, 1977, 122–42, remarked that Constantine V’s
persecution of monks was ‘fundamentally unconnected to iconoclasm’. On persecutions undertaken by
iconoclastic and iconophile emperors against their opponents and on strategies of resistance to these
persecutions, see Alexander, 1977, 253–9. He notes that, when stated, the adduced grounds for per-
petrating religious persecutions in the eighth and ninth centuries were the necessity of defending the
truth and restoring the unity of the Church, but also the authority of the emperor to judge in matters
of doctrine.
80 Gero, 1977, 167; Haldon, 1977, 182–3; Auzépy, 2004, 159; Noble, 2009, 65; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011,
237–40; Karahan, 2014, 86.
81 This is the main line of thought of the impressive revision of the history of iconoclasm by Brubaker,
Haldon, 2011. See also Herrin, 1977, who underlined the length of their reigns and a related political
stability.
58  Words, images (754–790s)

of persecution and survival’ which had its roots in pre-Constantinian persecutions.

Extolling the capacity of a community to face martyrdom and surviving adversities
had a large share in ‘Roman Christian modes of self-fashioning’, as witnessed by
writings of eminent Christian authors between the fourth and fifth centuries.82 Tex-
tual criticism and historical analysis have shown that the majority of anti-iconoclastic
sources are indeed biased. But even so, they are useful in that they reflect what was at
stake and why in the religion and politics of the period.83 In fact, these sources reveal
a socio-political and religious instability which peaked in the West and in the East by
the 750s–60s.84
These were difficult years for Constantine V not only at home, but also on the
international stage. He had to defend the frontiers of the empire and face the refusal
of Pope Paul I (757–67) and his successors to accept the resolutions of the iconoclastic
Council of Hiereia.85 It is telling that the Liber Pontificalis does not even mention the
council. This omission does not mean that iconoclasm did not preoccupy Paul I. On
the contrary, the omission may betray the intention to erase Hiereia from the history
and doctrine of the Church86 because Hiereia disputed the veneration of sacred images
and associated it with idolatry while the popes held it as a venerable tradition, as old
as the Church itself. Because no patriarch attended it, the council could not be defined
‘ecumenical’, and the very validity of the gathering at Hiereia would be questioned at
the Council of Nicaea II.87
The iconoclastic policy of Constantine V made a strong impression on those in Rome
and north of the Alps. Notwithstanding the omission of Hiereia in the Liber Pontifi-
calis, and its silence on Byzantine iconoclasm for decades after the entry of Gregory II
in the late 720s,88 the question of sacred images became highly important in the West.
Its importance is attested by a number of texts and visual responses, as well as by the
volume of diplomatic correspondence and diplomatic dispatches exchanged between
Pope Paul I, the Frankish King Pippin III, and Emperor Constantine V.89 Like his pre-
decessors during Leo’s reign, Paul I did ‘adopt a clearly anti-iconoclastic position’.90
The Liber Pontificalis recalls the efforts he made in order to defend orthodoxy: ‘[Paul
I] strenuously defended the orthodox faith which is why he frequently sent his envoys
with apostolic letters to entreat and warn the emperors Constantine [V] and Leo [IV]
to restore and establish in their erstwhile status of veneration the sacred images of
our Lord God and Saviour Jesus Christ, his holy mother, the blessed apostles, and all

82 Sizgorich, 2009, 274; he develops this argument at 46–80, where he quotes and discusses relevant
sources, especially sermons, by Eusebius, Augustine, Ambrose, John Chrysostom, Gregory of Nazianzos.
83 Cormack, 1997, 25–6; Geary, 1999, 175. On a general level, see Pohl, 2001, 347–8: ‘Writing . . . sparked
non-written forms of communication; its significance was tested in numerous social encounters’.
84 Auzépy, 1997, 40–2.
85 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 175–6 on the significance of the papal refutation of Hiereia.
86 Gantner, 2013b, 70.
87 Mansi XIII, 208–209; ACO II, 3.3, 604–8; trans. Sahas, 1986, 32; see also the Life of Saint Stephen the
Younger, ed. and trans. Auzépy, 1997, 142–5 (text), 239–44 (trans.); Auzépy, 1998, 89.
88 Louth, 2007, 83.
89 MGH, EMKA, CC, 28, 532–3; 29, 533–5; 30, 536–7; 36, 543–7; 37, 547–50; McCormick, 1994,
113–31; Auzépy, 1997, 25–6.
90 Gero, 1977, 118.
 Words, images (754–790s) 59

the saints, prophets, martyrs and confessors’.91 When the Liber Pontificalis speaks of
iconoclasm, even when obliquely, it seems to convey ‘the voice of embittered exiles’
exuding resentment against the Byzantine emperor.92
Succeeding his brother Stephen II, Paul had been elected pope in May 757. The year
before he had witnessed the siege of Rome by the Lombards of Aistulf. Furthermore,
in his capacity as papal envoy, Paul had experienced how unreliable was Aistulf’s
successor, the former Duke of Tuscany Desiderius, in his promise of allegiance to the
papacy.93 Given the long-compromised relations with Byzantium and the Lombards,
the Franks were left as the only likely allies for the pope. By no coincidence, Paul is
the first of the popes not to announce his election to the exarch of Ravenna as repre-
sentative of the Byzantine emperor, but instead to the king of the Franks, Pippin III.94
Paul I aptly set about cultivating the friendship of the Franks. For example, he sent
to the royal abbey of Saint-Denis, at King Pippin’s request, a water clock and Greek
texts.95 While the water clock showed off the superiority of Roman technology and
civilization,96 Greek texts attested to the pope’s role of principal cultural–political
mediator between East and West.97 This is particularly meaningful, as Paul reigned in
the immediate aftermath of the Council of Hiereia.

5 Dissenting refugees
Pope Paul I turned his family home into a monastery, known as S. Silvestro in capite.
As the Liber Pontificalis mentions and the foundation charter attests, the monastery
was specifically established with the purpose of hosting a ‘Greek’ community.98 It is an
exception in Rome to have a foundation charter of a monastery that sheds light on the
reasons or on the ambitions of the founder in establishing the monastery, despite the
city having been a cradle of monasticism in terms of the number of active foundations
in the early medieval period.99 By ‘Greek’ community in the charter we should under-
stand people speaking that language, but whose origins were as diverse as the extension

91  LP I, 95, 464; trans. Davis, 2007, 2007, 81; see Noble, 1984, 111.
92 Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 272. See Burgarella, 2002, 979 on Rome as alternative centre to Constan-
tinople at least in the eyes of the Greek diaspora.
93  LP I, 441–2 and 455; trans. Davis, 2007, 53–5, 73–4; see Noble, 1984, 100–1; Arnaldi, 1987, 127;
Marazzi, 2001, 48–9.
94 MGH, EMKA, CC, 12, 507–8; Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 16.
95 The Greek manuscripts included a grammar book and works by Aristotle and Pseudo-Dionysios; see
MGH, EMKA, CC, 24, 529; Sansterre, 1983, 182–3; Noble, 1985, 58; Gastgeber, 2018, esp. 52, has
re-read the source, and advanced the hypothesis that the Greek writings listed were probably con-
tained in a single, ‘comprehensive’ codex.
96 On the water clock offered by Theoderic, the Ostrogoth king of Italy, to a Burgundian king in c.506,
see Curta, 2006; Wickham, 2009, 228.
97 On this see Gastgeber, 2018, 61. This prerogative would also be asserted later, when Pope Hadrian
I tried to settle the dispute over the Acts of the Council of Nicaea II with the Carolingians, see Gantner,
2015, 259.
98  LP I, 464–5; trans. Davis, 2007, 81–2; cf. with the foundation charter in Concilium Romanum a.
761, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 64–71; Ferrari, 1957, 302–12; Sansterre, 1983, 36, 83; Noble, 2000, 71; Cos-
tambeys, 2007, 285. Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 273, note that this is the first monastery for which a
foundation charter is preserved.
99 Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 262–3.
60  Words, images (754–790s)

of the Byzantine Empire and beyond.100 One wonders whether Paul I’s decision to
shelter ‘Greeks’ is to be framed within his ‘strenuous defence’ of orthodoxy to which
the Liber Pontificalis refers.101 On this point, in fact, the papal chronicle is not clear.
All the same, the pope here seems to be operating in the footsteps of his predecessors.
Since the early seventh century, as a consequence of the Arab conquest of the Near
East, eastern refugees found shelter in Rome.102 They were given temporary accommo-
dation in diaconiae and xenodochia attached to monasteries that in the ninth century
would be supplanted by scholae set up by foreign communities.103 Earlier, we have
seen the word diaconia in the Latin Akolouthia of the Akathistos hymn to define
the place where Patriarch Germanos has been exiled by Emperor Leo III. Formally
organised communities of ‘Γραικοί’, that is ‘Greeks’, are attested in the Acts of the
anti-monothelete Lateran Synod of 649. First written in Greek and then translated
into Latin, these Acts speak of ‘abbots and monks’ (‘ἡγούμενοι καὶ μονάζοντες’) among
‘both the Greeks who have long resided here [in Rome] and those who have settled
here recently’.104 This very synod had been organised with the doctrinal support of Pal-
estinian monks in exile.The ‘Greek’ clerics were deemed precious allies of the popes,
and for this reason were protected: with their theological knowledge, they buttressed
the intention of the papacy to consolidate its image as the source of orthodoxy and
spiritual reference for the entire Christian world.105 Under Gregory II, who arguably
was the first pope to react to Byzantine iconoclasm, two monasteries originally estab-
lished for Latin communities, S. Andrea in Clivo Scauri and S. Agata in Suburra, were
respectively entrusted to ‘Greek’ monks and nuns.106 An ancient tradition maintained
that Pope Zacharias, who, it is recalled, may have offered a response to Leo III’s aver-
sion to sacred images by setting up an image of the Saviour in the Lateran portico,107
established the monastery of S. Maria in Campo Marzio to host nuns who had alleg-
edly fled from Constantinople as a consequence of iconoclasm.108
If truth be told, there is no evidence that Leo III’s iconophobia, or the iconoclastic
Council of Hiereia of 754, or Constantine V’s demonstrative acts against icon wor-
shippers in the 760s, and especially his reaction to a plot schemed by monks and high
civil and military officers which threatened his authority in 765/6, produced mass

100 On the use of the label ‘Greci’ in eighth-century papal documents, see Gantner, 2013a.
101  LP I, 95, 464; trans. Davis, 2007, 2007, 81.
102 Sansterre, 1983, 9–10, 22–31 on the foundation of S. Saba in c.647 by monks from the Great Lavra
of Mar Sabas in Palestine, 117–18. See Auzépy, 2012 on eastern migrants in the Byzantine Empire
between the mid-seventh and the mid-ninth centuries; Herrin, 2013, 43–4 on the constant mobility of
holy men during iconoclasm.
103 Dey, 2008.
104 Mansi X, 904A; ACO II, 1, 48–9; trans. Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014, 150 and 136–8 on Greek refugees;
Llewellyn, 1977, 29–30; Sansterre, 1983, 49, 63, 176; Burgarella, 2002, 969–71; Costambeys, Leyser,
2007, 271–3.
105 Sansterre, 1983, 115–46; Noble, 1984, 192; Del Buono, 2010; Gantner, 2015; von Falkenhausen,
2015.
106 Sansterre, 1983, 33–7, 82–5.
107  LP I, 432; trans. Davis, 2007, 43.
108 See Ferrari, 1957, 208–9; Mango, 1973, 700; Sansterre, 1983, 34, 48, who believes this tradition
trustworthy.
 Words, images (754–790s) 61

displacement.109 In fact, ‘Greek’ elements in the Roman clergy seem to have decreased
by the mid-eighth century. Moreover, as a result of the waning pressure of the Arabs
on the Byzantine Empire, migration diminished.110 We should then conclude that Paul
I was moved to offer his former home to ‘Greek’ monks by his intention to sustain
the policy of his predecessors, and to present Rome as the epicentre of the Christian
world rather than by a need to provide extra shelter for eastern refugees. The Liber
Pontificalis lists S. Silvestro in capite among the ‘Greek’ monasteries that Pope Leo III
endowed with precious gifts in 800–1 and 806.111 Leo, an Apulian of either Greek or
Arabic descent, bestowed precious endowments on monasteries according to what
appears to be a specific hierarchy. In granting wealth and prestige to certain monas-
teries, he was redesigning the ‘sacred geography of the city’.112 As a matter of fact, in
the early years of the ninth century, the ‘Greek’ communities of S. Saba, S. Silvestro
in capite, and S. Anastasius gained pre-eminence over other monasteries of Rome.113
They played a role in the conflicts which set the Roman aristocracy and the papal
clergy against one another, and were used as places of protection or detention for
opponents of the papacy on the grounds of their traditional loyalty to it.114 As we shall
see in the next chapters, the importance of ‘Greek’ clerics in early medieval Rome can-
not be overestimated.115 They were responsible for conveying ideas, beliefs, practices,
and objects, which deeply interacted with the religious culture and politics of Rome
and central Italy.

6 T he apse of S. Maria Antiqua: Mary above all saints

Pope Paul I was acutely aware of the importance of pictorial images as one of the
main components of the bond that held the living body of the Church together. This
is revealed by the use he made of artistic patronage in public spaces. Promoting sacred
images, as his predecessors had done, meant acknowledging their necessity in private
devotion, as interface with the divine, and in public liturgy as visual–spiritual focuses
for the assembly, and as reference to future salvation. Placed in focal spaces, picto-
rial images could send messages attuned to current circumstances, and even address
opposing views, ‘orthodox’ and ‘heterodox’ alike. This seems to be the case with
regard to an image displayed in the oratory Paul I built in St Peter’s for his own
burial, next to the burial place of Leo the Great.116 The pope decorated the oratory

109 See Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 175, 234–47 on Constantine’s reaction to this plot and its misrepresenta-
tion in iconophile sources, which pictured him as systematic persecutor of monks.
110 Sansterre, 1983, 40.
111  LP II, 11, 22; trans. Davis, 2007, 193, 208; Geertman, 1975, 82–129; Sansterre, 1983, 31–51.
112 Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 274.
113 Sansterre, 1983, 112.
114 Pope Constantine II was detained at S. Erasmo, his brother at S. Silvestro in capite, and his vice domi-
nus at S. Andrea in Clivo Scauri. See Ferrari, 1957, 146; Geertman, 1975, 219, n. 8; Sansterre, 1983,
98–9; Noble, 1984, 199–200; Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 272.
115 Especially on ‘Greek’ popes, see Burgarella, 2002.
116  LP I, 465; trans. Davis, 2007, 83. He also dedicated another oratory to the Virgin in the central
entrance hall of the atrium of St Peter’s, known with the title of S. Maria mediana. The adjective medi-
ana probably referred to the fact that the oratory was in a space mediating between the outside world
and the atrium also known as paradisum, that is heaven. It could also acknowledge the status of the
62  Words, images (754–790s)

Figure 2.1 V irgin Mary, ‘effigiem . . . in statu’, gilt silver, embossed, commissioned by Pope Paul
I (757–67), artistic impression.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018.

with glittering mosaics that featured gilded tesserae (‘musibo et diversis metallis’), and
set up an ‘effigy’ of the Virgin Mary in the shape of a ‘statue’, of gilt silver weighing
150 lbs (‘effigiem . . . in statu’) (Figure 2.1, Pl. 3). The expression ‘in statu’ is unique

Virgin as mediator between earth and heaven, between humankind and God. On S. Maria mediana,
see Gem, 2008, 18; McClendon, 2013, 221.
 Words, images (754–790s) 63

in the Liber Pontificalis.117 It derives from the Latin statua, a standing image either
carved or cast. Since three-dimensional statues are not attested in the early medieval
period, most probably because of Christianity’s obsession with idolatry, this one com-
missioned by Paul I was likely a bas-relief icon with a prominent gilt surface, almost
resembling a statue. As mentioned in Chapter 1, in the 730s Gregory III donated an
image in embossed gold of the Virgin and Christ Child to S. Maria Maggiore. Its
weight of 5 lbs leads one to imagine it was a relatively small bas-relief icon when
compared with Paul’s massive ‘effigiem’ made with 150 lbs of gilt silver. The fact that
the latter appeared as a ‘statue’ to contemporary witnesses must have been seen as a
bold statement of iconophilia.118 Presented in the reassuring frame of a papal oratory
in the basilica of the Apostle Peter, which emblematised the material foundations of
the Church, the effigy commissioned by Paul I was a powerful medium of communi-
cation: it appropriated the three-dimensional physical presence of an antique statue,
and contextualised it within the cradle of ‘orthodoxy’. In other words, this effigy
demonstrated that the spiritual and doctrinal authority of the pope could control even
idolatry and ply it in the interests of the Roman Church. Maybe this effigy was offer-
ing a bold response to the recent Council of Hiereia and ultimately contributed to the
‘Roman reply to iconoclasm’.119
Mary was focal also in another of Paul I’s main public commissions, the new deco-
rative campaign of S. Maria Antiqua. There, in the apse, she was painted as the main
intercessor for humankind before God. This church brought strong political associa-
tions to mind for being physically attached to the Roman and then Byzantine palatial
complex.120 As a consequence, it was the object of considerable attention on the part
of popes and notable patrons, as its various decorative campaigns reveal.121 The poor
state of preservation of its murals, which deteriorated over the twentieth century until
stabilised with recent restorations,122 barely allows one to see what was depicted in
the apse by Paul I. Superseding an earlier mural arguably depicting an enthroned
Mary between the apostles Peter and Paul and angels,123 Paul I had it repainted with
an imposing Christ–Judge upon his Second Coming flanked by cherubs, and having

117 Davis, 2007, 83, n. 17. For a discussion of ‘statues’ commissioned by popes between the fourth and
the ninth centuries, see Geertman, 2004.
118 These mentions in the LP should be properly addressed in order to retrace the origins of the high and
late medieval reliquary statuary; see, Geertman, 2004. See also Fricke, 2007, 2015 on western votive
statuary in the high medieval period; see Pentcheva, 2010 on Byzantine bas-relief icons.
119 Davis, 2007, 83, n. 17.
120 Augenti, 2000, 51. For its history and archaeology, see Osborne, Rasmus Brandt, Morganti, eds.,
2005; Andaloro, Bordi, Morganti, eds., 2016.
121 Curzi, 2018, 10, writes that ‘it is that events linked to the struggle against images and to the resolutions
of the Council of Hiereia in 754 carried a certain weight in Pope Paul I’s decision to intervene, half a
century after John VII, in the presbytery of St Maria Antiqua’.
122 On the murals upon their discovery, see Marucchi, 1900; Grüneisen, 1911. For a recent appraisal of
the monument and its decoration, see Andaloro, 2016a; Bordi, 2016. On the archaeology of the site,
see Augenti, 2005; on its significance in the scholarly world, see Osborne, 2011; on the restorations,
see Morganti, 2005; on patronage, see Brenk, 2005; Lucey, 2007; on the scholarly reception of S.
Maria Antiqua, that spurred the emergence of the discipline of a ‘Byzantine art history’ which saw
Rome as reflection of eastern influences, see Brubaker, 2005; Gasbarri, 2015, 201–30.
123 This hypothesis is contested by Brenk, 2010, 106, who is against the idea that the apse had an
enthroned Mary. See Bordi, 2016 for the pictorial phases in the apse.
64  Words, images (754–790s)

Figure 2.2 C hrist, Mary, and Pope Paul I (757–67), mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria
Antiqua, apse.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

to his right the Virgin Mary draped in a purple maphorion. She is introducing Paul I,
rendered in smaller scale with a square halo (Figures 2.2–2.3).
In communicating at various levels – spiritual, doctrinal, and political – the mural in
the apse had a wider scope than what could be perceived at first glance. The main trait
here is that Mary is figuring as the privileged intercessor for the pope in front of the
Saviour. This is the spiritual message that would immediately strike the faithful, who,
like the pope, were seeking a powerful intercessor for their own salvation. Square
haloes have been interpreted as identifying either a recently deceased or a still living
person,124 but, in any case, as offering an accurate portrait.125 Thus Paul I, in his ardu-
ous political role as vicar of Peter, was publicly seeking God’s protection through the
intercession of Mary. At the time when Paul I depicted Mary as principal intercessor
for humankind in the apse of S. Maria Antiqua, she was described and extolled in this
role in highly wrought sermons and refined exegetical writings by Ambrose Autpert
(d. 784). Active at the monastery of S. Vincenzo al Volturno in the remote mountains
of central Italy, he felt nonetheless politically and spiritually close to Paul I and his
successor Stephen III, and later was held in high regard by Hadrian I. His writings can

124 Ladner, 1941.
125 Osborne, 1979.
 Words, images (754–790s) 65

Figure 2.3 C hrist, Mary, and Pope Paul I (757–67), mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria
Antiqua, apse.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2017.

shed light not only on the consecration of Mary as intercessor above all saints, but
also on papal and monastic iconophile thinking. They will be specifically dealt with in
the next chapter, which examines eighth-century liturgical texts, practices, and textual
imagery related to the iconophile stance.
At another level of communication, Paul’s mural transmitted the papacy’s unde-
terred support for the use of pictorial images as mediators with the divine. This is the
message ideally addressed to Constantinople from the apse of the main church of the
‘Greeks’ in Rome, who made up its principal foreign community. Undoubtedly, until
the invention of radio and television, mosaic and monumental wall-painting were the
66  Words, images (754–790s)

widest reaching media together with preaching and liturgy, since they could reach out
to an audience immensely wider than any diplomatic dispatch, theological treatise, or
doctrinal exposition.126 Albeit diverse in their origins, and notwithstanding peculiari-
ties and evolving ideas of orthodoxy and orthopraxis, the audience these media were
ideally addressing was sharing at least basic Christian views.127
The message that Paul I was sending out to a vast audience from the apse was
complemented by his additions to the aisles of S. Maria Antiqua. A few years after
Hiereia anathematised the depiction of saints, and while Constantine V was criticising
the belief in their intercession,128 Paul I, in the same decorative campaign which refur-
bished the apse, had the aisles repainted with murals promoting the official cult of, and
the private devotion towards, eastern and western saints.129 In the east aisle he added
narrative scenes from Genesis accompanied by Latin inscriptions, and below them
an enthroned Christ flanked by standing Greek and Latin saints, among which were
the eastern monastic saints Basil, Euthymios, and Sabas (Figures 2.4–2.6, Pl. 4). This
choice seems to reflect the depiction of Greek and Latin Fathers on either side of the
apse of S. Maria Antiqua commissioned by his predecessor Pope John VII (705–7).130
The paintings John VII had promoted seem devised to assert papal primacy in theo-
logical questions, even though in a conciliatory tone towards eastern Christianity.131
Still resenting the humiliation of the abduction and death in exile imposed on Pope
Martin I by Emperor Constans II, John VII commissioned a complex programme
portraying popes who had been champions of orthodoxy and independence from bru-
tal tyranny: Leo the Great (Council of Chalcedon, 451), Martin I (Lateran Synod,
649), an unidentified pope (Gregory the Great or Agatho). To these, he added him-
self.132 Identified by Greek and Latin tituli, their depiction was intended to promote

126 On the lack of papal theory of images, and on their formula to state their belief in sacred images of Christ,
the Virgin, the apostles, and all saints in the period of the image controversy, see Angenendt, 2001.
127 Sizgorich, 2009, 11, speaks of a ‘rich koinê of signs, symbols, narrative forms, holy persons and sites,
textual traditions, and strategies of interpretation as they negotiated for themselves questions of divin-
ity, the numinous, salvation, personal piety and holy praxis’, however, ‘the disciplining of Christian
identities . . . required authoritative figures upon which members of discrete Christian communities
could rely etc.’. For insights on seventh- and eighth-century Rome and its multiple religious communi-
ties see Smith, 2018, 462, 469.
128 This is the hypothesis of Krausmüller, 2015.
129 Andaloro, 2016b, 19, sees the mural paintings promoted by Paul I with their accent on the ‘iconic’
presence of Greek and Latin saints, the Virgin, and Christ as a response to Hiereia. See Maskarinec,
2018, 130–3 on S. Maria Antiqua and its ‘collectivity of sanctity’ emphasising harmony between East
and West.
130 On the political relevance of these paintings, see Sansterre, 1987.
131 John VII was never openly in conflict with Byzantium. For example, he did not take advantage of the
fact that Emperor Justinian II offered to eliminate the canons that contravened Roman ‘orthodoxy’
from the acts of the Council of Trullo (Chapter 1); see LP I, 385–6; trans. Davis, 2010, 86–7; see
Sansterre, 1982, 379ff.; Brunet, 2007, 39; Delogu, 2018, who writes that the Crucifixion scene on
the apsidal wall of S. Maria Antiqua must not necessarily be related to the canon 82 of the Council
of Trullo, in that it is a ‘solemn orthodox representation of the Incarnation of the Word, rooted in the
tradition of the Roman Church’.
132 For an overall interpretation of the patronage of John VII in S. Maria Antiqua, see Sansterre, 1982,
also for a critique of earlier literature (at 382 on Agatho); Sansterre, 1987; Andaloro, 2016c, for a
recent appraisal; Delogu, 2018, who analyses John’s attitude towards Byzantium through the lens of
the LP and of the pictorial programme he promoted in S. Maria Antiqua. For a detailed description
 Words, images (754–790s) 67

Figure 2.4 C hrist and saints, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, east aisle.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

integration and communication between groups of eastern and western Christians.133

The same applies to Paul I as to the murals depicting eastern and western saints in the
aisles with Greek tituli. He possibly intended to facilitate the Greek-speaking faithful
in recognising the saints on the wall, and so address them in their private prayers.134
In sum, after the first phase of the iconoclastic controversy had reached its climax
with the Council of Hiereia, Pope Paul I answered with an extraordinary consistency

of the sequence of paintings, Bordi, 2016, 47–9. Noble, 1984, 18–19, hypothesised that John VII
engaged a ‘subtle ideological battle’ with imperial power in order to defend the political and doctrinal
independence of the papacy.
133 See Lucey, 2007, 146, who analysed the linguistic shift in the inscriptions of S. Maria Antiqua reflect-
ing change in patronage: from primarily Greek in the sixth century, to exclusively Greek in the sev-
enth century, to the appearance of Latin at the time of John VII in the early eighth century, to the
co-existence of Greek and Latin inscriptions later in the eighth century. See Andaloro, 2016a; Bordi,
2016, 47–9, for the analysis of the layer of paintings of John VII. On the ‘sophisticated and subtle uses
of images in the seventh and eighth centuries as part of the discourse of international politics’ with
reference to S. Maria Antiqua and John VII, see Elsner, 2012, 374; Delogu, 2018.
134 Lucey, 2007, 149. The cult of ‘foreign’ saints in Rome was not only promoted by the popes: ‘Byzantine
administrators, refugees, monks, pilgrims, and others’ shaped ‘the saintly topography of Rome’, see
Maskarinec, 2018, 3, and 6 for Rome as an ‘ecosystem of sanctity’.
Figure 2.5 C hrist among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Anti-
qua, east aisle.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 Words, images (754–790s) 69

Figure 2.6 C hrist among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Anti-
qua, east aisle.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

with his predecessors. Doctrinal expositions were left aside. Diplomacy and contem-
porary mass media – monumental pictorial images and objects – served the purpose.
The pictorial programme Paul I promoted in S. Maria Antiqua, the main church of
the Greek community of Rome, is exemplary of his politics, as it appears program-
matically devised to fulfil a threefold objective: firstly, to celebrate Rome as a city of
eastern and western saints, thus at the core of the universal Church; secondly, to assert
the legitimacy of representing the Incarnate God, his Mother, and his saints and hon-
ouring them through their likeness; and thirdly, to consecrate Mary’s role in salvation
as the main intercessor at the side of her Son. Rome was consolidating its role as a
bastion of orthodoxy which it had been defending for a century.

7 Synods and florilegia (760s)

Just a few months before his death in June 767, Pope Paul I received a letter from
the patriarchs of Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch. It contained a refutation of the
iconoclastic Council of Hiereia and an official declaration of orthodox faith that the
70  Words, images (754–790s)

patriarchs had dictated upon a meeting held in Jerusalem in 764.135 Their letter con-
firmed that Jerusalem maintained the iconophile stance held there by John of Damas-
cus in the first half of the century and revealed that under Islamic rule patriarchs were
united against the image policy of the iconoclastic Emperor Constantine V. Their orig-
inal declaration of faith as well as its Latin translation were transmitted from Rome
to King Pippin III. The dispatch of both versions of the document is a witness to the
defensive attitude assumed by Paul I after Constantine V in 766 had accused Frankish
and papal translators of altering the meaning of the letters he had addressed to Pippin
and to the pope.136 Upon receiving the letter from Paul I, Pippin understood it was
important for him as a leading ruler to take part in the debate on sacred images – the
hottest doctrinal–political debate on the international scene. Therefore, in 767, Pippin
convened ‘Greeks and Romans’ at his villa in Gentilly (south of Paris) to discuss the
‘Holy Trinity and sacred images’.137
The fact that the king of the Franks, with whom Paul I had cultivated an amicable
relationship while being at odds with the Lombards and the Byzantines, convened
a synod to discuss the matter probably stimulated Stephen III, Paul’s legitimate suc-
cessor, to do the same. Stephen, a presbyter and assistant to the late Paul, was a
Sicilian Greek who had been educated in the monastery of S. Crisogono in Rome.
After his election in August 768, following two attempts by laymen to seize the papal
throne, he also sought an entente cordiale with the Franks. They were now repre-
sented by Charlemagne and his brother Carloman after their father Pippin had died
in September 768.138
Only a few months after his election, in April 769, Stephen III convened a synod
in the Basilica of the Saviour at the Lateran, to which he also invited bishops from
northern Europe.139 This was the second official papal meeting to deal with the image
controversy, following the one in 731.140 If truth be told, over the first three sessions
the Lateran Synod dealt firstly and mainly with the question of laymen being elected
to the pontificate, specifically examining the case of Pope Constantine II (767–8),
who had been defrocked, and accused of being a layman with no cursus honorum

135 The original letter is lost and is only mentioned in a letter Pope Constantine II addressed to Pippin after
his election; see MGH, EMKA, CC, 99, 652–3; Auzépy, 1999, 218–20. It should not be confounded
with the Letter of the Three Patriarchs (Munitiz et al., eds., 1997) purportedly written by the patri-
archs of Alexandria, Jerusalem, Antioch after a meeting held in Jerusalem in 836 and addressed to
Emperor Theophilos (829–42).
136 This reference is also found in the same (the second) letter Pope Constantine II sent to Pippin MGH,
EMKA, CC, 99, 652–3; Auzépy, 1999, 218–20. On the dispatch of these documents, see the letter of
Pope Paul I to Pippin, MGH, EMKA, CC, 36, 546, ll. 10–21; Sansterre, 1983, 69.
137  Annales Laurissenses a. 741–788, MGH, SS 1, 144; cf. the letters of Pope Paul I to Pippin, in MGH,
EMKA, CC, 36, 543–7, and 37, 547–50; McCormick, 1994, 113–31; Auzépy, 1997, 26; Brubaker,
Haldon, 2011, 172–6, argue that ‘Only at the synod of Gentilly did the issue [of the image controversy]
become a matter of public dispute’. On Frankish synods held in Merovingian Gaul till the coronation
of Charlemagne in 768, their settings, procedures, and legislation, see Halfond, 2010.
138 Noble, 1984, 116.
139  LP I, 473–7; trans. Davis, 2007, 94–9; Concilium Romanum a. 769, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 74–92;
Böhringer, 1992; McCormick, 1994, 131–3; Thümmel, 2005, 77, 84–5.
140  LP I, 415–17; trans. Davis, 2007, 19–21; Thümmel, 2005, 83–4.
 Words, images (754–790s) 71

in clerical ranks.141 In reaction to this affair, the synod finally set new regulations to
prevent laymen from seizing the papal throne. On its fourth and last day, the synod
dealt with the controversy over sacred images, and condemned iconoclasm and the
Council of Hiereia. The Liber Pontificalis reports that ‘the various testimonies of the
holy Fathers . . . concerning the sacred images of our Lord God and Saviour Jesus
Christ, his glorious mother our lady the ever-virgin Saint Mary, the blessed apos-
tles and all the saints, martyrs and confessors’ were brought forward and carefully
explored. Finally, the synod decreed that:

all Christians should venerate these holy images with great respect and honour,
just as all this apostolic See’s preceding pontiffs and all the venerable Fathers down
to the present had observed about the respect and honour towards them. . . . And
they [the participants to the synod] disallowed and anathematised that execrable
synod recently held in the districts of Greece [Hiereia, in 754] for the removal of
these sacred images.142

In sum, the Lateran Synod of 769 clearly laid out that secular rulers had no rights
of legislation in these matters. If any theologically and doctrinally articulate discussion
took place over the synod, it is not recorded, since the delegates did not draft an argu-
mentative document to support the papal anti-iconoclastic position, but rather under-
pinned it with a list of authoritative quotations in favour of sacred images. Evidently
a florilegium of written testimonies was believed to be adequate and appropriate to
buttress their position. On this occasion, the declaration of orthodox faith of the
patriarchs of Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch was read out, reminding the West
of the valiant iconophile stance of eastern Christianity under Islamic rule.143 When the
Lateran Synod was concluded, the pope led a barefoot procession to the accompani-
ment of hymns and spiritual chants, towards St Peter’s, where its resolutions were read
aloud from the ambo.144

8 Pope Hadrian I’s Synodica and the iconophile

Council of Nicaea II
If the ecclesiastical meetings convened at Gentilly and Rome had at least temporarily
settled the question of sacred images in the West, in Byzantium it was still open. The
Emperor Constantine VI and his mother Eirene wrote to Pope Hadrian I to invite him
to attend an ecumenical council on this question.145 In October 785 he sent them a

141 On how the sources have constructed the events surrounding Pope Constantine II, his hastened elec-
tion and his condemnation, see McKitterick, 2018; see also Paravicini Bagliani, 2013, 12–13, in the
wider context of papal elections in the medieval period. On the cursus honorum in the Roman Church,
defined already in the late fourth century, see Dunn, 2013.
142  LP I, 476–7; trans. Davis, 2007, 99; Noble, 1984, 117–18; Brunet, 2011b, 94ff.
143 MGH, Conc. 2.1, 90. Without doubt treated as an auctoritas of orthodox faith, in 791–2 the declara-
tion of the eastern patriarchs would be quoted also in the Hadrianum or Responsum, MGH, EK 3, 2,
5–57, esp. 11; Chrysostomides, 1997, xxxiii; see also Auzépy, 1999, 219.
144  LP I, 477: ‘nudis pedibus incedentes’; trans. Davis, 2007, 99.
145 This Greek letter, also known as Divalis sacra, is lost and is only known in its Latin translation in
Mansi XII, 984E–986C; ACO II, 3.1, 5–7.
72  Words, images (754–790s)

letter, known as Synodica, in which he defended the veneration of sacred images.146

The pope asserted their importance on the basis of their Christological significance
(because they visualise the Incarnate God, and thus uplift the mind of the faithful to
the divine), as well as on their didactic function, and on their relevance to the tradi-
tions of the Church.147
In the Synodica, Hadrian I signalled his intention to participate in the forthcom-
ing council provided that the emperors restored the patrimony of St Peter. Hadrian’s
demand alluded to events which occurred during the pontificate of Gregory II and
Gregory III, when Emperor Leo III confiscated papal estates in Sicily and Calabria,
and transferred papal jurisdiction over Sicily, Calabria, and Illyricum to the patriar-
chate of Constantinople.148 (The emperors did not accede to the papal request – as he
would later recall in a letter to Charlemagne of c.793.)149 It has been suggested that
the pope might have seen the council which Eirene and Constantine VI were about to
convene as an opportunity to reaffirm the centrality of Rome in universal Christianity,
detach the papacy from the pervasive tutelage of Charlemagne, and realign it with the
Byzantine Empire.150 Of these three goals, only the first was achieved.
Two years later, Eirene and Constantine VI finally convened a council at Nicaea
(today Iznik, Turkey), the second council to take place there, in order to formulate

146 The intricate manuscript transmission of Hadrian I’s Synodica is retraced by Wallach, 1966, 113; its
text is partly transmitted in the Acts of Nicaea II, see Mansi XII, 1055–1076; ACO II, 3.1, 118–73.
147 For the adherence of sacred images to the tradition of the Church, their Christological significance, and
their morally uplifting function, see Hadrian I, Synodica, Mansi XII, 1061B–D; ACO II, 3.1, 127–9: ‘et
demum subnixius quaesumus ut, sicut a sanctis patribus et praedecessoribus nostris probatissimis pon-
tificibus suscepimus, diuinae scripturae historiam in ecclesiis pro memoria piae operationis et doctrina
imperitorum depingimus et sacram imaginem domini dei et saluatoris Iesu Christi secundum incarna-
tam eius humanam formam in aula dei constituimus simulque et sanctae eius genitricis atque beatorum
apostolorum, prophetarum, martyrum et confessorum ob eorum amorem designantes ueneramur, ita
et uestra dementissima imperialis potentia partibus eiusdem Greciae faciat nostrae horthodoxae fidei
coaequari, ut, sicut scriptum est, fiat unus grex et unum ouile; quia in uniuerso mundo, ubi christi-
anitas est, ipsae sacrae imagines permanentes ab omnibus fidelibus honorantur, ut per uisibilem uul-
tum ad inuisibilem diuinitatis maiestatem mens nostra rapiatur spiritali affectu per contemplationem
figuratae imaginis secundum carnem quam filius dei pro nostra salute suscipere dignatus est’. More
specifically on the didactic utility and moral utility of sacred images, referring to Gregory the Great,
Epistola IX, 209, CCSL 140A, 768, ll. 13–14, see Mansi XII, 1060D–E; ACO II, 3.1, 127: ‘Sicut et
praecipuus pater atque idoneus praedicator beatus Gregorius huius apostolicae sedis praesul ait: “ut
hi qui litteras nesciunt, saltern in parietibus uidendo legant quae legere in codicibus non ualent”. Hoc
quippe sancti probatissimi patres ipsas imagines atque picturas diuinae scripturae et gesta sanctorum
in ecclesiis depingi statuerunt, et cuncti horthodoxi ac christianissimi imperatores et omnes sacerdotes
ac religiosi dei famuli atque uniuersus christianorum coetus, sicut a primordio traditionem a sanctis
patribus susceperunt, easdem imagines atque picturas ob memoriam piae compunctionis uenerantes
obseruauerunt et in partibus illis usque in tempora proaui serenitatis uestrae horthodoxe coluerunt’.
Neil, 2000, 541–4, remarks and discusses these arguments.
148 Under Gregory II, see LP I, 403; trans. Davis, 2007, 10; under Gregory III, LP I, 416–17; trans. Davis,
2007, 21. Cf. the Chronicle of Theophanes, 410.9–11; trans. Mango, Scott, Greatrex, 1997, 568. For
the passage of Hadrian’s Synodica, see Mansi, XII, 1073C; ACO II, 3.1, 165. This passage is only
transmitted in the version of the Acts of Nicaea II translated by Anastasius Bibliothecarius in 873, who
restored the omitted parts of the Synodica.
149  Hadrianum or Responsum, MGH, EK 3, 2, 57. On this matter, see Neil, 2000, 538, 546; Ricciardi,
2015, 113–14.
150 Ricciardi, 2015, 110–13.
 Words, images (754–790s) 73

their refutation of iconoclasm. Hadrian’s Synodica formed the basis for the discus-
sion at the council, and hence was included in its official documents.151 Moreover,
it constituted the canvas on which the Carolingians would refute the resolutions of
Nicaea II.152 According to those convened at Nicaea, images of Christ, the Theotokos,
angels, saints, or holy men, made in ‘colours, pebbles [mosaics], or any other material
that is fit’, could be lawfully displayed ‘in the holy churches of God, on holy utensils
and vestments, on walls and boards, in houses and in streets’. To these holy artefacts,
the faithful could render ‘the veneration of honour: not the true worship of our faith,
which is only due to the divine nature, but the same kind of veneration as is offered to
the form of the precious and life-giving cross, the holy gospels, and to the other holy
dedicated items’.153 The horos or definition of the council attributed great importance
to the visual experience of the Scriptures, albeit making clear that only a trace or an
impression of God can be perceived through texts and images.
The theologians convened there used the term eikôn to mean a ‘sign’ of the divine
or holy prototype (eikôn literally means ‘image’). Because the prototype and its sign
are ontologically separated, the eikôn was meant as a sign of a prototype that cannot
be precisely known or defined. This notwithstanding, the eikôn can be used to honour
the prototype by kissing and adoring it, although not through a form of real adoration
(latreia), which, according to faith, is something appropriate to address only to the
divine nature. In sum, those who adore images, adore in them the reality they depict
because the honour they pay to images passes on to their prototype.154
In ancient Greek philosophy, eikôn was used to recall a referential object relying on
material support and partaking of the epiphanic presence of a god or of a deceased per-
son. In Plato’s theory of imitation, eikôn is a means by which one can be reminded of
something that is not there, and which plays on the dichotomies of presence–absence,
visible–invisible, material–immaterial. In the Old Testament eikôn is the true image
of God, that is the man he created. With the Cappadocian Fathers of the fourth and
fifth centuries, the term eikôn came to identify objects of veneration.155 Among them,
Basil of Caesarea declared that the image is a ‘means to know’ and not a proof of the
divine revelation in itself.156 The Cappadocians offered a fundamental basis to John
of Damascus and to the theologians convened at Nicaea II with which to shape their
iconophile theory.157

151 Mansi XII, 1055–1076; ACO II, 3.1, 118–73.

152 They would refute Nicaea II in the Capitulare adversus synodum (before 792), the text of which is
lost, but is partially reflected in Hadrian’s Hadrianum or Responsum and in the LC, MGH, Conc. 2.2,
Suppl. 1. For a discussion of the Synodica and its significance to the iconophile cause, see Wallach,
1966; Neil, 2000, 536–40.
153 Mansi XIII, 377D–E; ACO II, 3.3, 824–6; trans. Sahas, 1986, 179; see Barber, 2002, 136: ‘By asserting
the artifactual nature of the icon, they [the iconophile theologians] escape the potential problem of an
essential identification between an icon and its archetype’.
154 Mansi XIII, 377E–380A; ACO II, 3.3, 826: ‘ἡ γὰρ τῆς εἰκόνος τιμὴ ἐπὶ τὸ πρωτότυπον διαβαίνει, ὁ
προσκυνῶν τὴν εἰκόνα προσκυνεῖ ἐν αὐτῇ τοῦ ἐγγραφομένου τὴν ὑπόστασιν’.
155 Vasiliu, 2010, 25, 143–77.
156 Vasiliu, 2010, 299–328, esp. 314, 319.
157 Pallis, 2015, 179–80.
74  Words, images (754–790s)

9 The Hadrianum to Charlemagne

When the Acts of Nicaea II arrived in Rome, they were translated into Latin by those
in Pope Hadrian I’s circle. This translation no longer survives in its entirety.158 When
it reached Charlemagne’s court in c.789–90, it elicited an indignant reaction and a
rebuttal.159 A few years later, the Carolingian opposition would be expressed in an
uncompromising statement about Nicaea II having been ‘a council stupidly and arro-
gantly convened in the regions of Greece for the adoration of images’.160 At the origin
of this rebuttal there might have been a misunderstanding grounded in a terminologi-
cal distinction between adoration and veneration, as we shall see in the next section.161
However, dismissing the resolutions of a council which had been organised with papal
endorsement, inevitably implied contesting the latter’s doctrinal primacy.162 Disagree-
ment must not have been the wished outcome of Hadrian’s transmission of the Acts
of Nicaea II. That was probably the case, considering that the papal endorsement of
Nicaea had been dictated by the wish to restore Christianity to ‘one flock and one
sheepfold (‘unus grex et unum ouile’, cf. John 10, 16), and, on the question of the cult
of sacred images, to establish that cult in every corner of Christendom (‘in uniuerso
mundo, ubi christianitas est’).163 This wish had been expressed also in the Sacra ad
synodum, the letter that Eirene and Constantine VI addressed to ecclesiastical rep-
resentatives to convene them at Nicaea II for the purpose of restoring not only the
cult of sacred images, but also the ‘unity and concord’ (‘εἰρήνην καὶ ὁμόνοιαν’) of the
Church.164
In response to the Latin translation of the Acts of Nicaea II, the Carolingian court
produced the Capitulare adversus synodum, a document aimed at challenging its reso-
lutions. In 792 Charlemagne sent the Capitulare to Rome in the hands of his loyal
courtier Abbot Angilbert of Centula.165 The dispatch of Angilbert to the pope was
also connected to another important theological controversy dealing with the natures
of Christ, called adoptionism, which needs to be mentioned here. Adoptionism origi-
nated in Islamic-ruled Spain. It was believed to support the idea that Christ was not a

158 This Latin translation of the Acts of Nicaea II is mentioned in the LP I, 512: ‘Quam synodum iamdicti
missi in greco sermone secum deferentes una cum imperialibus sacris in latino eam translatari iussit, et
in sacra bibliotheca pariter recondi, dignam sibi orthodoxe fidei memoriam aeternam faciens’; trans.
Davis, 2007, 165. For the intricate textual transmission of this text, also addressed as First Latin
Nicaenum and partly reflected in the Acts of Nicaea (ed. ACO II, 3.1, 3.2, 3.3), and for the transmis-
sion of related documents including Hadrian’s Synodica, see Wallach, 1966; Freeman, 1985, 77–81;
Lanne, 1987; Lamberz, 2002, 1055–9; Thümmel, 2005, 221–6. Neil, 2000, 536, remarks ‘the confu-
sion obvious also in modern literature on the subject’ due to the loss, alteration, or misrepresentation
of original documents.
159 Freeman, 1998, 2; Lamberz, 2002, 2008, xxxii–xxxv; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 280, n. 134.
160  LC, incipit, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 97.
161 Freeman, 1985, 74–6, 83–7; followed by Noble, 2009, 164.
162 Ricciardi, 2015, 107.
163 Mansi XII, 1061B–D; ACO II, 3.1, 127–9.
164 Eirene and Constantine VI, Sacra ad synodum, Mansi XII, 1002–1008; ACO II, 3.1, 42–8, esp. 42 for
the statement quoted; Noble, 2009, 77–8.
165 MGH, EK 3, 2, 11. The Capitulare is not extant, its contents are arguably reflected by the LC, see Free-
man, 1985, 86, 1998, 4–5; Noble, 2009, 158–65; Speck, 1998b, hypothesised ninth-century interpola-
tions in the Acts of Nicaea II and in the LC, without taking into account that their manuscript tradition
contradicts this hypothesis; cf. Lamberz, 2002; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 281, n. 138.
 Words, images (754–790s) 75

natural son of God, but had been adopted by God, with this implying a lesser divinity
for Christ and no role for Mary. In truth, the supporters of adoptionism held that the
fully divine Son of God had descended to the level of humankind, and had assumed
a perfect human nature, while remaining the immutable God. According to this view,
in order to be salvific for humankind, Christ had to share all the limitations of human
beings, apart from sin, and thus embrace the status of every Christian as adoptive
child of God.166 Its main representative, Bishop Felix of Urgell, was forced to go to
Rome with Angilbert, and recant on the confessio of St Peter’s.167 Then, Hadrian wrote
to Spanish bishops to exhort them to refrain from this heresy, only to excite Felix
even further.168 Since he lived under Frankish rule, Felix was officially condemned by
the Frankish synods of Regensburg (792) and Frankfurt (794).169 Hadrian’s successor
Leo III would again be concerned about this ‘heresy’, as we shall mention in the next
chapter.
The arrival of the Capitulare prompted Pope Hadrian I to respond. In c.793 he
produced a long letter addressed to Charlemagne – one of the longest papal letters in
the medieval period170 – known as the Hadrianum or Responsum.171 In it, Hadrian
vehemently justifies the production, use, and veneration of sacred images by listing
‘excellent testimonies’, which he (and his collaborators) took care to note down in
due order – testimonies which they ‘ploughed up following the length of the field’, in a
suggestive metaphor conveying the idea of a task laboriously achieved after following
an appropriate sequence.172 In a fit of pique for being critiqued in the Capitulare, in his
response Hadrian does not refrain from remarking that Frankish bishops did attend
the Lateran Synod of 769, and therefore had subscribed to its resolutions in favour

166 On the adoptionism I refer to Cavadini, 1993; for an excellent discussion of the Carolingian inter-
pretations and reactions to this ‘heresy’, see Chazelle, 2001, 52–74; Mitalaité, 2007, 193–248, who
discusses the controversy vis-à-vis the theology propounded by the LC; Kramer, 2016a, 2016b, for its
political implications. For a succinct summary, and its connection to the image controversy, see Noble,
2009, 165, 170–1.
167  Concilium Romanum a. 798, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 203–4.
168 Pope Hadrian I, Letter to the bishops of Spain, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 122–30.
169 Acts of the Council of Frankfurt, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 110–21; McCormick, 1994, 140–2; Mitalaité,
2007, 206–11, on the theological arguments put forward by Alcuin and Paulinus of Aquileia on
the occasion of this council: they both believed the divinity of Christ was rooted in his eternity and
atemporality.
170 Noble, 2009, 163–4.
171 MGH, EK 3, 2, 5–57. See Alexakis, 1994; Neil, 2000, 548–2; Noble, 2009, 163–4; Albiero, 2016, 163.
172 MGH, EK 3, 2, 15: ‘et alia talia plura testimonia, quae exarare per ordinem longum previdemus’. In
Jerome, Epistulae, 108, 32, CSEL 55, 350, l. 4, ‘exarare’ is used to mean ‘write’/‘expound’ as it will be
between the eighth and the ninth centuries; see a letter of Pope Leo III to Charlemagne, MGH, EK 3,
10, 103: ‘sed quia omnia . . . per singula exarare non valemus’; Agnellus of Ravenna, Liber pontificalis
ecclesiae rauennatis, 131, CCCM 199, 307, l. 245: ‘exarare epistolam ad exarchum’. In Vergil, Aeneid,
I, 395, LCL 63, 288, is found ‘ordine longo’ to mean ‘in due order’, and with the same meaning is
used by later authors such as Gregory the Great, Homilies on the Gospels, II, 34, 15, CCSL 141, 314,
l. 399, or Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, V, 10, MGH, SRM 1.1, 205. However, Hadrian’s
‘exarare per ordine longum’ is unusual. A more common metaphor related to ploughing was used
in Latin (boustrophedon) and Greek (βουστροφηδόν) to convey the concept of a bi-directional script,
going from left to right on one line, and vice versa on the next one, turning like oxen in ploughing.
76  Words, images (754–790s)

of the ‘adoration and veneration’ of sacred images, resolutions which Nicaea II had
confirmed.173
At the end of his letter of c.793, Hadrian offered Charlemagne an opportunity: to
restore sacred images and the patrimony of St Peter’s, and thus become the paladin
of the Catholic Church. The pope put it in this way: he admitted that he had not yet
given his approval to the Acts of Nicaea II because he feared that the Byzantines could
revert to their ‘error’, that is the iconoclastic position, but also because they had not
yet answered his request to give back the patrimony of St Peter’s they had confiscated
decades earlier. Then, Hadrian pressurised Charlemagne into restoring sacred images
to their original state (‘in pristino statu’), and into contributing to the restitution of the
patrimony taken by the Byzantines – a loss, Hadrian says, which diminishes the status
of the diocese of Rome, that is the ‘head of all the churches of God’ (‘caput omnium
Dei ecclesiarum’). If Charlemagne did not do all of this, the pope would declare him
‘heretic for persevering in the same error’ (like the Byzantine emperors).174 Doctrinal
matters were bound to practical matters in Hadrian’s pragmatic view of the papacy,175
although his pragmatism did not produce the desired outcomes. In fact, a year later,
in 794, on the occasion of the Synod of Frankfurt, presided over by Charlemagne, the
resolutions of Nicaea were publicly condemned with a dry and succinct statement.176
Papal legates were in attendance, therefore this statement appears deliberately chal-
lenging the papal position, while claiming for Charlemagne his right to deliberate in
matters of doctrine.177

10 Words matter: adoration versus veneration

Given the presence in Rome and even among the papal legates to the Council of
Nicaea II of clerics proficient in Greek and Latin, it is surprising that the Latin transla-
tion of the Acts undertaken within the papal circle was faulty.178 In the incorrect Latin
translation of the horos of Nicaea II, the fundamental statement that images should
be venerated, although not with the same worship that is owed to God, was rendered
with a statement that images were to be venerated with the same worship owed to
God. In particular, proskynesis, usually meant to signify the prostration in front of

173 MGH, EK 3, 2, 15: ‘Porro et praedecessor noster, sanctae recordationis quondam dominus Stephanus
[III] papa similiter cum episcopis partium Franciae atque Italiae praesedente in basilica Salvatoris
Domini nostri Iesu Christi, quondam Constantiniana, praedecessoris sui venerabilem concilium [769]
confirmans atque amplectens, magis magisque et ipse una cum omnibus episcopis praesidentibus sanc-
torum patrum testimonia adhaerentes, adorari atque venerari sacras imagines statuerunt’.
174 MGH, EK 3, 2, 57.
175 For a comment on Hadrian’s pragmatism, see Arnaldi, 1979, 83–5; Ricciardi, 2015, 119–21. Noble,
2001a, 179, wrote that from papal letters, he derived the impression that their main concern was to
administer their properties and estates rather than ‘writing big books’.
176 Acts of the Council of Frankfurt, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 110–71, esp. 165 for section 55, which is the only
one concerned about sacred images: ‘sanctissimi patres nostri omnimodis adorationem et servitudem
renuuentes contempserunt atques consentientes condemnaverunt’. For an appraisal of the significance of
the Synod of Frankfurt and its literature, see Noble, 2009, 169–80; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 283, n. 145.
177 Ricciardi, 2015, 121.
178 Von den Steinen, 1929–1930, 20–3; Freeman, 1998, 1; Noble, 2009, 160.
 Words, images (754–790s) 77

sacred images, was translated in Latin with adoratio, that is literally idolatrous ado-
ration.179 Greek terms associated with the veneration of images could be variously
translated in Latin, leading to ambiguity: for example, λατρεία (latreia) can signify
worship, adoration; προσκύνησις (proskynesis) reverence, worship, honour, adoration,
prostration; ασπασμός (aspasmos) kissing, embracing, salutation. The Carolingians
read adoratio literally, and therefore condemned the resolutions of Nicaea II.180
It has been argued that the terminological controversy between the Carolingians
and Rome originated from the Quaestio 39 of Pseudo-Athanasios.181 This text had
been used by John of Damascus in his apology of sacred images,182 and had been
translated from Greek into Latin on the occasion of the synod held in Rome in 731,183
the resolutions of which had been accepted at the Lateran Synod of 769. With regard
to sacred images, the Latin translation from Pseudo-Athanasios uses interchangeably
the verbs venerare, adorare, and honorificare.184 In excerpts from the fourth session
of the synod of 769, only transmitted in a tenth-century manuscript (London, British
Library, Add. 16413, fols. 4r–6v), adorare and venerare are both used, distinguishing
between the Cross on which Christ was crucified, reproductions of which the faithful

179 This fragment is preserved in the Acts of Nicaea II, see Mansi XII, 1069; ACO II, 3.1, 159: ‘Quia
uero per praeceptum dei imagines factae sunt angelorum, sanctae sunt, et haec animalia erant. Etenim
idola gentium, quia imagines fuerunt daemonum, deus deposuit et condempnauit ea. Nos autem ad
memoriam sanctorum imagines facimus, Abrahae uidelicet, Moysi, Heliae, Esaiae, Zachariae et reli-
quorum prophetarum, apostolorum et martyrum sanctorum, qui propter deum interempti sunt, ut
omnis qui uidet eos in imagine memoretur eorum et glorificet dominum qui glorificauit eos; decet enim
eos honor et adoratio et commendatio nostra secundum iustitiam eorum, ut omnes qui uident eos
festinent et ipsi imitatores effici actionis eorum. Qualis enim est adorationis honoratio nisi tantum que-
madmodum et nos peccatores adoramus et salutamus alterutrum per honorem et dilectionem? Ita et
imaginem domini nostri non aliter adoramus, glorificamus et contremescimus, quia imago est similitu-
dinis eius et in ea ipse depictus est’ (Since, according to God’s command, images of angels have indeed
been fashioned, are sacred, and these were living creatures. Moreover, God set down and condemned
the idols of the gentiles, because these images were of demons. But we produce images to remember
the saints, for example of Abraham, Moses, Elijah, Isaiah, Zacharias, and the other prophets, the
apostles, and the holy martyrs, who were put to death for God’s sake, so that all those who see them in
images may be reminded of them and glorify the Lord who glorified them; our honour and adoration
and praise is fitting for them, according to the saints’ righteousness, so that all those who see them
[the saints] should hasten to make themselves imitators of their deeds. What is, in fact, the honour of
adoration other than the way we sinners adore each other and wish one another well due to [a sense
of] honour and affection? Thus, do we adore, glorify, and tremble before the image of our Lord and
no other, since it is the image of his likeness and in that he himself is depicted’; trans. A. Lappin). The
fragment is also preserved in the Acts of the Synod of Paris (825), MGH, Conc. 2.2, 512. Cf. LC II,
24, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 280; Freeman, 1998, 1.
180 LC,
 incipit, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 97: ‘In nomine Domini et Salvatoris nostri Jhesu Christi, incipit
opus inlustrissimi et excellentissimi seu spectabilis viri Caroli, nutu Dei regis Francorum, Gallias, Ger-
maniam Italiamque, sive harum finitimas provintias, Domino opitulante, regentis, contra Synodum
que in partibus Graetiae pro adorandis imaginibus stolide sive arroganter gesta est’; trans. Neil, 2000,
550.
181 This is the hypothesis of Mitalaité, 2006, 12ff. See Quaestio 39, in Quaestiones ad Antiochum ducem,
PG 28, 621–22.
182 John of Damascus, On the Divine Images, III, 59, PTS 17, 169; trans. Louth, 2003, 119.
183 For this hypothesis, see Böhringer, 1992, 99–100.
184 See the acts of the Concilium Romanum a. 769, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 87–8, where these terms are applied
to icons and relics; their confusion is ‘involuntary’ according to Ricciardi, 2015, 94–5, n. 54.
78 Words, images (754–790s)

can adore, and man-made images or objects which can be venerated.185 Already John
of Damascus had tried to distinguish between worship and veneration.186 However,
the distinction between worship and veneration remained blurred in the ‘art talk’ of
the early medieval West, as noted by Thomas Noble.187
Hadrian I, in the Synodica he directed to the Byzantine emperors in 785, uses ven-
erare for images.188 A few years later, in the Hadrianum to Charlemagne, this distinc-
tion is more nuanced, probably with the aim of justifying the terminology employed
at Nicaea.189 As a matter of fact, the terminological distinction between adoratio and
veneratio would be clearly defined only later, in the ninth century. The Frankish monk
Paschasius Radbertus (d. 865) wrote that only God and no other should be the object
of latreia.190 In a new Latin translation of the Acts of Nicaea II produced at the papal
court in 873,191 Anastasius Bibliothecarius would draw the distinction between hon-
our, salutation, embrace, adoration, and latreia. However, he downplays the question
which had been pivotal for the Carolingians by reducing it to a terminological issue.
In fact, he follows the assumption that the respect paid to sacred images should be
embraced by the faithful as they embrace the overall tradition of the Church (‘traditio-
nem ecclesiam’), its pious and legitimate consuetude (‘piam et legitimam consuetudi-
nem’), and ancient laws (‘antiqua iura’).192

185 Ed. Böhringer, 1992, 102–5, esp. 105: ‘Ita et lignum crucis efficitur vel imago Christi dei nostri salva-
toris aut sanctorum diversorum depingitur, in omnibus venerari oportet. Crucem videlicet pro eo, quod
crucifixus est in ea Christus, adoramus fideles et salutamus crucem’; see also Ricciardi, 2015, 94, n. 54.
186 Parry, 1996, 166; Louth, 2007, 86–7.
187 Noble, 2009, 34, 91, 181–2, where he extends this observation also to the LC. See also Ricciardi,
2015, 95, n. 56.
188 For example, see Mansi XII, 1057: ‘quibus et auctoritatis potestatem, quemadmodum a saluatore
nostro domino deo ei concessa est, et ipse quoque suis contulit ac tradidit diuino iussu successoribus
pontificibus, quorum traditione Christi sacram effigiem sanctaeque eius genitricis apostolorumque uel
omnium sanctorum ueneramur imagines’; ibidem, 1065: ‘O insania frementium contra fidem et reli-
gionem christianam, ut asserant non colere aut uenerari imagines, in quibus figurae sunt saluatoris
[effigies] et eius genitricis uel sanctorum, quorum uirtute subsistit orbis atque potitur humanum genus
salute’; ACO II, 3.1, 123, 133.
189 MGH, EK 3, 2, 5–57, for example 11: ‘sanctorum imaginum veneratione’; 15: ‘Qui non instruunt dili-
genter omnem Christo dilectum populum adorari et venerari sacras et venerandas imagines omnium
sanctorum, qui a saeculo Deo placuerunt, anathema’ (cf. Acts of Nicaea II, Mansi XII, 1015–1016;
ACO II, 3.1, 60–1: ‘His qui non docent diligenter cunctum Christi amatorem populum adorare
[‘προσκυνεῖν’] uenerabiles et sacras ac honorandas iconas omnium sanctorum, qui a saeculo deo placu-
erunt, anathema’); 19–20, 27, 34, 37, 42; Ricciardi, 2015, 95, n. 54.
190 Paschasius Radbertus, Expositio in Matheo, 3, CCCM 56, l. 786: ‘Namque in eo quod ait: Illi soli
seruies recte illa solius Dei seruitus exprimitur quae nulli alteri quam Deo soli debetur quam Greci
ΛΑΤΡΙΑΜ uocant’; see Boulhol, 2002, 74.
191 For the transmission of this text in various manuscripts, see Lamberz, 2008, xxxv–xlv; for its edition
see ACO II, 3.1.
192 Mansi XIII, 362; ACO II, 3.3, 789: ‘Suscipiamus ergo traditionem ecclesiae; honoremus legislationem;
ne scrutemur piam et legitimam consuetudinem, ne curiose agamus aduersus antiqua iura . . . itaque
sentimus bonum et optimum esse uenerabilium imaginum positionem in ecclesia fieri et spiritaliter
reduci per has ad principalium suorum memoriam atque istas propter earundem honorificentiam
et salutare et amplecti ac debitam adorationem impendere, siue ergo salutationem alicui sit gratum
uocare siue adorationem; hoc ipsum enim est utrumque, nisi forte quis adorationem quae “catala-
trian” exhibetur intellegat; alia est enim haec, ut multipliciter est ostensum – tantum dignus is qui
accedit sit adoratione; at si non fuerit dignus, purificetur primum et ita demum accedat ad imagina-
lem uenerabilem formam. Ne instantia satanica sit erga adorationem earum neque formido nequam
 Words, images (754–790s)  79

11 Papal artistic patronage as an iconophile argument

To the focal question posed by the Carolingian Capitulare about ‘where’ in the Old
or New Testament or in the resolutions of the Six Ecumenical Councils was it com-
manded that images should be made and adored,193 in the Hadrianum the pope
responded vehemently, although evading the core of the question. In fact, he went
on to list initiatives of artistic patronage promoted by his predecessors coincident
with (but not as a result of) the Six Ecumenical Councils, starting with Sylvester, and
including Damasus, Sixtus III, and Gregory the Great. Hadrian concludes by saying:

In order to list all the many churches that our predecessors, one by one, as a cause
of wonder, built up to the present, setting up therein holy statues and depicting
different stories, and, furthermore, venerating them (in an apostolic manner, we
dare say), there would not be enough time for us to enumerate either their build-
ings with the holy statues, nor to narrate the stories that were painted.194

In his Synodica to the emperors Eirene and Constantine VI, he had listed his imme-
diate predecessors, from Gregory II and Gregory III, to Zacharias, Stephen II, Paul
I, and Stephen III, with the purpose of presenting them as role models because they
had resisted the ‘great scandal’ (‘ingens scandalum’) provoked by Emperor Leo III
by deposing sacred images. Interestingly, Hadrian hints that this ‘scandal’ had been
the result of instigations on the part of impious people (‘per quorundam impiorum
immissiones’), in this way almost discharging the full responsibility of the ancestor of
the present rulers (‘uester proauus’).195 (On this point, see also the inscription from
Corteolona dating to c.730 examined in Chapter 1.)
In sum, like his immediate predecessors, Hadrian did not embark on subtle theolog-
ical reasoning or expositions to combat iconoclasm but clung to the authority of the
Fathers and the traditions of the Church, which, in his eyes, also included papal artis-
tic patronage in the form of the promotion of pictorial imagery. However, if at first in
his letter Hadrian appears to take a fierce iconophile stance, he subsequently seems to
slide towards the traditional and widely accepted position of Pope Gregory the Great
who acknowledged an educative and eventually uplifting role for sacred images.196

suspicionis habens occasionem, quia, si accessero imagini hanc salutaturus, inuenior latrian quae in
spiritu est huic impendere’. See also another passage, Mansi XIII, 377; ACO II, 3.3, 827: ‘quanto enim
frequentius per imaginalem formationem uidentur, tanto qui has contemplantur alacrius eriguntur
ad primitiuorum earum memoriam et desiderium et ad osculum et ad honoratoriam his adorationem
tribuendam, non tamen ad ueram latrian, quae secundum fidem est quaeque solam diuinam naturam
decet, inpartiendam’. The latter one is commented by Neil, 2000, 550.
193 MGH, EK 3, 2, 49: ‘ubi in veteri vel novo testamento aut in sex synodalibus conciliis iubeatur imagines
facere vel factas adorare’.
194 MGH, EK 3, 2, 49–50, esp. 50: ‘Si enim voluerimus enarrare per ordinem nostrorum praedecesso-
rum pontificum, quantas ecclesias fecerunt usque nunc, mirifice in eas sacras imagines erigentes atque
diversas historias pingentes nec non et venerantes, apostolice audemus dicere, deficeret nos tempus
enumerandi atque eorum edificia cum sacris imaginibus et historiis explanandi’ (trans. A. Lappin). On
this point, see Neil, 2000, 540; Ricciardi, 2015, 116–17.
195 Mansi XII, 1060D–1061B; ACO II, 3.1, 127.
196 MGH, EK 3, 2, 49ff.; on the spiritual function of images, see ibidem, 33, 56; Kessler, 1994, 542ff.; see
Mitalaité, 2006, 19–20, 23.
80 Words, images (754–790s)

12 The authority of Gregory the Great

between Rome and Francia
One of the Christian authorities to which Hadrian had recourse to was Gregory the
Great. His writings had been the only authority recalled by the Carolingians in their
Capitulare against Nicaea II. This choice needs to be contextualised in the period of
the controversy over sacred images.197 In fact, between the late seventh and the late
eighth century his authority in Italy had been acknowledged discontinuously.198 This
was probably the result of the fact that during his pontificate (590–604), Gregory
supported monastic circles, which elicited the dislike of secular clergy.199 Besides this,
he seemed to have more interest in preaching to elite monastic circles than to the
masses – which he nonetheless addressed in difficult circumstances, such as the plague
that struck Rome soon after his election in 590, when he established the laetaniae
septiformes (see Chapter 1).
Gregory the Great had concerned himself with the question of sacred images in two
letters he wrote to Bishop Serenus of Marseille to reprimand him for his iconoclastic
attitude, and to suggest that images should be used for teaching the illiterate, and not
be venerated or destroyed. Moreover, Gregory suggests, the vision of res gestae, that is
the deeds of Christ, his saints and martyrs, should inspire compunction in the faithful,
and lead them to prostrate in adoration of the omnipotent Holy Trinity.200 The latter
statement hinted that worship could take place before the work of art.201

197 Ricciardi, 2015, specifically examines the use Hadrian I and the Franks made of the authority of
Gregory the Great at the time of the controversy over sacred images.
198 On the cultural appropriation of Gregory’s memory and teachings between the seventh and the tenth
centuries in various corners of Europe, see Leyser, 2010, 2016. On the establishment of a cult of
Gregory in Rome, I refer to Thacker, 1998, also for earlier literature. See McClure, 1978, 131–74 on
Gregory’s active engagement in preaching to the people of Rome while he was pope; 149–51 on his
frequent appeal to eschatological themes; 163–4, and 173 on his preference to write homilies, rather
than deliver them, also because of poor health (Gregory the Great, Homilies on the Gospels, II, 21,
1, CCSL 141, 173, ll. 1–3: ‘Multis uobis lectionibus, fratres carissimi, per dictatum loqui consueui,
sed quia, lassescente stomacho, ea quae dictauero legere ipse non possum, quosdam uestrum minus
libenter audientes intueor’).
199 For example, this is hinted at in the entry of Gregory’s successor, Sabinianus, in the LP I, 315, n. 6,
who replaced with secular clergy those monks which had been given prominent posts under Gregory.
200 Gregory the Great, Epistola IX, 209, CCSL 140A, 768: ‘Praeterea indico dudum ad nos peruenisse
quod fraternitas uestra quosdam imaginum adoratores aspiciens easdem ecclesiis imagines confregit
atque proiecit. Et quidem zelum uos, ne quid manufactum adorari possit, habuisse laudauimus, sed
frangere easdem imagines non debuisse iudicamus. Idcirco enim pictura in ecclesiis adhibetur, ut hi
qui litteras nesciunt saltem in parietibus uidendo legant, quae legere in codicibus non ualent. Tua
ergo fraternitas et illa seruare et ab eorum adoratu populum prohibere debuit, quatenus et litterarum
nescii haberent, unde scientiam historiae colligerent, et populus in picturae adoratione minime pec-
caret’; he returns to the same arguments and expands them in the following Epistola XI, 10, CCSL
140A, 873–6, from where (l. 59) comes the quotation: ‘ex uisione rei gestae ardorem compunctionis
percipiant et in adoratione solius omnipotentis sanctae trinitatis humiliter prosternantur’. On Gregory
the Great’s image theory as expounded in these letters, the English translation of relevant parts, and
their misrepresentation in historiography, see Chazelle, 1990; Cavallo, 1994, 47ff., for a critique to
Chazelle’s assumption that Gregory was relying on Augustine, while instead he seems to rely on the
eastern Fathers; see also Kessler, 1985, where he hypothesises that Gregory the Great intended art as
an important instrument for the conversion of the last pagans of Gaul.
201 Chazelle, 1990, 143–4.
 Words, images (754–790s) 81

During the eighth century, not only his letters to Serenus but also another one,
addressed to a monk, Secundinus, were the object of special attention.202 Gregory’s
letters were quoted in iconophile florilegia used on the occasion of the Roman synods
of 731 and 769,203 but also in Hadrian’s Synodica, which echoes the idea that ‘images
and paintings of the Sacred Scriptures and of the deeds of the saints’ (‘imagines atque
picturas diuinae scripturae et gesta sanctorum’) elicit a pious compuction.204 Hadrian
embraces Gregory’s idea that images have an emotional dimension or agency which
can deeply affect the viewer’s perception.205 In the second half of the eighth century,
the letter to Secundinus was purposefully ‘edited’ in order to present Gregory the
Great as a fervent iconophile. The interpolated text goes beyond Gregory’s recogni-
tion of the utility of sacred images to instruct the faithful in the consecrated space of
the church: it also admits their veneration because of their efficacy in recalling their
divine prototype.206 Moreover, the interpolator sets aside Gregory’s standpoint that
literate clerics should mediate the apprehension of sacred images and their teachings
in the church,207 in order to promote, instead, a direct, private relationship between
sacred images and the faithful. This is in line with what iconophiles maintained over
the eighth century.208 Because the interpolator seems aware of other sources of the flo-
rilegia used at the Lateran Synod of 769, this has led to speculation that he was part
of the team engaged in the redaction of the florilegia.209

202 Gregory the Great, Epistola IX, 148, interpolated, in Appendix X, CCSL 140A, 1110–11.
203 This is stated by the Hadrianum, MGH, EK 3, 2, 19.
204 Gregory the Great, Epistola XI, 10, CCSL 140A, 875, ll. 60–2: ‘ex uisione rei gestae ardorem com-
punctionis percipiant et in adoratione solius omnipotentis sanctae trinitatis humiliter prosternantur’;
cf. Hadrian I, Synodica, Mansi XII, 1060E; ACO II, 3.1, 127: ‘easdem imagines atque picturas ob
memoriam piae compunctionis uenerantes obseruauerunt et in partibus illis usque in tempora proaui
serenitatis uestrae horthodoxe coluerunt’. Hadrian also quotes Epistola IX, 209, CCSL 140A, 768, ll.
13–14, in his Synodica, Mansi XII, 1060D; ACO II, 3.1, 127: ‘Sicut et praecipuus pater atque idoneus
praedicator beatus Gregorius huius apostolicae sedis praesul ait: “ut hi qui litteras nesciunt, saltem in
parietibus uidendo legant quae legere in codicibus non ualent”, etc.’.
205 Apropos of Hadrian’s use of Gregory, Schmitt, 1987, 276, speaks of ‘dimension affective’; he also
remarks that compunction, a sort of painful humility, as an important component of Gregory’s moral
theology.
206 Appendix X, CCSL 140A, 1110–11, ll. 168–96. On this interpolation as representing the core of papal
image theory in the late eighth century, namely under Hadrian I, see Schmitt, 1987, 275–7; Kessler,
2000, 123; Thunø, 2002, 140–1; Ricciardi, 2015, who at 90–101 reconstructs the possible circum-
stances of this interpolation in Rome between the synod of 731 and c.790.
207 Gregory the Great, Epistola XI, 10, CCSL 140A, 873, ll. 44–50: ‘Conuocandi enim sunt diuersi eccle-
siae filii, eis que scripturae sacrae est testimoniis ostendendum quia omne manufactum adorare non
liceat, quoniam scriptum est: dominum deum tuum adorabis et illi soli seruies; ac deinde subiungen-
dum: quia picturas imaginum, quae ad aedificationem imperiti populi factae fuerant, ut nescientes lit-
teras ipsam historiam intendentes, quid dictum sit discerent, transisse in adorationem uideras, idcirco
commotus es, ut eas imagines frangi praeciperes’.
208 Ricciardi, 2015, 93.
209 Ricciardi, 2015, argues for a period between 731–790s for its redaction, while Ricciardi, 2016, argues
for 769, at the time of the Lateran Synod. For example, the interpolator seems aware of passages on
the possibility of representing the invisible through the visible, and on images that can elevate the
mind from the corporeal to the incorporeal, from Pseudo-Dionysios, Epistola 10, and On the Celestial
Hierarchy, CD 2, PTS 36; see Alexakis, 1996, 135; Noble, 2009, 120. On the use of Pseudo-Dionysios
during the iconoclastic controversy, see Louth, 1997, 331–2.
82 Words, images (754–790s)

In these decades, the enormous corpus of letters of Gregory the Great had attracted
attention beyond the Alps. The Frankish Abbot Adalard of Corbie requested the
Lombard monk Paul the Deacon to select letters of the pope, which he did between
786/7 and 790, once back in Italy from the court of Charlemagne. This collection is
known as Collectio Pauli (Saint Petersburg, Library M.E. Saltykova Shchedrina, ms.
F.V.I. 7). Besides letters concerned with Byzantine and Frankish questions, and others
about administrative and jurisdictional matters, in his collection Paul also included
two letters Gregory the Great had written about the function of sacred images, one
to the Bishop of Marseilles, and the one to Secundinus.210 While for the majority of
them Paul most probably used the originals of the letters held in Rome, for the one
to Secundinus he opted for another source, likely the papal florilegium of 769, not
knowing it had been previously interpolated.211 Possibly through the same source, the
interpolated letter to Secundinus also reached Hadrian, who – unaware like Paul the
Deacon that the text had been altered – mentioned it in his Hadrianum.
Gregory the Great had been the only doctrinal auctoritas that the theologians at
the court of Charlemagne used to formulate their refutation on the Acts of Nicaea II
in their Capitulare. This is what can be argued from the Hadrianum. Hadrian fights
them back on the same ground: he refers several times to the writings of his authorita-
tive predecessor – the ‘mellifluous, blessed doctor Gregory the theologian’ – including
the letters to Serenus and Secundinus, only to firmly rebuke the theses of the Carolin-
gian theologians.212

13 Raising the bar : The Libri Carolini

During the eighth century, neither the popes, nor their Latin and Greek clergy, nor
any of the other scholars active in Italy engaged in a fully articulate, reasoned image
theory. The Synodica and the Hadrianum, the letters which Pope Hadrian I addressed,
respectively, to the Byzantine emperors in 785 and to the king of the Franks in c.793,
are the only discursive sources in this regard. As we have seen, the papal response to
Byzantine iconoclasm relied on relatively simplistic arguments: tradition and authority.
Paradoxically, the very same arguments of tradition and authority underlay the icono-
clastic position expressed by the Council of Hiereia that labelled the cult of sacred
images subversive of the Law of Moses and of the early tradition of the Church.213 In
the early 790s, for the first time in the West, theologians in the circle of Charlemagne
formulated an image theory. Leaving aside the argument of the tradition of their ven-
eration and the authority of the Church Fathers, which they questioned with regard

210 The circumstances which surrounded the compilation of this collection, as well as its earlier literature,
are discussed by Ricciardi, 2015, 82–6.
211 Ricciardi, 2015, 100–1.
212 Ricciardi, 2015, 115, n. 128. Gregory is explicitly mentioned and quoted at MGH, EK 3, 2, 15; 19–20;
22 (where he is defined ‘melliflus doctor beatus Gregorius theologus’); 26.
213 On the appropriation of the ‘simplistic’ argument of ‘tradition’ by iconophiles or by contesters of
icons, see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 139, 248ff., 284–5. More sophisticated and based on a deep philo-
sophical culture would be the response of iconophiles in the second phase of the controversy; for a
recent appraisal see Erismann, 2016, 2017.
 Words, images (754–790s) 83

to their authenticity or relevance,214 the theologians of Charlemagne addressed sacred

images at a theoretical and doctrinal level.
Presented as the work of Charlemagne himself, but actually written by his court
theologians in the years before the Synod of Frankfurt (794), the Opus Caroli or Libri
Carolini were conceived as an official critique to the endorsement of sacred images
maintained by Hadrian I and by Nicaea II.215 In fact, Charlemagne’s court theologians
believed that images are simply useful to recall biblical events, set moral examples,
and decorate churches.216 Moreover, images can be appreciated for the preciousness of
their materials, and be judged ‘precious, more precious, most precious’, but not ‘holy,
holier, holiest’, because they are not worthy of being venerated like their divine or
holy prototypes.217 Images are dangerous because, while the learned ones can avoid
adoration since they venerate not images per se but what they represent, the illiterate
only venerate and adore what they see, and therefore err.218 On the issue of the holy, the
authors of the Libri Carolini seem to side with the iconoclastic Emperor Constantine
V and the bishops convened at Hiereia, because they held that the holy ‘has little to
do with icons’.219 This contrasted with the papal iconophile position that held icons not
only useful, but also holy, and capable of mediating salvation. This notwithstanding,
the Libri Carolini did not deny miracles performed by or through sacred images.220
All in all, the position of the Carolingians on the subject was heavily dependent
on Augustine, who believed that mental vision is more valuable than bodily vision.221
Their rational analysis of image worship, and their subtle distinction between image
(imago), similitude (similitudo), and analogy (aequalitas), decidedly raised the bar in
the western debate over sacred images.
The theological and philosophical complexity of the Libri Carolini, and their sup-
port of a position similar to the one held by the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia with
regard to the cult of images,222 prevented them from enjoying wide appreciation.223
This could explain why they were not even sent to the main ecclesiastical or monastic

214 This transpires in the Hadrianum, see Neil, 2000, 551.

215 On their authorship by the Visigoth court theologian Theodulf of Orléans, although revised in some
parts by others, see Freeman, 1985. On their philosophical and theological implications, see the mono-
graph by Mitalaité, 2007.
216 The commemorative function of sacred images is recalled several times in the LC, for example in
praefatio; II, 13; II, 22; II; 31; III, 26, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 99, 102, 237, 259, 327, 465. See
Freeman, 1994. On diverging eastern and western attitudes to the relationship between image and
prototype, see Brubaker, 1995, 5–16.
217 LC II, 1, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 118, ll. 24–6; see Freeman, 1994, 164.
218 LC  III, 16, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 411, ll. 15–20; see Freeman, 1994, 181.
219 Brown, 1973, 6, 9; Freeman, 1994, 169.
220 Sansterre, forthcoming, notes that, although the Carolingians did not admit that sacred images could
lead to the divine, they nonetheless conceded that images could function as a channel from heaven to
earth.
221 Augustine, De diversis quaestionibus LXXXIII, LXXIV, CCSL 44A, 213, 5–8; LC I, 8, 145, 17–30;
see Ianiro, 2010–2011, 110–38. On the relevance of Augustine in the LC, see Chazelle, 1995, esp. 12,
2001, 42; Mitalaité, 2007, 18, passim.
222 On the similarity of position taken by Hiereia and the LC, II, 30 (against those who venerate images
like Sacred Scriptures on the basis of the purity of their faith), MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1, 304–22, see
Gero, 1973b; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 282.
223 Freeman, 1994, 187; Wirth, 2004, 9–11; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 307.
Figure 2.7  Libri Carolini, incipit, Reims, c.869–70, Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, ms. 663, fol. 1r.
Photo: © BnF.
 Words, images (754–790s) 85

centres within the Carolingian domain.224 Only two copies of the Libri Carolini are
known, one of the late eighth century and preserved in Rome since 1784 (BAV, ms.
Vat. lat. 7207), and the other dating to the second half of the ninth century and pre-
served in Paris (Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, ms. 663)225 (Figure 2.7). Lost during the
Counter-Reformation, a third copy is mentioned in an inventory of the Biblioteca
Vaticana of 1481.226
As could be expected, the Libri Carolini did not meet with the favour of the papacy.
Their authors and Charlemagne himself must have soon realised that the theoretical
assumptions of the Libri Carolini were implausible when compared not only with
daily devotional and liturgical practices even in the same Carolingian domain,227 but
especially with the long-attested, consistent, and doctrinally straightforward papal
support for the production and veneration of sacred images.228 In the following decades,
the Carolingians became increasingly concerned with regulating the life of the Church,
of its secular and regular clergy, as well as with asserting their authority as political
leaders. However, distinct from the case of the image controversy, their ecclesiastical
reforms seem to have been the result not of ‘a unilateral, strictly top-down process,
but . . . a meeting of minds, an attempt to reconcile different points of view’.229 This
is what transpires when looking at the conciliating resolutions of the Synod of Paris,
convened by Charlemagne’s heir, Louis the Pious in 825 (see Chapter 4).

Conclusions
This chapter has retraced the debate on sacred images conducted among the papacy,
Byzantium, and the Carolingians in the second half of the eighth century. The icono-
clastic and the iconophile stances have been contrasted through a selection of relevant
excerpts from extant writings. We have seen how tradition, authority, and the Incar-
nation were contested between the various parties in their effort to gain doctrinal
supremacy in matters beyond the question of sacred images. It has become clear that
papal iconophilia was not a well-laid-out theory, but an ancient, favourable attitude
to the incorporation of images in the life of the Church. In the second half of the

224 The only visual reflections of the mentality lying behind the Libri Carolini would appear to be the
programme of imagery in the apsidal mosaic of Germigny-des-Prés, commissioned by Theodulf, one of
the leading court theologians, who was directly engaged in composing the LC, in c.806; see Freeman,
Meyvaert, 2001; cf. Foletti, 2014, also for previous literature on this mosaic. Also the aniconic bibles
Theodulf commissioned after revising the text of the Bible for the sake of consistency can be taken
as an instance of his position with regards to figural imagery, see London, BL, Add MS 24142; Paris,
BnF, cod. lat. 9380 and cod. lat. 11937; Stuttgart, Württembergische Landesbibliothek MS HB. II
16; Le Puy Cathedral, Trésor de la Cathédrale, unnumbered manuscript; Copenhagen, Det Kongelige
Bibliotek, MS NKS 1.
225 This copy was most probably ordered by Bishop Hincmar of Reims in c.869–70. He recalled having
read the LC at the palace in Aachen when he was young and also that Charlemagne sent another copy
of the LC to Rome; see Hincmar of Reims, Opusculum LV capitulorum, MGH, Conc. 4, Suppl. 2, 220,
1–6; dismissed by Freeman, 1985, 66–8, 96–9, this source has been re-evaluated by Ianiro, 2010–2011.
226 Ianiro, 2010–2011, 18–24.
227 Palazzo, 1993; Sansterre, forthcoming.
228 Freeman, 1994, 187, writes that the lack of papal approval determined the decision not to disseminate
the LC. On their scarce circulation, due to their ‘controversial content’, see also Neil, 2000, 550.
229 Kramer, 2019, 29.
86 Words, images (754–790s)

eighth century, papal iconophilia had to be put into the written word to oppose the
iconophobia of Byzantine emperors and the scepticism towards the holiness of sacred
images on the part of the Carolingians.
Among the sources brought into the discussion, one had never previously been con-
sidered with regards to iconoclasm: the historical preface accompanying the Latin
translation of the most famous Greek hymn in honour of Mary. Written between
c.754–75, probably in a Greek-speaking circle in Rome, its historical reliability about
Patriarch Germanos taking shelter in Rome may be questioned. Nonetheless, it pro-
jects the anxiety felt by those who opposed the iconoclastic Emperor Constantine
V – possibly not only because of the image controversy – and who eventually sought
shelter in Rome or elsewhere. Although the number of refugees produced by religious
controversies might have been much smaller than that which the sources pretend, it
is the case that between the seventh and the mid-eighth centuries Rome had a diverse
Christian community, reflected in those who were elected to the papal throne.
In office soon after the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia, Pope Paul I not only contrib-
uted by sheltering ‘Greeks’ in his former family home, but also by pursuing a strategy
of public communication on the stage of S. Maria Antiqua, the main church in Rome
for the ‘Greek’ community. The vast programme of mural paintings he promoted had
three principal themes, which seem tailored to contemporary needs: the capacity of
pictorial images to mediate relationship with the divine; the promotion of the cult
of eastern and western saints, side by side; and the promotion of Mary as principal
intercessor for humankind before Christ–Judge. Paul attentively used artistic patron-
age to promote the doctrinal and political authority of the papacy, which aspired
to be ‘orthodox’ and ecumenical in doctrine and practices. His successor Stephen III
convened a synod at the Lateran in which lay interference in ecclesiastical matters was
condemned – this included also the Byzantine iconoclastic stance on sacred images.
More than any of his predecessors, Pope Hadrian I argued vehemently in favour of
the production and veneration of sacred images and put it in writing. The arguments
he deployed, like his predecessors, were the Church’s tradition of venerating sacred
images and the authority of its Fathers to underpin this practice, but also the tradition
of papal artistic patronage, dating back to the early fourth century when Christianity
was legitimised by Emperor Constantine. He did not venture into complex theoretical
justifications for the representation of the holy or the divine. On the contrary, the Car-
olingians made a major effort at formulating an image theory on a theoretical–philo-
sophical basis and produced a lengthy treatise in the name of Charlemagne, which did
not enjoy wide distribution. From the moment it came out, in fact, it was outdated
by the common practice of using images in liturgy and private devotion, within and
without the Carolingian domains. As Rutger Kramer has put it: ‘Even if the final word
in such [theological] controversies may have been spoken from the top down, they
were essentially responses to impulses from below’.230 The pope seems to have been
more alert to these impulses than the Carolingian or Byzantine rulers, at least during
the period of the image controversy.

230 Kramer, 2019, 23.

Chapter 3

Textual icons
Iconophile thinking and preaching in
central Italy

Moral, exegetical, and liturgical texts that witness a favourable attitude to thinking
about and through images in eighth-century central Italy are the object of this chapter.
Verbal representations, as well as pictorial images, but also liturgical practices and
liturgical texts, were ‘signs’ or facets of the same culture or ‘sign–system’ which was
functional in conveying, sharing, and confirming beliefs as well as bonding communi-
ties.1 In particular, we shall concentrate on the work of Ambrose Autpert (d. 784), an
author born in Gaul who spent his life at the monastery of S. Vincenzo al Volturno.
His writings articulate a favourable attitude to visual thinking and to images in the
broadest sense, that is immaterial (for example, mental, textual and liturgical), and
material (based on tangible media).2 And although never explicit about iconoclasm,
his writings seem to side with, and at the same time probably nurture, the papal focus
on Mary as the vessel for the Incarnation. In other words, they seem to constitute
a textual record of an ‘orthodox’, iconophile mentality the evidence for which has
barely survived for Rome.
Autpert flourished centuries after the great patristic tradition; he was far from the
culture of the British Isles and stood against the grain of Carolingian court scholars
interested in classical letters and arts.3 He was not intellectually isolated, though. In
fact, he developed a deep acquaintance with eastern theology, spirituality, and liturgy
that is palpable in his writings.4 His voice resounds with, and expands on, themes
dealt with by the first generation of eastern iconophiles. Therefore, an analysis of
specific traits of his thought can widen our understanding of the iconophile attitude –
at least the one expressed by a self-professed ‘orthodox’ monk and preacher living in
central Italy during the period of the image controversy.
Since the early twentieth century, various authoritative scholars posited that his writ-
ings inspired many works of art produced between the ninth and the twelfth centuries
in various corners of the West, which had Mary and the Incarnate God as subject

1 Cameron, 1992, 4, 32, on complex sign–systems embodying ‘ways of perceiving truth’.

2 On the concept and theory of mental imagery, see the appraisal in Thomas, 2016. Of great interest in
a cultural–historical perspective, is the treatment of mental images in Carruthers, 2006. On ‘liturgical
images’, see Ó Carragáin, 2013.
3 See Ap, 8, prologue, CCCM 27A, 636, ll. 8–15; Dell’Acqua, 2016a.
4 This has been noted, but not explored by O’Carroll, 1982, 126–7; Wisskirchen, 1995–1997, 384; Gam-
bero, 2007.
88 Textual icons in central Italy

matter.5 In the last few decades, scholars have brought into the discussion works of art
produced under Paschal I (817–24), a strenuous champion of iconophilia.6 While an
association with Autpert may be justified in the case of works of art produced where
he lived or where his writings circulated (for example, Rome, as we shall see in the next
chapters), in others an association appears more problematic. In fact, the modalities
through which his writings eventually came to be known, and which inspired patrons
or makers of figural imagery, remain unexplored. Scholars relied on the assumption
that they were well known, since they enjoyed wide circulation in Italy, north of the
Alps, and in Britain during or shortly after his lifetime.7 In truth, his writings still await
to be contextualised in the cultural–historical developments of the eighth century, and
especially against the image controversy, which I will try to do in this chapter.8
After analysing the traits of Autpert’s iconophile thinking, we will consider evidence
that witnesses his closeness to the popes. We will then examine his position in rela-
tion to the image controversy and the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia (754), to which
he seems to have opposed vivid ‘textual icons’ – images of the Incarnate God and his
human mother made with highly figural words. In his spirituality and preaching, the
Virgin Mary has a central position, and because of this, he is acknowledged as one
of the main Mariologists of the medieval period. In order to retrace from where he
derived an interest in Mary and an inclination to promote her cult, we will look at
how Mary was regarded in Rome and in central Italian monasteries during his lifetime
but also at the place she had gained in Greek theological and liturgical texts, which he
appears to be aware of. We will look at evidence in his writings to explore the possibil-
ity that he knew Greek and Greek authors. Since he promotes the figure of Mary, the
vessel of Incarnation, especially in his homilies, we will consider the idea that homilies
were used as tools of mass communication.
A final section in this chapter will deal with the relationship between texts and images,
one of the oldest issues in art history,9 in order to pave the way for how texts will be used
in the following chapters. Usually scholars have looked at the relationship between texts
and images in terms of a one-way, usually top-down transmission of themes: texts have
been taken as commentaries on images, or images as illustrations of texts.10 Instead, we
should avoid using them almost mechanically to explain figural imagery, and consider
some important questions that are often overlooked in studies that deal with the relation

5 Many studies have analysed works of art in relation with Autpert’s writings, from the mosaics of Pas-
chal I, the Crypt of Epyphanius, an apocalyptic cycle in Lombard Apulia, Exultet rolls, to French high
and late medieval sculpture: Bertaux, 1900; Toesca, 1904; Belting, 1968; Nilgen, 1974; Christe, 1976,
1984, 2006; Skubiszewski, 1988; Bertelli, 1990; Klein, 1990; Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998;
Christe, 1996; Fraïsse, 1999; Ballardini, 1999, 2007; Exner, 2000; Thunø, 2002, 2005; Osborne, 2003;
Orabona, 2006; Papastavrou, 2007; Peroni, 2007; Speciale, 2008; Mitchell, 2014; Dell’Acqua, 2010b,
2013a, 2013b, 2015.
6 Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998; Ballardini, 1999, 2007; Thunø, 2002, 2005.
7 On the circulation of his writings in Italy, north of the Alps, and in Anglo-Saxon England between the
eighth and ninth centuries, see Weber, 1979, CCCM 27B, 882–90; De Rubeis, 1996, 24; Braga, 2006,
522–4; Shaw, 2009, 18–27; Orofino, 2010; Billett, 2014, 121, n. 160.
8 The only study that has contextualised Autpert in the culture of his time, although not against the back-
drop of theological disputes, is Leonardi, 1968; Diesenberger, 2016, has related Autpert’s moral writings
to the Carolingian reformistic policy, although his political proximity to Charlemagne is far from secure.
9 Cf. Maguire, 1980–1981; Cavallo, 1994; Kessler, 2000, 2007b; James, 2007.
10 For a critique, see Hamburger, 2006a, 5; Labatt, 2012, 43.
 Textual icons in central Italy 89

between extant texts and images. Did text and images belong to separate worlds? Why
and how was any specific text selected and adopted as a source of inspiration for creat-
ing an art image? How did a text become known to those who were responsible for
conceiving an image or for manufacturing it? Was it at times a mental vision, a memory,
or a fresh perception of a visual image that shaped a textual image? How can texts help
us understand images in a wider cultural–historical perspective? While it is beyond the
scope of this book try to solve these questions, they will nonetheless be considered.

1 A witness of iconophile thinking in central Italy

As we have seen in the previous two chapters, the eighth-century papal apologia for
sacred images, which was put in writing in official letters and acts of synods, can be
boiled down to statements about the tradition of venerating sacred images and to
appeals to the authority of the Church Fathers who endorsed the view that the honour
paid to images passes on to their divine or holy prototype. In the face of opposition
from Byzantine and Carolingian rulers, Hadrian was adamant that Rome, ‘which
is the head of all the churches of God’, should dictate the line of conduct about the
respect due to sacred images.11 But how did this iconophile attitude reverberate in
the daily life of the ‘churches’? Given that the focus of this chapter is on central Italy in
the eighth century, we want to look at this context to find traces of iconophile thinking
and its articulation in writing and preaching.
Despite being a seedbed for the intellectuals who would flourish towards the end of
the eighth century at the Carolingian court, such as Paul the Deacon and Paulinus of
Aquileia, Langobardia does not offer much evidence of newly composed literature.12
In this landscape, the exception is the original work of Ambrose Autpert. A native
of Gaul, between the 740s and 780s he flourished in the monastery of S. Vincenzo al
Volturno nestled in the mountains of Samnium not far from the northern frontier of
the Duchy of Benevento and from the Via Numicia, an ancient Roman road which
connected northern Apulia to Rome13 (Figure 3.1). At S. Vincenzo, Autpert was abbot
between October 777 and December 778.
By his own admission, he spent his monastic life between the ‘intimate meditation
on Scriptures’ and ‘the preaching ministry’.14 He composed theological treatises, but

11 Hadrian’s letter to Patriarch Tarasios of Constantinople (785) transmitted in the Acts of Nicaea II, in
Mansi XII, 1081E–1084A; ACO II, 3.1, 185: ‘cuius sedes in omnem terrarum orbem primatum tenens
refulget et caput omnium ecclesiarum dei consistit . . . nostrae apostolicae sedis, quae est caput omnium
ecclesiarum dei’ (‘the See of [the pope], which holds the primacy in the whole world, stands out, and
constitutes the head of all churches . . . our apostolic See, which is the head of all the churches of God’);
and the opening of his letter to Charlemagne known as the Hadrianum or Responsum (c.793): MGH,
EK 3, 2, 5: ‘sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam, que est caput totius mundi’ (‘the holy Catho-
lic and apostolic Church [of Rome], which is the capital of the world’). The attitude Hadrian I held
during the image controversy helped to stir up tension between the papacy, Byzantium, and the Franks,
see Neil, 2000, 536, 546; Ricciardi, 2015, 110–14.
12 Scriptoria were essentially engaged with copying texts in law, Church history, and more rarely classical
authors; see Billanovich, Ferrari, 1975; Everett, 2003, 277–305.
13 Hodges, 2011, 433.
14 Ap, 9, prologue, CCCM 27A, 718, ll. 61–4: ‘a familiari Scripturarum meditatione ad officium egred-
imur praedicationis, atque ab officio praedicationis ad familiarem rursum Scripturarum meditationem
reuertimur’.
90 Textual icons in central Italy

Figure 3.1 Ma p of Italy in the late eighth century.

Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018.

also sermons (catechetical or admonitory discourses) and homilies (expositions of pas-

sages in the Scriptures) for his brethren as well as for lay people. In fact, he admits:
‘with the excuse of preaching divine (things), I associate myself with laymen more than
it would be appropriate’.15 However, only four sermons and homilies can be attrib-
uted to him with certainty. Out of these, one is a sermon against cupidity, another is a

15 Ap, 9, prologue, CCCM 27A, 718, ll. 53–4: ‘sub obtentu praedicationis diuinae saecularibus uiris plus
quam decet familiaritate coniungor’. On the difference, not clear-cut, between sermons and homilies,
which in Latin were called by interchangeable words such as homilia, sermo, tractatus, see Muessig,
2002b, 76, who recapitulates previous literature on this topic.
 Textual icons in central Italy 91

homily on the Transfiguration of Christ on Mount Tabor, and then two are homilies
to commemorate Marian feasts.16 Their chronology cannot be pinned down precisely
within the decades in which he was active. The fact that he was abbot only between
777–8 does not necessarily mean he composed these texts during that period.17 Bede
was never abbot of Jarrow, nonetheless he was a prolific author of homilies. Although
bishops, and perhaps abbots, usually preached, ‘the role of preacher was appropri-
ated by different sorts of ecclesiastical figures’ in the Middle Ages.18 This is probably
why in the Admonitio generalis, a capitulary Charlemagne issued in 789 to reform
the Frankish Church and society, the last and longest entry establishes that bishops
should supervise the priests assigned to parishes to ensure they preach ‘correctly and
honestly’ (‘recte et honeste’) to lay people, keeping in mind the basic principles of
Christian faith.19
Identified by some as a seminal figure in medieval Mariology,20 while dismissed
by others as a theologian with no original qualities,21 Autpert still remains ‘a writer
who is little known’, as his modern editor put it some decades ago.22 It goes beyond
the scope of the present study to vindicate the victim of a historiographic analysis
incapable of dealing with an author who cannot be pigeonholed in the Carolingian
flourishing of letters and arts.23 We should nonetheless bear in mind that because of
their ‘orthodox’ position and because of their doctrinal as well as linguistic qualities,
his writings have been mistakenly attributed in the past to Church Fathers, and, as
a result have been transmitted under their names.24 Without doubt imbued with the
lesson of the Fathers, his intellectuality was characterised by a mystical approach to
the divine and by an independent judgement – both novelties in the medieval West.25

16 The sermon on cupidity: Cu, CCCM 27B, 961–81; the homily on the Presentation of the Christ Child
in the Temple and Purification of Mary: Pu, CCCM 27B, 983–1002; the homily on Transfiguration: Tr,
CCCM 27B, 1003–24; the homily on the Assumption of Mary: Ads, CCCM 27B, 1025–36.
17 This is maintained by Leonardi, 1968; Diesenberger, 2016.
18 Muessig, 2002b, 80.
19 Charlemagne, Admonitio generalis, 82, MGH, Capit. 1, 61–2. See also 70, MGH, Capit. 1, 59 about
priests preaching in a way intelligible to all the faithful (‘omnibus praedicent intellegendam’); see McKit-
terick, 1977, 81–2.
20 Leonardi, 1968; Gambero, 2007.
21 Winandy, 1953; Grégoire, 1985, 253–4.
22 Weber, 1979, 874: ‘écrivain peu connu’.
23 Winandy, 1949, 1950; Leonardi, 1968, 5.
24 Weber, 1979, 874. PL 17, 755–62, attributes OrA to Ambrose of Milan under the title Precatio
secunda. Item in preparatione ad Missam. PL 39, 2130–2134, incorrectly attributes Autpert’s Ads, with
a slightly different title, to Pseudo-Augustine. PL 40, 1091–1106, has Co attributed to Augustine. PL
89, 1275B–1332B, includes the following works under Autpert’s name: Ads (abridged), Cu, Pu, Tr, Vi.
Autpert’s most ambitious work, Ap, was not edited in the PL. The recent edition in the CCCM brought
some order to the tradition although it did not solve all the problematic attributions; see CCCM 27,
27A, 27; cf. Silvestre, 1982 on this edition.
25 Leonardi, 1968, put together a dossier of evidence attesting to the fact that with Autpert medieval
monasticism reached its most profound spiritual dimension; see also Leonardi, 1973, 649–58; Valastro
Canale, 1996. Only in the second half of the ninth century the question of whether independent judge-
ment should be maintained in confronting the Scriptures would become an issue among Carolingian
exegetes. See, for example, Paschasius Radbertus, Expositio in Matheo, prologue, CCCM 56, esp. ll.
63–9: ‘Quod si quispiam e contra inuidorum opponere temptauerit moderno tempore post auctori-
tatem Patrum priorum ut quid nisus sim euangelium exponere nouerit quod non temeritate usus hoc
prelegerim sed amore religionis cupiens paterna subplere uota, Christi gratia respersus. Profecto quia
92 Textual icons in central Italy

Importantly for our interest in the image controversy, some years ago, Autpert was
brought into the discussion of papal iconophilia by Rotraut Wisskirchen, Antonella
Ballardini, and Erik Thunø, who convincingly connected passages in his writings with
the artistic patronage of Pope Paschal I.26 For example, Thunø recognises that ‘Mari-
ology beginning with Ambrose Autpert almost certainly played an important role in
the iconography of Paschal’s commissions’.27 As said, Autpert is not explicitly against
iconoclasm, but his discourse is indeed highly figural. He crafts anew or refreshes old
images of Christ as Light, and crafts, too, images of Mary as an example of humility,
as a suckling mother, as the mother of all the faithful, but also as queen in heaven at
the side of her Son, and as principal intercessor for humankind – on which more will
be said in the following chapters. These images testify that the practices of thinking
of, and addressing the divine and the holy through images were embedded in the daily
life of a monk and author who professed ‘orthodoxy’. They also seem to reflect a
doctrinal preoccupation with the visualisation of the Incarnate God and a devotional
focus on Mary which matured in Rome and central Italy between the late seventh
and the eighth centuries. Reading Autpert’s writings against the background of the
‘image struggle’, and taking into account his relationship with the papacy, leads one
to hypothesise that his powerful framing of the Incarnate God and his Mother might
have not only coincided with, but perhaps also served, the papal and monastic icono-
phile stance. At this point, we should establish if and how he was in contact with the
papacy and possibly also with iconophile circles in Rome. We should also try to show
how his intellectual and spiritual horizons may have been widened through these con-
nections, and how his writings may be taken as symptomatic of iconophile thinking in
eighth-century central Italy.

2 Autper t and the popes of his time

In the history of the papacy, Autpert comes to the foreground in the correspondence
between Pope Hadrian I and Charlemagne. In 784, the pope reported an incident
that had occurred at the monastery of S. Vincenzo al Volturno: the ruling abbot had
publicly showed disrespect for the Frankish sovereign. Hadrian indicates the former
Abbot Autpert as a key witness to this incident, and states that he had summoned him
to a papal tribunal. He also adds that Autpert had died while travelling to Rome.28 It is
not the place here to retrace the incident, its circumstances, and consequences, which
have been discussed by others.29 What matters, is that the former abbot is depicted as
an important person in a political and cultural scenario which transcended the con-
text of central Italy. Although S. Vincenzo may appear isolated in the mountains, it

actenus nemo doctorum prescripsit donum Sancti Spiritus et mentis efficatiam futurorum nemo qui
interdixerit caelestibus parere disciplinis’; see Riché, 1981, 741–2; d’Onofrio, 1989, 424. On the con-
cept of auctoritas as something proven by rationality see Ziolkowski, 2009, 443ff.
26 Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998; Ballardini, 1999, 2007; Thunø, 2002, 2005.
27 Thunø, 2002, 38.
28 Letters of Pope Hadrian I to Charlemagne about S. Vincenzo al Volturno, MGH, EMKA, CC, 66 and
67, 593–7, esp. 595 on Autpert’s death. In the MGH edition the letter is dated May–June 781, while its
correct dating is 784; Saccarelli, 1787, 119–20; Winandy, 1949, 209.
29 Felten, 1982, 24, 29–33; cf. Houben, 1985; West, 1999, 351–2, 366; Erhart, 2006, 378–87; Costam-
beys, 2007, 149, 161; Marazzi, 2010b, 174–5.
 Textual icons in central Italy 93

was important in papal geopolitics: as seen in Chapter 1, thirty years earlier, in Octo-
ber 752, Pope Stephen II entrusted the delicate question of finding an agreement with
the Lombard King Aistulf, who was threatening papal territories, to the hands of the
abbots of Montecassino and S. Vincenzo.30
On his part, Autpert cultivated a closeness with the papacy. Through the prefa-
tory letter, and in the closing remarks of his commentary on Revelation, he actively
seeks a spiritual and political point of reference in the pope.31 Having finished this
commentary under Pope Paul I, who died in June 767, Autpert cautiously waited on
events to find an appropriate addressee. Following Paul’s death, the papal see was
occupied for a year by two popes whose legitimacy was soon contested.32 Finally, in
August 768 Stephen III was elected.33 In a calculated move, Autpert dedicated his com-
mentary to the legitimate pope. In his accompanying letter to Stephen III, he remarks
on the fatigue he suffered in the composition of the ten-book commentary, his most
arduous and extensive extant work, using the figural verb ‘sweat’. He affirms that
he had written it under divine impulse; with this claim Autpert implicitly defended
his freedom of speech and doctrinal correctness.34 This is an oblique reference to his
detractors, whom he does not openly name. Scholars posited that in these decades
the Vulturnense community was ethnically polarised between Franks and Lombards:
this is probably a historiographical exaggeration, and more likely it was polarised
around monastic policies.35 The fact that Autpert is openly trying to obtain the doc-
trinal approval of Stephen III possibly betrays his desire to be considered above and
beyond diverging political interests or views on monastic observance on the part of
Lombards and Franks.
Once more Autpert accords a prominent position to the pope in the final state-
ments of his commentary on Revelation. After declaring his own origins to be in the
regions of Gaul,36 Autpert remarks that he worked on this commentary at S. Vincenzo
al Volturno during the reigns of Pope Paul I (757–67), the Lombard King Desiderius
(757–74), and the Lombard Duke of Benevento Arichis II (758–74).37 The pope’s first
position in this list conveys the author’s perceived political hierarchy and leadership
in central Italy. In this light, the mention of the Lombard rulers appears nothing more
than a captatio benevolentiae, reminding the reader that S. Vincenzo lay within the

30 LP I, 441–2; trans. Davis, 2007, 53–5. RP 1, 2307, 271; Pauli continuatio casinensis, 4, MGH, SRL,
199; Noble, 1984, 72–3.
31 Ap, CCCM 27–27A; see Leonardi, 1968; Valastro Canale, 1996; Lumsden, 1997.
32 See McKitterick, 2018 on Constantine II (28 June 767–6 August 768), about whom she rejects the label
of ‘antipope’ after analysing his position (esp. at 233); Gasparri, 2001, 242–3 on Philip, whose election
was supported by King Desiderius, and who was in office only for one day after Constantine II.
33 LP I, 468–73; trans. Davis, 2007, 87–94.
34 Ap,  Ep, CCCM 27, 1–4.
35 Cf. Leonardi, 1968, 32–3; Erhart, 2006, 379; Costambeys, 2007, 149.
36 Weber, 1975, v, says Autpert was born in Provence without providing evidence; Valastro Canale, 1996,
149, n. 122, hypothesises he received his education in Provence.
37 Ap,  X, 22, 21, CCCM 27A, 872, ll. 124–32: ‘Ambrosius qui et Autpertus, ex Galliarum Prouincia ortus,
intra Samnii uero regionem apud monasterium martyris Christi Vincentii maxima ex parte diuinis rebus
inbutus, non solum autem, sed et sacrosanctis altaribus ad immolanda Christi munera traditus, operante
beata et inseparabili Trinitate, suffragantibus etiam meritis beatae Mariae Virginis, temporibus Pauli
Pontificis Romani, necnon et Desiderii regis Longobardorum, sed et Arochisi Ducis eiusdem prouinciae
quam incolo, hoc opus confeci atque compleui’.
94 Textual icons in central Italy

borders of the Duchy of Benevento. Charlemagne is not even present in the political
landscape pictured in the previously mentioned passage. Succeeding his father Pippin
in 768, he conquered northern Langobardia in 774, but it was not until 786–7 that
he was officially recognised as Rex Francorum et Langobardorum atque patricius
Romanorum by Arichis II and his subjects in southern Langobardia.38 Although the
letter of Hadrian I to Charlemagne counts Autpert among the Frankish monks of S.
Vincenzo al Volturno, one cannot conclude that Autpert felt himself to be a Frank or
that he politically aligned with the Carolingians.39 Foremost, he was a monk and saw
himself as a ‘rustic servant of the Lord’ as he wrote to Pope Stephen III.40
Autpert’s decision to dedicate the commentary to the pope may be also read in
the light of contemporary political events some of which related to the controversy
over sacred images. The new pope had immediately picked up the threads left by
his predecessor in defending the doctrinal authority and self-determination of Rome.
As recalled in Chapter 2, Stephen III’s first major political act, in April 769, was
to convene a synod to prevent any future lay usurpation of the papal throne, and
to contest imperial interference in ecclesiastical questions such as the veneration of
sacred images. Autpert vocally opposed secular intrusion in ecclesiastical matters. In
the second redaction of his Oratio contra septem vitia, a tract on the seven vices,
he directly appeals to kings, dukes, and those who occupy the highest positions of
power to ask them not to disturb ecclesiastical peace (‘pacem ecclesiasticam’)41 or
spur ‘heretical conflicts’.42 This is the earliest example in prose of the poetic genre
of the conflictus – a debate or dispute between two individuals or personifications.43
I have elsewhere advanced the hypothesis that Autpert reworked his Oratio possibly
to fine tune it to a new audience, as well as to bring it up to date by including this
and other passages from the period of his withdrawal – voluntary or not is unclear –
from S. Vincenzo in the early 780s.44 It has been noted that ‘identifying the audience
[of preaching] is elusive because the sermon text often does not indicate this significant
morsel of information’.45 But in appealing to those who occupy the highest positions

38 Annales regni Francorum, MGH, SS rer. Germ 6, 74; Noble, 1984, 164, 176–7. See Costambeys, 2007,
54, 72, 162 on Charlemagne’s familiaritas with S. Vincenzo. The sovereign issued the first official privi-
leges in favour of the monastery in 787 (see the privileges nos. 157 and 159 in MGH, DD Kar. 1,
212–13, 216–17), when, after Arichis’s death, he gained jurisdiction over Benevento.
39 See the first letter Pope Hadrian I sent to Charlemagne about S. Vincenzo al Volturno, MGH, EMKA,
CC, 67, 594–7. Autpert’s identification as a ‘Frank’ by Del Treppo, 1953–1954, 50 and 1968, 4,
accepted by Leonardi, 1968, Felten, 1982, 25, 34, and others, has no ground.
40 Ap,
 Ep, CCCM 27, 3, l. 87: ‘rusticanus domini seruus’. Leonardi, 1968, 21–2, suggests that Autpert
was critical of Hadrian and that he may have placed hope in Charlemagne’s tendency to reform secular
and ecclesiastical institutions.
41 OrB,  10, CCCM 27B, 955, ll. 6–8; Leonardi, 1973, 652–3.
42 OrB,  15, CCCM 27B, 959, ll. 28–9. Since the chronology of his works, apart from the commentary
on Revelation (757–67), is not secure, it is hard to tell when exactly Autpert re-worked it; see Weber,
1976, 110 for its manuscript tradition. The Or and the sermon Cu, CCCM 27B, 961–81 were devised
to offer a moralistic critique to laymen exercising power. Diesenberger, 2016, hypothesises that Cu was
intended to castigate the Beneventan Lombard elite while supporting the administrative reforms of the
Carolingians: this is not suggested by the text itself nor by historical circumstances.
43 On the poetic genre of the conflictus, the standard work still is Walther, 1920; see also Quinto, 2005,
202, 218 with reference to Autpert as a model for high and late medieval conflictus.
44 Dell’Acqua, 2016a, 267–8.
45 Muessig, 2002a, 6.
 Textual icons in central Italy 95

of power, Autpert offers clear indications that he had a mixed lay and monastic audi-
ence in mind be it either at S. Vincenzo or elsewhere during his exile.
Exhortations to unity and concord – the necessary glue that holds together any
community – were quite common in the discourse of early Christian communities and
were ‘established ideals’ in, for example Merovingian Gaul, where Autpert spent his
early life.46 However, unity, concord, and ecclesiastical peace were prominent themes
in the political agenda of secular and ecclesiastical rulers in the 780s. This is clearly
spelled out in letters exchanged between Pope Hadrian I and the Byzantine emperors
Eirene and Constantine VI when they addressed the image controversy.47 This is also
spelled out in the Admonitio generalis which Charlemagne issued in 789.48 Although
it cannot be proved, it is tempting to read Autpert’s appeal to his audience to avoid
‘heretical conflicts’ and protect ‘ecclesiastical peace’ in light of the most recent theatre
of secular interference in ecclesiastical matters: the image controversy. Heresy was a
scandal in the eyes of Autpert. In his homily on the Presentation of the Christ Child in
the Temple and the Purification of Mary, when explaining the symbolism of the dove
and the turtle dove, he interjects saying that a Catholic should reject the depravity of
heresy like the filth of fornication (‘hereticae prauitatis sensum tamquam fornicationis
inquinamenta repudiet’).49 A ‘great scandal’ (‘ingens scandalum’) was the label that
Hadrian affixed to iconoclasm in his letter to the Byzantine emperors dated 785, one
year after Autpert’s sudden death.50

3 Autper t and iconoclasm

Autpert’s opposition to elements threatening the unity of the Church can be read
between the lines of his writings. For example, among the many extraordinary visions
of Revelation which he comments on and builds upon in his commentary, he creates
an unprecedented image of Mary: she is to be identified in the apocalyptic woman
threatened by the dragon after having given birth to the ruler of the nations.51 With-
out mentioning a specific heresy, he hauntingly evokes the threat which heresies pose
to the unity of the Church, such as ‘the dragon [which] always stands before the
Church ready to devour the members of the head’.52 A few lines later, Mary emerges

46 See Bailey, 2010, 40 on Merovingian Gaul.

47 Hadrian I, Synodica, Mansi XII, 1061C; ACO II, 3.1, 129. Eirene and Constantine VI, Sacra ad syno-
dum, Mansi XII, 1002–1008; ACO II, 3.1, 42.
48 Charlemagne, Admonitio generalis, 62, MGH, Capit. 1, 58.
49 Pu 5, CCC27B, 989–90, ll. 26–35: ‘Catholicus igitur Christianus tunc uere spiritalis turtur efficitur, si
ueram Trinitatis fidem firma credulitate conseruet, et hereticae prauitatis sensum tamquam fornicationis
inquinamenta repudiet, tunc uere erit columba, si longanimiter usque ad finem in catholica societate
permaneat, et contra temptationum scandala inmobili firmitate persistat, ut nec heretica fornicatio cor-
rumpat in corde fidei castitatem, nec amara dissensio ecclesiasticae caritatis dissipet unitatem. Haec est
enim Ecclesia catholica, quae fidem uni Domino tamquam legitimo uiro conseruat, et congregationem
multorum in fide multiplicat’.
50 See Mansi XII, 1060D–1061B; ACO II, 3.1, 127.
51 Lobrichon, 1996 notes that Autpert’s identification of Mary as the apocalyptic woman, also repeated
later by Beatus de Liébana in his own commentary on Revelation, would be contested by Carolingian
exegetes on the basis that, unlike the apocalyptic woman, Mary gave birth without pain.
52 Ap, 5, 12, 4b, CCCM 27, 448, ll. 3–5: ‘. . . Stetit tunc item draco ante uirginem Mariam, ut natum
corporis caput degluttiret. Stetit postea, immo semper stat ante Ecclesiam, ut membra capitis degluttiat’.
96 Textual icons in central Italy

as the mother of the Church who keeps heresy at bay under her feet like the apoca-
lyptic woman does with the crescent moon.53 One of the greatest threats faced by the
Church during Autpert’s lifetime was iconoclasm, a ‘heresy’ which, at its beginnings
in the 720s–30s, gave the impression that it could cause a schism between East and
West as reflected in the Corteolona inscription (Chapter 1). Three years after he died,
in 787, iconoclasm would be defined as ‘the worst of all heresies’ at the Council of
Nicaea II.54 Autpert was most likely aware of its divisive implications. An echo of
the Council of Hiereia and its aftermath, of the related preoccupations of the popes,
and of the Lateran Synod of 769 may well have reached him, especially as he was in
contact with the papacy. It is not implausible that, through connections Autpert might
have had with the papal circle and with Greek-speaking monks and clerics, he gained
intelligence about issues and debates related to the on-going image controversy.55 That
he was indeed in contact with ‘Greek’ circles, and was made aware of Greek language,
liturgical texts and practices is indirectly attested by his writings as we shall see a little
later in this chapter.
The fact that Autpert did not openly mention iconoclasm, nor speak about the ven-
eration of sacred images, may explain why he has not been included in the most com-
prehensive analysis of eastern and western texts related to the image controversy.56
However, sacred images were not the object of exclusive treatment by eastern or west-
ern authors before the image controversy.57 This said, the silence of written sources
about sacred images is only apparent. As Jeffrey Hamburger put it, ‘There are far more
texts that speak to the history of attitudes towards images – how they were seen, how
they were experienced – than the classic anthologies allow’.58 In fact, the ‘visual’ had
been incorporated for a long time into Christian practices: pictorial and textual mages,
as well as thinking of God and his saints ‘visually’ were deeply interwoven in religious
mentality, in daily liturgical and devotional practices, as well as in high theology.59
For instance, early Church Fathers used metaphors of pictorial images to express the
fundamental relation between the Old and the New Testament which was visualised

Virgo Ecclesia for Mary is found in Ambrose, Augustine, Isidore of Seville, and Bede; see Philips, 1964;
Thérel, 1964 on the visualisation of Mary–Ecclesia.
53 Ap, 5, 12, 1a, CCCM 27, 444, ll. 38–9: ‘Possunt autem per lunam, quae sub pedibus mulieris consistit,
heretici designari. . . .’ (‘heretics may be also indicated by the moon that rests under the feet of the
woman’).
54 Mansi XIII, 517; ACO II, 3.1, 86: ‘Ἡ αἵρεσις αὕτη χείρον πασῶν τῶν αἱρέσεών ἐστι καὶ κακῶν κακίστη’;
Kessler, 2000, 35.
55 Autpert’s awareness of the image controversy has been suggested but not demonstrated by Wisskirchen,
1995–1997, 384.
56 Noble, 2009.
57 Cavallo, 1994, 53, remarked that the early medieval West does not propound a theological justification
for visual images. Brubaker, 2007, 70, has noted the same for eastern authors. In the West, however, an
exception is Bede, De templo, II, CCSL 119A, 212–13, ll. 809–43. For the relevance of this text to the
rising iconoclastic controversy, see McCormick, 1994, 111–12; Noble, 2009, 112–16; Chazelle, 2010;
Darby, 2013.
58 Hamburger, 2006b, 14; Noble, 2009, 4 observes that early medieval texts, even those of the Carolingian
period produced under the pressure of the iconoclastic controversy, ‘seem to have very little to do with
art per se’.
59 Angenendt, 2001, 204ff., and before him Kitzinger, 1954, 86.
 Textual icons in central Italy 97

through the comparison with a preliminary drawing and a finished picture.60 Given the
favour Autpert accords to figures – material or immaterial – in his discourse, we could
take his texts as mirrors, if not of a universal Christian attitude towards images, then
at least of an eighth-century, monastic, central-Italian attitude towards them.61
Although Autpert did not write on the veneration of images, he did write about
their conception, importance, and appropriateness in aiding the apprehension of God.
In the fifth book of his commentary on Revelation – its central, pivotal section – he
remarks time and again that the clarity of God, which is the main trait of his nature
and appearance, is uncircumscribable (Figure 3.2). All the same, Autpert embarks on
a long digression in which he gives an apologia for material, as well as immaterial,
things that ‘appropriately’ (‘congrue’) represent the Incarnate God.62 He distinguishes
between material, alive, intelligent, immaterial, and inert representations. Relying on
the undisputable precedent of the Scriptures, he writes:

In Sacred Scriptures . . . the divine and human person of our Redeemer is described
at one time through earthly substance, at another through heavenly substance.
Indeed, he can be appropriately represented through a creature that is perceptible
but lacks intellect and life, also through what has life but is imperceptible and
does not have intellect, and further through what is perceptible and has life but
lacks intellect, however, also he can be represented through what is perceptible
and has life and intellect.63

He then lists many things and beings which refer to the Redeemer ‘through a mysti-
cal meaning’,64 or ‘in a figural way’.65 In order to express the relation between these
‘figures’ and Christ, Autpert uses a range of verbs. Besides referre, which means bring
to mind or refer to something, he also uses figurare, which means form, shape, and also
illustrate;66 designare, which literally means trace out or describe through a graphic
sign, but which metaphorically stands for depict, represent;67 significare, which stands

60 John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Letter to the Hebrews, 17, 2, PG 63, 130; see Kessler, 2000, 53–63.
61 On material and immaterial images of the Incarnate God, see Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 365, ll. 1–9.
62 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 365–85.
63 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 365, ll. 1–9: ‘In Scriptura sacra, quae spiritum aeternitatis caelitus ministrat
cognoscitur, Redemptoris nostri Dei hominis que persona, modo per terrena, modo per caelestem sub-
stantiam designatur. Et nunc quidem per sensibilem intellectum, uita que carentem, nunc autem per
uitam habentem, sed insensibilem, intellectum que non habentem, nunc uero per sensibilem uitam que
habentem, sed intellectu carentem, nunc etiam per sensibilem creaturam, intellectum et uitam habentem,
congrue figuratur’.
64 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 373, ll. 331–2: ‘per mysticam significationem ad Redemptorem nostrum
referuntur’. He uses this expression apropos of turtledoves and sparrows in Psalms 84, 3 (‘Even the
sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young, a place
near your altar’).
65 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 375, ll. 423–5: ‘Hunc enim Melchisedech Apostolus . . . figuraliter refert ad
Christum’ (‘Here, truly, the Apostle Melchisedec . . . in a figural way refers to Christ’).
66 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 371, l. 260: ‘Quia itaque Dei Filius uocabulo cameli figuretur’ (‘So that the Son
of God is illustrated through the word camel’).
67 See, for example, Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 376, l. 466: ‘Quis per Iacob Christum designari non sentiat’
(‘Who would not understand that Christ is represented through Jacob’).
Figure 3.2   Ambrose Autpert, Expositio in Apocalypsin, incipit, fifth book, S. Vincenzo al Volturno,
late eighth century, Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, ms. III. 9 fol. 153r.
Photo: © Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare.
 Textual icons in central Italy 99

for signify or mean;68 exprimere, which means express, convey;69 praefigurare, that is
prefigure;70 intellegere, that is understand, comprehend.71 Starting from Biblical mate-
rial archetypes such as the Temple, its doors, the Ark, the Bronze Serpent, Autpert
recalls and discusses also plants, such as wheat and vines, and animals, such as the
lamb, the fish, the turtle doves, which refer to Christ. He also discusses the Bibli-
cal ‘types’ or prefigurations of Christ such as Abraham, Jacob, Enoch, and so forth.
Finally, he mentions the heavenly bodies – that is the Sun, the stars, the clouds, and
ultimately the angels.72 With the latter example, he picks up again the thread of his
commentary on Revelation (10, 1a).
Dionysios the Areopagite, the pseudo-apostolic author whose corpus of writings
had an enduring influence on Greek and Latin Christian theology73 and was focal
in the iconophile discourse, firmly believed that visible things are important instru-
ments to elevate the soul to God.74 By no coincidence he is mentioned as an ‘apos-
tolic’ authority by Hadrian I in his Hadrianum or Responsum sent to Charlemagne
in c.793.75 But more specifically, Autpert’s long digression, which certainly deserves a
more detailed examination, brings to mind what John of Damascus, the most vocal
of the early opponents to iconoclasm, wrote a few years earlier in his orations On
the Divine Images, dated between c.726–50.76 Although John agreed with the early
Church Fathers that the divine nature cannot be circumscribed because it has no defi-
nite shape, in his first oration he remarks that the Scriptures do present the Incarnate
God circumscribed under various physical appearances and as a consequence they
legitimise the human wish ‘to reproduce everything [Christ’s image, his life, Trans-
figuration, miracles, death, Resurrection, Ascension] in words and colours’ (‘Πάντα
γράφε και λόγῳ και χρώμασι’).77 In the third oration, John lists six kinds of images in
no hierarchical order because all participate in the essence of what is represented.
The first kind of image is the natural image, like the Son of the Father, and the Holy

68 See, for example, Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 367, ll. 77–81: ‘Quid enim aliud significabat, quod morsus
mortiferi serpentum. . . .’ (What else is truly meant, if not the venomous bite of snakes. . . .’); ibidem, l.
88: ‘et in aere significaretur aeternus’ (‘through bronze, [he] is signified as eternal’).
69 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 372, l. 275: ‘per leonem exprimitur’ (‘is expressed through the lion’).
70 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 374, ll. 376–9, with reference to Christ’s Old Testament antitypes, such as
Adam, Abraham, Isaac, etc.
71 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 369, ll. 180–1: ‘Quid autem hoc loco per terram repromissionis intellegimus,
nisi corpus Genitricis Christi, quae secundum carnem illum protulit botrum’ (‘However, what do we
comprehend in the promised land, if not the body of the Mother of Christ who brought forth that grape
[Christ] according to the flesh?’).
72 Ap, 5, prol., CCCM 27, 365–85.
73 For example, see de Andia, ed., 1997; Boiadjiev, Kapriev, Speer, eds., 2000.
74 For example, see Pseudo-Dionysios, Ep. 9, 1, CD 2, PTS 36, 193, 3–199, 4, trans. Luibheid, Rorem,
1987, 281–4; On the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy IV, 3, 1, CD 2, PTS 36, 95, 19–97, 3, trans. Luibheid,
Rorem, 1987, 225–6; see Mainoldi, 2018, 369–71; Tavolaro, 2020. On the use of Pseudo-Dionysios
during the iconoclastic controversy, see Louth, 1997, 331–2.
75 MGH, EK 3, 2, 32–3; see Louth, 1997, 335.
76 Their date is much disputed, cf. Speck, 1989; Louth, 2003, 10; Noble, 2009, 57; Brubaker, Haldon,
2011, 120.
77 John of Damascus, On the Divine Images I, 8 (= III, 8), PTS 17, 80–3; trans. Louth, 2003, 24–5; on
Christ’s double nature, ‘circumscribed’ and ‘uncircumscribed’, see also John of Damascus, Homily on
the Dormition I, 3, PTS 29, 486; trans. Daley, 1998, 186. On the possibility and legitimacy of portray-
ing Christ according to John of Damascus, see Barber, 2002, 70–81.
100 Textual icons in central Italy

Spirit of the Son, as suggested by Basil of Caesarea.78 The second kind is conceptual:
‘the conception there is in God of what he is going to bring about, that is his pre-
eternal will’.79 The third kind is mimetic, what God creates by imitation, that is the
human kind made in his likeness.80 The fourth kind is figurative: ‘the use in Scripture
of shapes and forms and figures (‘σχήματα και μορφάς και τύπους’) to convey a faint
conception of God and of the angels by depicting in bodily form what is invisible and
bodiless’ because we humans ‘cannot behold the bodiless without using shapes that
bear some analogy to us, as Dionysios the Areopagite says’.81 The fifth kind of image
is pre-iconic: ‘which prefigures and portrays beforehand what is to come, as the [burn-
ing] bush and the rain on the fleece prefigure the Virgin Mother of God . . . or as the
serpent prefigures those who have overcome the bite of the primordially evil serpent
through the cross’.82 The sixth kind of image is commemorative ‘to arouse the memory
of past events’.83
In eighth-century Rome, John of Damascus was a respected author and polemicist
(see Chapter 2). Possibly, Autpert was aware of John’s justifications for visual images
of the Incarnate God, or of what was discussed about these justifications in Rome
and central Italy. Indeed, he seems to echo John’s arguments on the representability of
God and on the categorisation of images. In eighth-century Italy, Autpert’s digression
on their value for the purpose of apprehending God is unusual and, therefore, would
benefit from being contextualised in the wider contemporary debate on sacred images.
This debate focussed on the importance of images, as well as on their limits or inap-
propriateness in conveying the essence of God.84 What was at stake, in fact, was the
function of images – be they material or immaterial.

4   Textual icons
In 754 the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia anathematised those who portrayed the
Incarnate God in physical images, but it also anathematised those who thought of
him through images on the grounds that mental images help visualise his flesh alone

78 On the Divine Images III, 18, PTS 17, 126–7; trans. Louth, 2003, 96–7. Basil of Caesarea, On the Holy
Spirit, 18, 45, PG 32, 149C; trans. Mango, 1972, 47. I refer to Barber, 2002, 76–7, for the definition of
the six kinds of images as ‘natural’, ‘conceptual’, ‘mimetic’, ‘figurative’, ‘pre-iconic’, ‘commemorative’.
The Catholic tradition embraced John’s distinction of six kinds of images, as it demonstrated by the
acts of the Council of Trent (1545–63) promoting the Catholic Counter-Reformation of the Church;
see Pentcheva, 2010, 66.
79 On the Divine Images III, 19, PTS 17, 127; trans. Louth, 2003, 97.
80 On the Divine Images III, 20, PTS 17, 128; trans. Louth, 2003, 98. See also Augustine, De Trinitate, IX,
2, 2, CCSL 50, 294, ll. 58–61 on man as ‘impari imagine’, that is unequal, inferior image.
81 On the Divine Images III, 21 (= I, 11), PTS 17, 128–9; trans. Louth, 2003, 98–9. On the identity of
Dionysios, and the purposes of his corpus, the most recent and comprehensive appraisal is by Mainoldi,
2017, 2018.
82 On the Divine Images III, 22, PTS 17, 129; trans. Louth, 2003, 99.
83 On the Divine Images III, 23, PTS 17, 129–30; trans. Louth, 2003, 99–100; see Pallis, 2015, 180–1.
84 Elsner, 2012, 380, 376, where he noted ‘a change from an emphasis on ontology (that is, the being of
God) to a greater accent on epistemology (that is, how God is to be known)’ in the period of Byzantine
iconoclasm.
 Textual icons in central Italy 101

and not his divinity.85 Evidently, Constantine V and his theologians saw a potential
danger in the images of God that anyone can develop in their inner soul and which, in
the expert hands of authors or artists, could be transformed into textual or material
images diminishing the divinity of Christ.86 The view expressed in the resolutions of
Hiereia would be counterbalanced in the second phase of the iconoclastic controversy,
in a letter Pope Paschal I sent to the iconoclastic Emperor Leo V soon after his own
election to the papal throne in 817 in which he highlights the potential of textual and
mental images: ‘The word expresses the movements of the mind’, and ‘the image is a
mental representation’.87
In the decades around or after the Council of Hiereia, Autpert revealed unusual
skills in rendering mental images in words. In the only comprehensive study published
on Autpert so far, Claudio Leonardi defined the individual portraits as well as the
crowded scenes Autpert suggests in his Vita of the three young and noble founders
of S. Vincenzo al Volturno, as a ‘gallery of paintings’.88 Autpert wrote the Vita under
either Abbot Hermepertus (761–3) or John I (763–77), in order to offer the strong
moral example of the founders to his faltering brethren.89 It comes as no surprise that
in the early twelfth century his ‘gallery of paintings’ inspired those in charge of writing
down the chronicle of the monastery to incorporate and illustrate the Vita with minia-
tures and short captions almost like comic strips (Chronicon Vulturnense, Rome, BAV,
ms. Barb. Lat. 2724) (Figure 3.3).
In stark contrast with the imageless prayer embraced by the contesters of images,90
Autpert’s powerful textual images of Mary, the Incarnate God, saints, and venerable
men emerge boldly, and seem to align with papal iconophile thinking.91 Vividness was
the main characteristic of descriptions, according to the classical tradition.92 Without
doubt, his ability to make absent things present in his texts was rooted in an education

85 Mansi XIII, 341A: ‘Εἴ τις διαιρεῖ τὴν ἑνωθεῖσαν σάρκα τῇ τοῦ θεοῦ λόγου ὑποστάσει ἐν ἐπινοίᾳ ψιλὴν αὐτὴν
ἔχων καὶ ὡς ἐκ τούτου γράφειν αὐτὴν ἐν εἰκόνι ἐπιτηδεύων, ἀνάθεμα᾽; ACO II, 3.3, 764; trans. Gero, 1977,
90: ‘If anyone separates the flesh united to the hypostasis of God the Logos by mere thought, and thus
undertakes to depict it in an image – anathema’. The total rejection of physical images of Christ because
they depict him as circumscribed in his flesh, thereby negating his divinity, is already in Constantine V,
Inquiries, fragments 13 and 15, PG 100, 301C, and 313A; see Gero, 1977, 43.
86 The responsibility of figural artists was recalled, only to be curtailed, at the iconophile Council of
Nicaea II, where iconophile theologians shielded artists from the accusation of heresy declaring that
they were mere executors of images without the engagement of their ingenuity; Mansi XIII, 252A–256A;
ACO II, 3.3, 656–62; trans. Mango, 1972, 172–3; contra Hiereia, Mansi XIII, 240C–241D, 248E–249E;
ACO II, 3.3, 644–6, 652–4; trans. Mango, 1972, 165–6; cf. James, 2006, 104–5.
87 Paschal I, Letter to Leo V, PG 99, 1151–1156; ed. Mercati, 1901; Englen, 2003, 272; trans. Kessler,
2008, 294.
88 Vi,
 CCCM 27B, 895–905; see Erhart, 2006, 379 on the circumstances of the composition. See Leonardi,
1968, 54; Valastro Canale, 1996, 143 on Autpert’s evocative narrative and fervid imagination. On the
ms. Barb. Lat. 2724, see Duval-Arnould, 1985, 366–71; on its illustrations, see Speciale, 2006, 296–8.
89 Granier, 2014, on hagiograhical texts in the CV.
90 On the iconoclastic, spiritual discourse built upon a long tradition of ‘imageless prayer’, see Barber,
2002, 57.
91 This has been posited apropos of Paschal I by Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998; Ballardini, 1999,
2007; Thunø, 2002, 2005.
92 On the ancient theory of ekphrasis, see Chinn, 2007, esp. 267, apropos of Pliny. Webb, 2009, esp. 87ff.
on the capability of ekphrasis, a descriptive genre with roots in Greek and Latin literature, of ‘making
102 Textual icons in central Italy

Figure 3.3 The abbot of Farfa, Thomas of Maurienne, washes the feet of the three young
Beneventans Tato, Paldo, and Taso, future founders of S. Vincenzo al Volturno, pig-
ments on parchment, Chronicon Vulturnense, S. Vincenzo al Volturno, early twelfth
century, Rome, BAV, ms. Barb. Lat. 2724, fol. 33v.
Photo: © BAV.

which exposed him to ancient rhetoric and classical letters – that classical tradition
which he programmatically overcame and refused in order to become, as mentioned,
‘a rustic servant of the Lord’ in the steps of the apostles and the Church Fathers.93
Autpert was not only very skilled in rhetoric, he also had a fervid imagination.
Inspiration came from the Sacred Scriptures, the Fathers, and their interpreters, but

absent things present’ and reaching the listener’s ‘mind’s eye’, and 107ff. on its power of creating a ‘gal-
lery of the mind’.
93 Ap, 8, CCCM 27, 636, ll. 8–15: ‘Nihil mihi Plato, nihil Cicero, nihil Omerus, nihil Virgilius, nihil
Donatus, nihil Pompeius, nihil Seruius, nihil Sergius, nihil Priscianus contulit, sed si quid fortasse habere
uideor, hoc de horreo dominicae praedicationis a Christo accepisse me fateor, non quo mihi et eorum
scientia fuerit denegata, sed quo plus delectatus sim uerbis humillimi piscatoris quam superbissimi ora-
toris, plus diuinis intenderim quam humanis eloquiis’. For the ‘rustic servant of the Lord’, see Ap, Ep,
CCCM 27, 3, l. 87. On Autpert’s classical education, see Leonardi, 1968, 27–8; on his refusal of the
classical tradition, see Dell’Acqua, 2016a.
 Textual icons in central Italy 103

also from his active engagement in preaching and in liturgical and devotional prac-
tices. He saw a lot in his thoughts and rendered it in his writings: by exerting a firm
command over the suggestive capacity of words, he managed to transform his mental
images into literary images of undeniable visual efficacy.94 For instance, he adopts
the rhetorical device of the expolitio (‘embellishment’ in Latin) that is an incremental
synonymic repetition of concepts, which helps him to create elaborate literary images.
These could be defined as ‘textual icons’ of the Incarnate God, His Mother, and of
saints – ‘textual’ because they are embedded in texts, and ‘icons’ because they are
emblematic, visually vivid, and emotionally evocative. Autpert’s ‘textual icons’ are
innovations in early western theological discourse in that they offer images of Mary
and her Son that, even when rooted in the patristic tradition, appear imbued with new
associations relevant to his period. For example, he underlines the full humanity of
the divine Son of God in diminutive but lifelike portraits of Christ as a new-born baby
suckling his mother’s milk and needy of her care or as a toddler playing at her feet.95
He counterbalances these intimate pictures with striking evocations of Christ’s divine
brightness. The theme of the divine claritas is dominant in the portrait he offers of the
beautiful and radiant Son of God transfigured on Mount Tabor. In the eyes of Autpert,
this claritas prefigures the immense clarity of the Saviour upon his Second Coming96
as we will discuss in Chapter 4.
Focal in his repertoire of ‘textual icons’ are portrayals of Mary which he embeds in
a figural discourse about the Incarnate God. Drawing on the early Christian visual and
theological presentation of the Mother of God as mediator between heaven and earth
because of the Incarnation, he develops the themes of her humility in accepting God’s
will and her incomparable intercessory agency acquired once taken up into heaven
(see Chapter 6). He makes good use of Marian images transmitted by texts attributed
to previous western authors, such as Venantius Fortunatus (d. 600/9), or Ildefonsus
of Toledo (d. 667). Nonetheless, his framing of the Mother of God is redolent of the
Greek Marian tradition and goes well beyond his western predecessors.97 For Autpert,
Mary is the mother of the believers (‘credentium mater’), the mother of all peoples

94 Apropos of Bede, Noble, 2009, 113, wrote that he created ‘beautiful word pictures’.
95 Ads, 5, CCCM 27B, 1029, ll. 1–5: ‘O felix Maria, et omni laude dignissima! O sublimis puerpera, cuius
uisceribus auctor caeli terrae que committitur! O felicia oscula lactantis labris inpressa, cum inter crebra
indicia reptantis infantiae, utpote uerus ex te filius tibi matri adluderet, cum uerus ex Patre Dominus
imperaret!’; cf. OrB, 15, CCCM 27B, 958–9. On Autpert’s novelties, see Bini, 2015, 81–2. The literary
image of Mary suckling her child is found in early Christian authors, but especially in Romanos the
Melode who uses it to illustrate the relationship between Mother and Son and between Mary and the
faithful; see Arentzen, 2017, 88–94. Mary suckling the Child also occurs in the Pseudo-Augustinian
Sermo 369, PL 38, 1655–1657, see Clayton, 1990, 12. Excerpts from Sermo 369 and the Pseudo-
Augustinian Sermo 194 are transmitted in the same folium in the eighth-century Ushaw Lectionary, one
of the earliest manuscripts attesting to Anglo-Saxon Office liturgy. Billett, 2014, 121, n. 160, notes that
both sermons have been attributed also to Autpert, and this manuscript could prove an early circulation
of homilies transmitted under his name in Anglo-Saxon England. For maternal images of Mary, see also
Pseudo-Ildefonsus, Sermo 8, PL 96, 270–271, included in the homiliary of Alanus of Farfa that Aut-
pert knew; see Alanus Farfensis, Homiliae, II, 65 = Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 194, PL 39, 2104–2107;
Alanus Farfensis, Homiliae, II 66 = Pseudo-Ildefonsus, Sermo 8, PL 96, 269D–271C; Grégoire, 1980,
128 and 178–9. There is not yet a modern edition of Alanus’s homiliary.
96 Tr, 16, CCCM 27B, 1019, ll. 19–22; cf. Ap, 10, 22, 4a, CCCM 27A, 840, ll. 13–15.
97 O’Carroll, 1982, 126–7; Wisskirchen, 1995–1997, 384; Gambero, 2007, hinted at the bearing that the
Greek tradition had on him, but did not explore it. Bini, 2015, 81, n. 106, downplays it and speaks of
‘coincidences of themes’.
104 Textual icons in central Italy

(‘mater gentium’).98 With reference to the Ecclesia, that is the Church, ‘credentium
mater’ is already found in the pseudoepigraphic collection of homilies known under
the name of Eusebius Gallicanus, put together in Gaul between the late antique and
early medieval period, and immensely popular.99 However, Autpert emphasises more
strongly than ever before the idea of Mary’s maternity extended to the faithful.100 In
this role, she cooperates in their salvation. Previous Christian exegetes opposed Eve’s
sin, that precipitated humankind’s fall from grace, to Mary’s merit, that enabled the
Incarnation hence the redemption of humankind.101 Autpert remarks that because of
her kinship with God, from heaven she can offer her incomparable intercession to the
believers to help them reach spiritual salvation.102 He admits to believing that Mary
has a co-responsibility in redeeming the world:

For I think – I even truly believe – that you [Mary], a creature, brought forth the
Creator; you, a servant, begot the Lord. So, God redeems the world through you,
and through you he enlightens it, through you he calls it back to life.103

When Autpert gives praise to Mary taken up into heaven, he develops a florid lit-
erary imagery based on epithets, typologies, and metaphors which are for the most
part unprecedented in the West. Among the epithets he applies to Mary, there is,
interestingly, ‘formam Dei’, that is ‘image of God’. In the Latin tradition ‘formam
Dei’ had been used in relation to Christ as ‘image of God’, and it is found in treatises
and sermons addressed to laymen that Augustine composed against heresies (Arian-
ism and Pelagianism).104 In the first two decades of the ninth century, this expression
is used in polemical writings against adoptionism.105 Only in Autpert is ‘formam Dei’

98 Pu, 7, CCCM, 27B, 992, ll. 21–9: ‘credentium mater’; cf. Ads, CCCM 27B, 1030, l. 13: ‘matrem gen-
tium’. On Mary as credentium mater in the Christian tradition, see Müller, 1955.
99 Eusebius Gallicanus, Homilia 47, CCSL 101A, 553–63, esp. 555, l. 2; Bailey, 2010.
100 Cf. Bini, 2015, 82.
101 Ads, 4, CCCM 27B, 1029, ll. 10–11: ‘Genetrix Domini nostri salutem edidit mundo. Auctrix pec-
cati Eua, auctrix meriti Maria’ (‘The Mother of our Lord brought salvation into the world. She who
authored sin: Eve; she who authored [our] reward: Mary’).
102 The last section of Autpert’s homily Ads, 11–12, CCCM 27B, 1034–6, is a direct invocation to Mary’s
intercession: ‘culpas nostra orando excusa’ (‘excuse our faults’), ‘admitte nostras preces intra sacrar-
ium exauditionis’ (‘admit our prayers in the sanctuary of forgiveness’), ‘Accipe quod offerimus, inpetra
quod rogamus, excusa quod timemus, quia nec potiorem meritis inuenimus ad placandam iram Iudicis
quam te, quae meruisti mater existere eiusdem Redemptoris et Iudicis’ (‘Receive what we offer, procure
what we ask for, excuse what we fear, because we cannot find anyone more able than you for [his/her]
merits to placate the wrath of the Judge – you who deserved to exist as mother of the Redeemer and
Judge’). See also OrB, 15, CCCM 27B, 958–9, ll. 8–10: ‘Nec inmerito plus omnibus ad deprecandum
ualet in caelis, quae plus omnibus potuit in terris’ (‘Deservedly she is more powerful in intercession
than all others in heaven, just as she was superior to all others on earth’).
103 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 25–6: ‘Puto enim, immo ueraciter credo, ut creatura ederes Crea-
torem, famula Dominum generares, ut per te Deus mundum redimeret, per te inluminaret, per te ad
uitam reuocaret’. See Bini, 2015, 344, 352.
104 For example, Augustine, Contra Maximinum, 1, 5, CCSL 87A, 503, l. 40, passim; Augustine, Contra
sermonem Arianorum, 8, 6, CCSL 87A, 198, l. 40, passim; Augustine, De trinitate 1, 7, CCSL 50, 45,
ll. 18–28, passim; idem, Sermones ad populum, 91, PL 38, 571, passim.
105 For example, Alcuin, De fide sanctae trinitatis et de incarnatione Christi, 3, 7, CCCM 249, 100, l. 16;
Agobard of Lyon, Aduersum dogma Felicis, 36, CCCM 52, 102, l. 40 (quoting Augustine). The only
occurrence in which Mary appears in relation to ‘formam Dei’ is in Fulgentius of Ruspe, Epistulae, 8,
 Textual icons in central Italy 105

related to Mary: ‘if I would call you image of God, you appear worthy’.106 A similar
expression is found earlier in one of the homilies that Andrew of Crete had composed
on the Assumption where she is said to be ‘the perfectly-drawn portrait of the divine
model’.107
Autpert also invokes the Mother of God as ‘gate of heaven’ (‘porta paradisi’), since
she opened the gate to the eternal life through the Incarnation, and ‘ladder between
earth and heaven’ (‘scala caelestis’), since she made God descend to earth and sup-
ports the faithful in their difficult ascent to heaven.108 Such epithets, typologies, and
metaphors are well attested in Byzantine Marian hymns and homilies which were
respectively sung by or addressed to congregations during liturgical services and thus
were normally assimilated by the faithful. They were part of a Mediterranean Chris-
tian koine in which the Greek language – the language of the Gospel – had authority
and a vast resonance and hence they could be seen as ‘textual spolia’ of a Greek-
speaking religious culture. Between the late seventh and the first half of the eighth
century, such epithets, typologies, and metaphors are found in Andrew of Crete, John
of Damascus, and Germanos of Constantinople. They produced an impressive set of
homilies for Marian feasts which represent ‘the most extended and serious attempts
at a theological reflection’ of that time on Marian themes.109 Their homilies distilled
the large repertoire of Marian imagery that sprung from late antique hymns, was
disseminated through preaching, and ultimately assimilated into Byzantine religious
culture.110 In fact, given their length, they were probably delivered during the vigils of
the feasts when more time than usual was allocated to preaching and singing hymns
between the midnight office and the matins, as John of Damascus hints.111 Like these
authors, Autpert also transfers to the Virgin biblical typologies and metaphors tradi-
tionally applied to Christ, in order to reinforce her theological framing and stimulate
her veneration.112 The fact that he has recourse to this rich repertoire of epithets makes
the difference in the panorama of western authors. The highly suggestive images of the
celestial gate and ladder for Mary, their Greek and Latin traditions, and their intersec-
tion with the iconophile discourse and art will be addressed in Chapter 6, which deals
with Mary’s Assumption into heaven.

25, CCSL 91, 270, ll. 430–1, and Fulgentius of Ruspe, Epistulae, 17, 18, CCSL 91A, 575, ll. 454–5, to
express the concept that Christ took from his Father the form of God, and from his mother the form
of a servant to save humankind.
106 Ads, 5, CCCM 27B, 1030, ll. 13–14: ‘si formam Dei appellem, digna existis’.
107 Dormitio, III, 4, PG 97, 1092D; trans. Daley, 1998, 139.
108 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033, ll. 4–9: ‘paradisum aperuit . . . porta paradisi efficitur, scala caeli consti-
tuitur! . . . scala caelestis, per quam descendit Deus ad terras’ (‘[she] opened paradise . . . [she] was
made the gate of heaven, and [she] is set up as ladder to heaven! . . . ladder to heaven, through which
God descended on earth’).
109 Daley, 1998, 15. On the typology of the celestial ladder, see Chapter Six and Appendix Two.
110 Tsironis, 2005, 2011, 180–1.
111 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition II, 16, PTS 29, 534, ll. 2–3; III, 1, PTS 29, 548; trans.
Daley, 1998, 220, 231. For these celebrations in the East, see Chevalier, 1937; Cunningham, 1990,
38–40, 2011, 92–4; for the West, see Billett, 2013, 340–8, and table 4: in the early medieval period
secular and monastic night office, homilies found place in the third and final nocturn.
112 This tendency to transfer typologies and metaphors from Christ to Mary has been detected also in
Byzantine figural arts between the Council of Ephesus (431) and the time of iconoclasm, see Walter,
1986, 283.
106 Textual icons in central Italy

5 Mar y in central Italy

We may ask what elicited Autpert’s specific theological focus on the Virgin Mary. Sev-
eral factors might have had a bearing: the cult of Mary in central–southern Italy, his
participation in spectacular public liturgy in her honour, his acquaintance with Greek
theology and liturgy, and finally his personal devotion towards her.
Rome was a place with no rivals in the West or in the East ‘for the longevity of its
interests in Mary’, as well as ‘for the longevity of her very tangible presence in the
city’s material culture’, in the words of John Osborne.113 There, eastern and west-
ern Christian religious traditions crossed and eventually merged in liturgical and
devotional practices. At the same time, Roman liturgy and chants were disseminated
through manuscripts in central Italy, including its neighbouring region of the Duchy
of Benevento where S. Vincenzo al Volturno lay, although scarce evidence remains to
witness this.114 Autpert must have visited Rome at least once, on the occasion of the
feast of the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple and the Purification of Mary
celebrated on 2 February, as he recalls in the opening remarks of the homily he later
composed for the feast.115
In central–southern Italy, the cult of Mary was focal not only in Rome, but also
in the important monasteries of Farfa in Sabina and S. Vincenzo al Volturno, where
Autpert spent most of his life. Farfa had been dedicated to the Virgin since its foun-
dation in c.680–700 by Thomas of Maurienne, a monk hailing from Savoy, upon his
return from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. In the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem he
had a vision of Mary in which she commanded him to restore a ruined church dedi-
cated to her that he later found in the remote countryside of Sabina, c.50 km to the
northeast of Rome.116 Thomas’s pilgrimage and the vision he supposedly had in the
Holy Sepulchre suggest his acquaintance with devotional and cultic practices of which
Mary was the focus. Between c.740–50 the monk Alanus of Farfa compiled and later
reworked a homiliary with excerpts from the Church Fathers and venerable authors
useful in the celebration of liturgical feasts, including the relatively recent, and not yet
much disseminated, Marian feasts of the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Tem-
ple or Purification of Mary and the Assumption.117 A native of Aquitaine, Alanus was
a learned man who spent much of his monastic life at Farfa, in a hermitage attached
to an oratory dedicated to Saint Martin, the apostle of Gaul.118 Alanus is mentioned
as the newly appointed abbot of Farfa in the earliest document attesting to Autpert’s
presence in Italy. Dated to 761, this was a purchase contract with which monks from

113 Osborne, 2003, 136. For an overview on Mary in Rome, see Russo, 1996, esp. 190–209; Iacobone, 2009.
114 Dyer, 2014, 281–2.
115 See Pu, 1, CCCM 27B, 985, ll. 4–16. On Autpert as a privileged witness to these rituals since he lived
not far from Rome; see Deug-Su, 1974; Iogna-Prat, 1996, 85; Dyer, 2011, 42–3.
116 For a revision of the legendary sources on the origins of Farfa, see Leggio, 2006. For the archaeological
investigations undertaken at Farfa, see Donaldson, 1979, 1980, 1981; Whitehouse, 1984; McClendon,
1987; Newby, 1991; Gilkes, Mitchell, 1995; Gibson, Gilkes, Mitchell, 2017.
117 In spite of its importance, Alanus’s homiliary has not yet been edited; see Ratti, 1900; Hosp, 1936,
1937; Grégoire, 1980, 128–221; Clayton, 1990, 211–12; Cantelli Berarducci, 2006, 1, 386–9; Cos-
tambeys, 2007, 86. On the establishment of the feast of the Presentation in the Temple in the West, see
Groen, 2001; Dyer, 2013; on its sermons, see Deug-Su, 1974.
118 Costambeys, 2007, 14, 152–3.
 Textual icons in central Italy 107

S. Vincenzo, with the permission of their abbot, sold their family land to Farfa. Hav-
ing accompanied them, Autpert signed the document as ‘humble monk’ (‘indignus
monachus’) of S. Vincenzo.119
S. Vincenzo was a sort of ‘spiritual’ filiation of Farfa.120 They also shared a cultic
focus on Mary. Possibly as a consequence of the spiritual bond with Farfa, Taso,
one of the three founders of S. Vincenzo, who was abbot twice (720–1 and 729–39),
dedicated a church to Mary.121 From the mid-eighth century the spiritual life of the
Vulturnense community was polarised between the martyr Vincent of Zaragoza, con-
nected to Merovingian Gaul and promoted by the Carolingians,122 and Mary, which
remained an ostensible link to Farfa and Rome.123 By the time Autpert arrived in Italy,
presumably between the 740s and the early 750s, Farfa and S. Vincenzo had already
parted their ways after Abbot Fulcoald of Farfa had granted to S. Vincenzo its inde-
pendence.124 Nevertheless, given his origins ‘in the province of Gaul’,125 it is probable
that Autpert cultivated a personal relationship with the Farfense community, which
functioned as a magnet for natives of that region in this period.126 The homiliary of
Alanus, in which he promotes Marian feasts, must have been of particular interest to
Autpert, as is clear from the use he makes of it.127 Moreover, it is not unlikely that
Autpert had a hand in its circulation north of the Alps. The earliest manuscript con-
taining Alanus’s compilation is a late eighth–early ninth century codex from the mon-
astery of Benediktbeuern in Bavaria (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, MS Clm
4564). Soon afterwards, the homiliary of Alanus became an important foundation
for later medieval homiliaries in use in secular as well as monastic liturgy north of
the Alps.128 Benediktbeuern had been founded by Lantfredus, a local aristocrat, with
whom Autpert corresponded. It must have functioned as a hub for the circulation of
manuscripts: for example, a moral treatise that Autpert dedicated to Lantfredus was
copied at Benediktbeuern and from there enjoyed great circulation in northern monas-
tic establishments throughout the medieval period.129
Through his homilies on Mary, Autpert intended to promote her public cult. Even
though Marian feasts had gained prominence in Rome at least since the late seventh

119 Gregory of Catino, RF, II, 43, 50–1; Wickham, 1995, 140.

120 Marazzi, 2007, 164–78; Marazzi, 2010b, 169–70.
121 CV I, 117–20. Its location is unknown, see Marazzi, 2014, 24.
122 The choice of Vincent as patron saint is not attested earlier than 752, see LP I, 441–2; trans. Davis,
2007, 53–5; see also Autpert’s Vi, CCCM 27B, 895–905, esp. 1, 896, l. 11. On how this choice eventu-
ally related to Carolingian patronage, see Marazzi, 2007, 169ff., and 187–8.
123 Marazzi, 2007, 178ff.
124 On Farfa and S. Vincenzo, see Gregory of Catino, CF, I, 5–6; Costambeys, 2007, 7–14; Longo, 2006,
251–2; Marazzi, 2007, 167–8.
125 Ap,  X, 22, 21, CCCM 27A, 872, l. 124.
126 Among Farfa’s first eleven abbots, apart from one hailing from Sabina, the others came from Aquitaine
and Provence, in southern Gaul. Only after their conquest of Italy did Carolingian rulers manage to
exert control on ecclesiastical institutions by installing Frankish bishops and abbots; see Gasparri,
2000, 37–8; Costambeys, 2007, 148–9; Marazzi, 2010b, 181, n. 26.
127 Bini, 2015, 73–80.
128 Woods, 2013.
129 Co,  CCC27B, 907–31; Leonardi, 1968, 50–1, 68, n. 88; Weber, in CCCM 27B, 877–8. For the circula-
tion of manuscripts, see www.mirabileweb.it, accessed 29 January 2018.
108 Textual icons in central Italy

century, when Sergius I established vigil processions,130 they were not widely celebrated
in the West.131 After Bede in Anglo-Saxon England,132 Autpert is the author of the sec-
ond earliest original Latin homily on the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple
and Purification of Mary. At the outset of this homily, Autpert says that while the feast
is still ignored by some Christians, it is honoured especially in Rome above other feasts
of the liturgical calendar.133 Autpert is also the author of the earliest original homily
in Latin on the feast of the Assumption of Mary. At the beginning of this homily, he
invites his audience to hold the solemnity of Mary’s remembrance in high regard.134
Through his writings, Autpert undoubtedly consolidated Mary’s position in the
spiritual life of the Vulturnense monastery. One of his successors, Abbot Paul (783/5–
792/3), dedicated another church to the Mother of God near the river Volturno.135
A third church would be dedicated to her by Abbot Epyphanius (824–42), a subject
to which we shall return in the following chapters.136 Mary remained the cultic and
devotional focus of the community even when the Saracen sack of the monastery (881)
forced the survivors to take shelter in Capua.137 The twelfth-century chronicle of S.
Vincenzo, the Chronicon Vulturnense, highlights the importance of Mary for the com-
munity in a semi-hagiographical narration about the former monk and abbot Autpert.
It reports that he was immersed in solitary prayer in a church dedicated to Mary when
he appealed to her ‘with a solicitous request that she would grant him eloquence of
tongue’ because he suffered from stammering. He must have felt seriously impaired,
considering how engaged was he in preaching. He then fell asleep in front of the altar.
She appeared to him during his sleep and delivered him from stammering. As a result,
he ‘rising from the floor, made joyous by the vision . . . began to raise prayers and
recite appropriate hymns [to Mary] with a spirited heart’.138 Written down over three
hundred years after Autpert died, this account reflects the consideration and respect
he still enjoyed within his former community as Marian devotee and author. Having
noted the preceding, a systematic analysis of how the Marian cult spread and was
consolidated in early medieval Italy still needs to be undertaken.139

130 LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.

131 Woods, 2013, 248–57.
132 CCSL 122, 128–33. Iogna-Prat, 1996, 89, remarks the originality of Autpert’s homily.
133 Pu,  1, CCCM 27B, 985, ll. 4–16.
134 Ads,  1, CCCM 27B, 1027, l. 6.
135 CV  I, 204 on Paul’s foundation; Marazzi, 2007, 184–5 and 2014, 23, identifies S. Maria in insula with
the building that the British archaeologists designated as the ‘South Church’.
136 CV  I, 288.
137 Marazzi, 2007, 190–4.
138 CV  1: 182: ‘Fertur preterea, quia cum quadam die idem felicissimus pater Authpertus in ecclesia Beate
Dei genitricis Marie prolixe Domino preces funderet, et eandem Dei genitricem sedulo interpellaret
oratu, ut sibi linguae dissertitudo largiretur (fuerat quippe aliquantulum impedicioris lingue), tunc
subito soporatus ante sacrum altare adesse sibi conspicit in visione beatissimam et gloriosissimam
mundi dominam perpetuam virginem Mariam, leta facie et ultra solis splendore rutilantem: que quasi
annuens deprecanti tetigit labia eius, eumque de pavimento surgere iubens, deinceps sue laudis vota
persolvere ac preconia attollere, ut ipse iam desideraverat, monet: seque illi semper presentem adesse
promisit. Letus ergo de visione surgens, que fuerat iussus ore facundo cepit persolvere laudes et car-
mina digna reddebat alacri corde’. On this miracle, see also Leonardi, 1968, 38–9; Valastro Canale,
1996, 115–16; Dell’Acqua, forthcoming b.
139 Costambeys, 2007, 85 on the dissemination of the Marian cult in central Italy as a ‘fruitful topic for
future research’.
 Textual icons in central Italy 109

6 Homilies and iconophile propaganda?

Andrew of Crete, John of Damascus, and Germanos of Constantinople – early
champions of iconophilia140 – praised Mary as the vessel of the Incarnation, as the
exceptional woman who brought forth God in flesh and blood in front of the eyes of
humankind, and as the most powerful intercessor for the faithful. While it holds true
that eikonomachoi, or contesters of images, had nothing against the Mother of God,
in the eyes of the iconophiles she was pivotal because she had borne the Son of God,
made him human, thus enabling humankind to see him, and eventually to represent
him in pictorial images.141 Therefore, God’s Incarnation in her womb was one of their
main justifications for the depiction of the divine.142 Her pivotal significance for icono-
philes is confirmed by the fact that the Council of Nicaea II (787) not only restored
the cult of sacred images, but also proclaimed the importance of her cult.143 By the
very end of the controversy in 843, the position of Mary in ‘orthodox’ theology had
gained an importance never previously enjoyed: she came to be seen and portrayed as
a caring mother and powerful intercessor in mental, textual, liturgical, and visual rep-
resentations.144 One should thus infer that Byzantine iconoclasm had more than one
long-lasting consequence for the eastern and western religious mentality: the polemics
that took shape in that period not only consolidated the reliance of western culture on
pictorial images and resulted in the formulation of theories of sacred images, but also
produced a more stringent theological framing of Mary and promoted her in public
cult and private devotion, in the East and in the West.
Having said that, surprisingly, scholars still resist connecting the promotion of the
cult of Mary on the part of Andrew of Crete, John of Damascus, and Germanos of
Constantinople with their iconophile stance.145 Generally speaking, the connection
between Mary and the iconophile stance has never been sufficiently explored, either in
the East or in the West. In 1973 Peter Brown made an insightful remark about interces-
sion, sacred images, and Mary that has not enjoyed much consideration. He noted that
well before Byzantine iconoclasm the belief in intercession was ‘the lever that shifted
the religious art of the early Byzantine world’ and induced the faithful to seek media-
tion with the divine through objects and images. He also noted that in this process
Mary was of crucial importance since she ‘represented the acme of a mortal’s interces-
sion in heaven’, her intercession having ‘the infallible efficacy of a blood relative’.146

140 On Andrew of Crete, see Auzépy, 1995, 5; for a recent appraisal on other iconophile Fathers, see
Baranov, 2015.
141 Mimouni, 2011, 321–2.
142 See, for example, John of Damascus, On the Divine Images I, 8 (= III, 8), PTS 17, 80–3; trans. Louth,
2003, 24–5; Vasiliu, 2010, 181–7, esp. 184, 299–328, arguably maintains that the Incarnation did not
justify the veneration of pictorial images per se, and that the ‘value of revelation’ which images grant to
the material justifies images. However, the Incarnation remains the main justification for sacred images
also later in the Middle Ages; see Kessler, 2007b, esp. 19, 27.
143 Mansi XIII, 132B–D; ACO II, 3.2, 484; Brubaker, 1998, 1243; Noble, 2009, 80; Arentzen, 2017, 36,
correctly notes that Church councils did not ‘create’ devotion to Mary, but rather acknowledged or
regulated existing practices.
144 See Brubaker, Cunningham, eds., 2011.
145 This connection is noted by Cameron, 2004, 19–20, and Cunningham, 2004, 53, but has not been
explored. See also Brubaker, Cunningham, 2007, 239ff.
146 Brown, 1973, 14.
110 Textual icons in central Italy

One can argue that the Marian homilies of Andrew of Crete, John of Damascus,
and Germanos of Constantinople have been overlooked in the analysis of the eastern
and western iconophile position because they do not expound theories in favour of
images and against iconoclasm. All the same, these authors do speak through images
and of images, material and immaterial. In his trilogy on the Dormition, Andrew of
Crete declares he had derived from Dionysios (the Areopagite), ‘the soaring eagle, the
one mind most adept at depicting the divine’, the vision of Mary lying on her funeral
couch surrounded by the apostles singing hymns in her praise.147 This image brings
a crowded tableau vivant to mind. In the same homily, speaking of Mary’s tomb at
Gethsemane, Andrew says that ‘before the gaze of those who look on holy things with
faith, there stand here clear images [εἰκόνες], eloquent representation of my [Mary’s]
passing’.148 It is possible that Andrew was pointing to real icons or depictions of the
event to render the account of Mary’s transitus and her burial place more vivid to the
mind.149 However, his use of the plural for images (εἰκόνες) leads us to think that he
was also appealing to his audience’s visual imaginings of the Dormition. Germanos
of Constantinople certainly refers to real icons depicting Mary in his first homily on
the Dormition, when he says: ‘the material colours of your icons, O Mother of God,
dazzle us with the representation of your gifts’.150 Some years later, in 754, the Coun-
cil of Hiereia outlawed the production, veneration, and the liturgical and devotional
use of ‘lifeless and dumb icons, made of material colours’.151 Also of material images,
the iconophile champion Theodore of Stoudios would openly speak in his homily
on the Dormition composed, perhaps, sometime after 821.152 In his second homily
on the Dormition, John of Damascus refers to mental pictures nurtured by widespread
beliefs and orally transmitted tales when he is about ‘to sketch out in at least a few
scenes and images the marvels that came to pass at the death of this holy woman, the
Mother of God, as we have learned them in summary form from ancient times, as we
say, at our mother’s knees’.153 Then, he proceeds to reimagine the funeral where the
‘eye-witnesses’ were present;154 this alludes to Dionysios, who had offered a picture of

147 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 9–10, PG 97, 1060D–1064B, for the explicit references
to Dionysios; II, 16, PG 97, 1069B, and III, 2, PG 97, 1092A for the reference to the couch; trans.
Daley, 1998, 127–8, 133, and 138. The sequence of Andrew’s first two homilies on the Dormition in
the PG is normally reversed by commentators and translators, including Daley. On Dionysios’s passage
on the Dormition, see Mainoldi, 2018, 257–75. On Dionysios and eighth-century authors, see Louth,
1997; Cunningham, 2014.
148 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 7, PG 97, 1056D; trans. Daley, 1998, 124, 135, n. 5 on
the importance Andrew places on visual imagination in the contemplation of the mystery.
149 As we shall see in Chapter 6, extant figural depictions of the Dormition date to the ninth–tenth centu-
ries, with one exception, a clay token from Scythopolis dated to the sixth century.
150 Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition II, 11, PG 98, 356C: ‘αἱ σωματικαί σου,
Θεομῆτορ, τῶν εἰκόνων χρωματουργίαι, τὴν ἐπίδοσιν τῶν σῶν ἡμῖν ἀναστράπτουσι δωρεῶν’; trans. Daley,
1998, 164 (who puts this section of the homily first, so that it appears as the first homily on the Dor-
mition of Germanos).
151 Mansi XIII, 345C–D; ACO II, 3.3, 768; trans. Gero, 1977, 91.
152 Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 2, PG 99, 721B; trans. Daley, 1998, 250: ‘her light
shines through her painted image, and she offers it to the people for the life-giving kiss of relative ven-
eration [σχετικὴ προσκύνησις], even if the heretics are unwilling’.
153 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition II, 4 PTS 29, 521, ll. 42–5; trans. Daley, 1998, 208.
154 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition II, 6–14, PTS 29, 523–32; trans. Daley, 1998, 209–18.
 Textual icons in central Italy 111

the funeral with the stamp of apostolic authority.155 John admits to ruminations and
imaginings on the Dormition when he opens his third and final homily for the night
vigil: ‘It is the way of those who are consumed with love for something to have it
always on their tongue, to have an image of it in their mind night and day’.156 Material
and immaterial images are decidedly at play in the religious thinking and practices of
these authors.
Like their Greek counterparts, the homilies of Autpert are constructed around pow-
erful images of the Incarnate God and his Mother, and extoll her pivotal role in the
history of salvation: as a consequence of the Incarnation which took place in her
womb, she became the mother of Christ and all the faithful, and their main interces-
sor before God. The Marian homilies of the aforementioned Greek authors, as well as
of Autpert, do not offer systematic expositions on sacred images, nor are they a stage
for openly defending sacred images. But they do offer evidence of a mentality that,
in keeping with old traditions of the Church, thought of God figuratively, and sought
contact with the divine through images. In sum, they reflect an iconophile mentality.
In the largely illiterate societies of the past, preaching, together with liturgy and pic-
torial images, was one of the main channels for disseminating, confirming, and fine-
tuning religious beliefs and official ecclesiastical resolutions. Sermons and homilies
were ‘simultaneously a ritual and a communication medium’.157 But it should be made
clear that expounding theories was not their function, since they were not conceived to
articulate theologically abstract reasoning, nor deep exegetical interpretations. Saint
Augustine reminds us of the popular tone of preaching when he says that ‘homilies are
what the Greeks call popular treatises’.158 The Homiletic Directory recently issued by
the Vatican to re-assert the purpose of the liturgical homily notes that a homily ‘is not
a sermon on an abstract topic’, and that ‘the Mass is not an occasion for the preacher
to address some issue completely unrelated to the liturgical celebration and its read-
ings. . . . Nor is the homily simply an exercise in biblical exegesis’. Instead, a homily
is ‘an instruction’ delivered in a liturgical setting, as well as ‘an act of worship’ which
sanctifies the people and glorifies God. In delivering a homily, the preacher should
consider ‘the cultural differences from one congregation to another’ and ‘be reflective
on the events of the times’.159 Homilies functioned, and still function, as an interface
between the Church as institution and the believers. Homilies translate the message of
the Scriptures, the mysteries of faith, and theological issues into a language that can
be easily understood by specific communities, avoiding subtle arguments which would
matter only to few, and thus ‘authenticate’ important theological assumptions through

155 On this point, see Dell’Acqua, 2020.

156 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 1, PTS 29, 548, ll. 1–2; trans. Daley, 1998, 231. In
the same period, Bede speaks of reading as ruminatio: Cavallo, 1994, 50, interprets this admission as
reflecting the way in the early medieval period learned people like Bede looked not only at texts but
also at pictorial images, scrutinising detail after detail with their mind and eyes.
157 Thompson, 2002, 19.
158 Epistulae, 224, 2, CSEL 57, 453, l. 5: ‘Tractatus populares, quos Graeci homilias vocant’; Camille,
1994, 82.
159 Congregation for divine worship and the discipline of the sacraments, Homiletic Directory, 2015, I.3,
I.6. On the purpose of the liturgical homily, past and present, see also Baldovin, 1990. An overview
of sermons, preaching, and their audience between the tenth and the fifteenth centuries is offered by
Muessig, 2002a, 2002b.
112 Textual icons in central Italy

public liturgy. Because homilies were often attuned to contemporary needs and func-
tioned as transmitters not only of consolidated beliefs and theological assumptions,
but also of contemporary anxieties, they can be considered symptomatic of a specific
period and community.160
Over the last four decades studies in the field of medieval and post-medieval preach-
ing have gradually shifted from the mere analysis of texts, especially when unedited,161
to the analysis of their intended audience, of the identity of the preacher, of the inter-
action among ‘preacher–sermon–public’, and therefore of the modalities of the oral
delivery of sermons – notwithstanding the fact that the ‘knowledge of an oral medium
is limited by the ephemeral nature of the spoken word’.162 As congregations were
for the most part illiterate, preaching had to be based on ‘a figural style, a discourse
expounded through images’.163 Preachers referred to skilfully crafted mental and
material images and stimulated an emotional involvement in the rituals in order to
keep their audience focussed, open their spiritual eyes to the vision of holy events and
supernatural beings, and act as an invitation ‘to a deeper faith’.164 Homilies were usu-
ally delivered in churches, where their topics could be ‘illustrated’ by the preacher by
pointing to sacred images and liturgical objects. In sum, the act of preaching could
turn into a complex performance, comparable to drama, involving auditory as well
as visual elements and cultural memory, that could stimulate in the faithful an intel-
lectual and a sensory engagement.165 Still today it is recommended that congregations
(regardless of their literacy), be ‘grasped by an image’ conveyed by the preacher.166
Through preaching, the reception of texts and images interacted with oral tradi-
tions, collective information, and beliefs widespread across all levels of society.
According to Rosamond McKitterick homilies, by reaching out to the ‘imagination,
aesthetic sensibilities and social consciousness’ of the faithful, ultimately informed
their thoughts, sensations, and mental images.167 Thus, sermons, homilies, liturgical
chants, along with visual imagery, contributed to shape attitudes, eventually reflecting
theological controversies as much as they nurtured traditional religious attitudes.168

160 Muessig, 2002b, 86, asks, rhetorically: ‘Do sermons shape society or reflect it?’. She then lists studies
which confirm that sermons ‘clearly reflect values, aspirations, and concerns of an era’.
161 The edition of Autpert’s homilies and sermons by Weber dates to 1979.
162 Thompson, 2002, 16; he retraces the methodological developments of ‘sermon studies’, which incor-
porates exegesis, liturgy, theology, social history, cultural history, literary criticism, textual criticism,
and art history, for which see also Muessig, 2002b.
163 Cavallo, 1994, 48–9.
164 Baldovin, 1990, 95.
165 See Kienzle, 2002 on the usually overlooked performative dimension of homilies and sermons, with
reference to earlier literature; Muessig, 2002a, 5–6 on the impossibility of retracing the preachers’ ‘ges-
tures, tone, and interaction with his audience’ as well as their reference to art (in the absence of specific
witnesses); Arentzen, 2017, 26–8 on varied and often unruly audiences in churches. On the concept of
‘cultural memory’ instead of ‘collective mentality’, see Pohl, Wood, 2015.
166 Baldovin, 1990, 97. For the medieval period, see the examples provided by Carruthers, 2006.
167 McKitterick, 1977, 81 on the Carolingian domain.
168 On Marian homilies as index of the place and cult of Mary in Byzantium during iconoclasm, see Cun-
ningham, 1990, 29, 45–7; Tsironis, 2000, 35–9; for the West, with specific reference to the Carolingian
domain, see Iogna-Prat, 1996; Woods, 2013, 247–59. On homilies and sermons as ‘vehicles’ of and
‘not just witnesses’ to contemporary concerns, for example in Gaul (where Autpert came from), see
Bailey, 2010.
 Textual icons in central Italy 113

As noted by Robin Cormack, sermons and commentaries, which, through the voice
of the preacher, reached the ears of figural artists among any other churchgoers, are
useful as a means ‘to penetrate to the visual experience of Byzantine society’.169 This
can be extended to other Christian communities of the past. However, even today
liturgical texts are rarely incorporated into a wider cultural history.170 This may be
the consequence of the fact that this category of texts often lacks precise dating and
certain authorship. Being the stock-in-trade of the living Church, they were in use for
centuries although adapted to contemporary circumstances.171
In light of the aforesaid, Marian liturgical material such as antiphons, hymns, and
homilies, as well as iconography, can offer clues to iconophile thinking and even prop-
aganda, in the period of the image controversy.172 This is why Autpert’s homilies need
to be framed within the fertile exchange between East and West that was still in place
in the mid-eighth century in central and southern Italy, an area which functioned as a
crossroads of Latin and Greek cultures. Ultimately, like their Greek counterparts, Aut-
pert’s homilies invite the faithful to think of the divine and the holy through images.

7 Graeca consuetudine
Floating in a limbo between the Greek and the Latin traditions because of their unusual
structure, contents, and tone, Autpert’s homilies still puzzle scholars.173 A comparison
between his homilies and those of Bede on the Purification, Paul the Deacon on the
Assumption (after 787),174 and Hrabanus Maurus on both these feasts (822–6),175
reveals that those of the monk of S. Vincenzo al Volturno stand out as decidedly
longer, theologically more articulate, and stylistically more sophisticated. In fact,
both his Marian homilies mark a new step in the understanding of Marian feasts and
themes in the early medieval West. But while his homily on the Presentation has been
judged as the ‘turning point’ in the western celebration of the feast,176 the one on the
Assumption still waits to be recognised as such.
So far, scholars have not provided a satisfactory explanation of the theological and
cultural roots of Autpert’s Marian homilies. An analysis of their contents shows that
their focal arguments mostly rely on eastern Mariology. His homily on the Presenta-
tion has intriguing affinities with a homily written by Patriarch Sophronios of Jerusa-
lem in the 630s, or anyway with the religious culture represented by Sophronios (see

169 Cormack, 1977a, 163. In the same book, Freedberg, 1977, 166, remarked the importance of preaching
for disseminating theological ideas during the Protestant Reformation of the Church.
170 Ó Carragáin, 2013 offers a notable exception for eighth-century Rome, as does the collection of essays
edited by Muessig, 2002a about tenth- to fifteenth-century western Europe.
171 See Bailey, 2010, 29–38 on Merovingian Gaul and the Eusebius Gallicanus sermon collection.
172 Thunø, 2002, 2005, goes in this direction with regard to Paschal I’s artistic patronage. See Cunning-
ham, 2020, about Andrew of Crete.
173 See, for example, Mimouni, 2011, 166, who declared that the earliest ‘really western’ homily on the
feast of the Assumption of Mary is one composed in the late ninth century by Bishop John of Arezzo.
174 Paul the Deacon, First homily on the Assumption, PL 95, 1565D–1569D; Second homily on the
Assumption, PL 95, 1569D–1574, is incomplete; see the recent edition by Buono, 2017, and her sug-
gestion for a date.
175 Sermo 8 In hypapanti, PL 110, 19B–20B; Sermo 28 In natali sanctae Mariae, PL 110, 54B–55A; Sermo
29 In Assumptione, PL 110, 55A–56B.
176 Deug-Su, 1974; Iogna-Prat, 1996, 84–5.
114 Textual icons in central Italy

Chapter 5).177 On a similar note, Autpert’s homily on the Assumption reflects early
eighth-century Greek homilies for the feast, in its language, style, contents, and struc-
ture (see Chapter 6).178 His elaborate style echoes the emotional, lyrical prose of his
Greek predecessors, especially of Andrew of Crete. In this light, the hint that Autpert
offers when writing that he could not find anything on the matter of Mary’s mysteri-
ous Assumption ‘apud Latinos’179 is telling in that he had to turn to the Greeks – but
it has been utterly overlooked. Only by taking into account the possibility of contact
with the religious culture of Byzantium and Palestine can a number of distinguishing
traits of Autpert’s Mariology be explained.180 Having hypothesised that he was possi-
bly aware of justifications for visual images of the Incarnate God elaborated in icono-
phile circles, and having remarked his reprise of textual images of Mary elaborated
by ‘Greek’ authors which also were ardent iconophiles, we should wonder, first of all,
how Autpert could have come across Greek texts, and then whether he had training
in Greek.181
Between the seventh and the ninth centuries a considerable number of eastern cler-
ics from various corners of the Mediterranean, generally identified as ‘Greeks’, arrived
in Rome. When not for political or ideological reasons, they came on the excuse of
pilgrimage or to end their days in the apostolic city.182 The patriarchate of Rome –
an area of influence which at least until the mid-eighth century included the Greek-
speaking churches of Africa, Illyricum, and Crete and the many ‘Greek’ monasteries of
the city – provided a favourable environment for the circulation of liturgical material
in Greek.183 In this period, as is witnessed by archaeological and written records, there
was exchange of goods, people, and likely also of books.184 Rome appears as the ideal
hub in which the written and oral exchange of theological ideas, and of liturgical and
devotional practices could still easily take place.185 Intense activity in textual trans-
lation of florilegia, acts of councils, liturgical and hagiographical material between
Latin and Greek was undertaken in the papal circle between the mid-seventh and the

177 Dell’Acqua, forthcoming a.
178 For the scheme of Greek homilies on the Dormition, see Daley, 1998, 33–4. Autpert follows the
same scheme but avoids any recourse to what he declares ‘apocryphal’ narrative that sometimes
appears in Greek homilies. The language, style, and structure of Autpert’s homilies will be the object
of Dell’Acqua, Cerno, in progress.
179 Ads,
 3, CCCM 27B, 1028, l. 1; cf. Ap, praefatio, CCCM 27, 5, l. 8, where he speaks of the commentar-
ies on Revelation in the Latin tradition.
180 See the reference in Wisskirchen, 1995–1997, 384; and the detailed treatment in Dell’Acqua, 2019a.
181 On the knowledge of Greek in late antique and Merovingian Gaul, especially Provence, see Boulhol,
2014. On the knowledge of Greek, and on Greek elements in the culture of central and southern Italy
as well as in the Carolingian domain, cf. Courcelle, 1943; Bischoff, 1951; Irigoin, 1975; Berschin,
1980; Noble, 1985, 2001a, 210–13, 216–17 (Chris Wickham in the ‘Discussion’); Frakes, 1986; Kac-
zynski, 1988; Riché, 1988; Herren, 2015; von Falkenhausen, 2015.
182 Sansterre, 1983, 40–51.
183 Delogu, 2000, 199–201, speaks of the ‘ecclesiastical jurisdiction’ the patriarchate of Rome exercised
over Greek-speaking churches, including those in Crete.
184 Marazzi, 1993; McCormick, 2001, 501–8; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 488–530 about trade in Byzan-
tium and its provinces in the period c.680–850.
185 Noble, 1985, concludes that Greek progressively became a no-longer spoken or understood language
in eighth-century Rome. I argue the opposite in Dell’Acqua, forthcoming a; see Nardini, 2007, for an
appraisal on the import – either in oral or written form – of Byzantine elements in liturgical chants in
the West in the period of our interest.
 Textual icons in central Italy 115

late ninth centuries. On the one hand, such translations witness the desire to share
a religious culture between East and West, while on the other they seem to buttress
Rome’s pretension to act as cultural broker between Byzantium and the West, as well
as claim ecumenical leadership.186 Indeed, the papacy affirmed its primacy over the
patriarchates of Antioch, Alexandria, Jerusalem, and Constantinople and also pro-
moted the translation, the dissemination, and the visual rendering of hagiographical
texts about eastern saints.187 By including the commemoration of eastern saints in the
Roman calendar, the papacy embraced – and thus controlled – hagiographical and
devotional traditions brought in by easterners. It goes without saying that translations
are also markers of a (growing?) linguistic barrier. Written translations of a large cor-
pus of Greek texts into Latin, however, are not known before the second half of the
ninth century.188 This would suggest that until the mid-ninth century Greek was still
mastered at least in some circles in Rome.
For the eighth century little evidence, and all of that indirect, can be gathered about
the circulation of writings of Greek iconophile authors which seem to have been
relevant to Autpert. Some circumstances should nevertheless be considered. When
the Damascus-born Andrew of Crete was metropolitan bishop of Gortyna, between
692/713–30, he was subject to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of Rome. It is possible
that he corresponded with the pope,189 and that his writings circulated in Rome.190
Even from Constantinople, to which he had been called back by Emperor Leo III
apparently because of his opposition to the new image policy,191 Andrew could have
easily kept up connections with the papal circle. The same could have been the case
with Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople (see the section on Germanos’ alleged
exile in Rome in Chapter 2). As for John of Damascus, who was living and preaching
at the Great Lavra of Mar Sabas and at the Anastasis in Jerusalem,192 the pilgrimage
route that connected the Holy Land to Rome might have offered a way of transmitting
his influential writings. They are attested in papal florilegia dated to c.770 which are
believed to reflect earlier collections, for example the one connected to the first icono-
phile synod of 731.193 On the whole, because little is known about Roman libraries
and their contents, even of the papal scrinium, until the late ninth century, it is hard to
trace the circulation of specific texts in the period of the image controversy.194 Even if

186 Gantner, 2015; McKitterick, 2016, 270.

187 Del Buono, 2010, 549–59. On the cult of eastern saints in Rome, also Maskarinec, 2018.
188 The earliest extant evidence of Greek homilies translated into Latin in Rome dates to the late ninth
century. It is a collection of homilies on the Assumption of Mary which probably Anastasius Biblio-
thecarius and a team working under his supervision translated at the papal court in order to provide
material for the celebration of the feast; see Sermones in Dormitionem Mariae, CCCM 154; Cupiccia,
2003. On Anastasius as translator, Arnaldi, 1980, 1989; Leonardi, 1988; Sansterre, 2004, 301; Del
Buono, 2010, 549–63.
189 RP 1, 2092, 236 mentions a case involving Bishop Paul of Crete judged by Pope Vitalianus (657–72).
190 This has been hypothesised by Ekonomou, 2007, 260.
191 Auzépy, 1995, 5.
192 He explicitly refers to Jerusalem’s liturgical practices on the feast of the Dormition, for example.
193 Alexakis, 1996, 134–7.
194 On the circulation of Greek texts in Rome in the early Middle ages, see Cavallo, 1990; Alexakis, 1996,
256–7. Stevenson, 1885, lists the following manuscripts held at the Biblioteca Vaticana: pal. gr. 4, tenth–
eleventh century, Sophronios, Encomium in ss. XLII martyres, fol. 280v; pal. gr. 9, tenth–eleventh century,
John of Damascus, De defunctis, fol. 44; pal. gr. 17, tenth–eleventh century, Andrew of Crete, Sermo
116 Textual icons in central Italy

they circulated, the fragility of the medium might have easily affected their preserva-
tion.195 To give an example, the Greek manuscripts used by Anastasius Bibliothecarius
and his team at the papal library for their Latin translations of Greek lives of saints
and of the Corpus Dionysiacum in the second half of the ninth century have ultimately
gone missing.196 But the absence of manuscripts witnessing the transmission of Greek
texts from the East does not necessarily rule out the possibility that they circulated,
either in written or oral form, in Italy during the eighth century.197 Specific features
in Autpert’s writings, which I have earlier introduced, not only speak in favour of his
reception of the Greek Christian tradition, but indirectly also confirm the circulation
of liturgical texts between the eastern and western Mediterranean. We should also
consider, however, the possibility of an oral exchange of ideas.198 Supported by the
regular exercise of memory,199 oral exchange was the most common way of commu-
nicating in societies in which literacy was the prerogative of the few. Orality had a
place even in official dispatches, especially when the contents were highly important
and confidential.200
Autpert needed to translate from Greek into Latin. What can we infer about his
acquaintance with the Greek language? Studies on the knowledge of the Greek lan-
guage in the early medieval West, on the one hand have offered an impressive array of
testimonies concerning Greek texts circulating in early medieval Europe, while on the
other have concluded that Greek was scarcely known and was used only in liturgical

in vitae vanitatem et in defunctos, fol. 154v, and Sermo in Annuntiationem s. Deiparae, fol. 166; pal.
gr. 35, tenth century, John of Damascus, Sermo in Christi nativitatem, fol. 32v; Andrew of Crete, Ora-
tiones II in s. Deiparae dormitionem, fols. 141 and 157v; Germanos of Constantinople, Orationes II
in s. Deiparae dormitionem, fols. 146 and 150; Germanos of Constantinople, Oratio in s. Deiparae
oblationem, fol. 170; pal. gr. 123, early tenth century, Pseudo-Dionysios, Opera varia, cum scholiis in
margine; pal. gr. 317, tenth–eleventh century, Andrew of Crete, Sermo in sanctam [Christi] Transfigu-
rationem, fol. 99; Andrew of Crete, In s. Deiparae dormitionem sermones duo, fols. 109v and 115;
Germanos of Constantinople, In Deiparae dormitionem sermo, fol. 121; Andrew of Crete, In s. Ioannis
Praecursoris capitis abscissionem sermo, fol. 125v; pal. gr. 325, early tenth century, Andrew of Crete,
In capitis abscisionem s. Io. Baptistae, fol. 96v; ottob. gr. 251, tenth century, Theodore of Stoudios,
Sermones catechetici minores.
195 For an overview on Greek manuscripts, scribes, and scriptoria in early medieval Rome, see Agati,
1994; D’Agostino, 2013, with further literature.
196 Arnaldi, 1980, 1989; Sansterre, 1983, 69–71; Leonardi, 1988; Chiesa, 1989; Rorem, Lamoreaux,
1998; Vircillo Franklin, 2001; Cupiccia, 2003; Sansterre, 2004, 301; Forrai, 2008; Del Buono, 2010,
549–63See
197 See Nardini, 2007, for a repertoire of manuscripts which testify to the transmission of Byzantine ele-
ments in western liturgical chants, although she makes clear that this transmission may have occurred
also orally.
198 For example, oral sources are important in Paul the Deacon’s main historiographical work, the HL. On
the circulation of ideas and material objects during the period of Byzantine iconoclasm, see McCor-
mick, 1994; McCormick, 2011, has investigated the case of Charlemagne’s envoys to the Holy Land
who went there to verify the material needs of local Christian establishments. They collected their data
orally with the aid of interpreters to mediate with Greek or Arab interlocutors, rather than transcrib-
ing Greek administrative documents; see Einhard, Vita Karoli, 16, MGH, SS rer. Germ. 25, 19, 11–25.
On orality in the medieval period with regards to preaching, see Thompson, 2002, 22, with reference
to previous literature.
199 On the use of memory in the late antique and early medieval period, see the classic studies of Carru-
thers, 1998, 2008.
200 In this regard, see Deswarte, Herbers, Scherer, eds., 2018; I thank Marianna Cerno for this suggestion.
 Textual icons in central Italy 117

formulas, bilingual sacred texts, prayers, and second-hand citations.201 Both Greek
and Latin were apparently still in use in Roman liturgy in the early medieval period,
but how extensively and for how long is hard to ascertain. While not necessarily fully
understood by the mixed populace of the city, the Greek language, the language of the
New Testament, certainly gave an aura of solemnity to celebrations and confirmed an
enduring connection with ancient liturgical practices and feasts.202 As for the central
and southern territories of the Italian peninsula, the history of Greek studies and
translations in the early medieval period has not even been attempted. Although this
is not the place, such a question certainly deserves examination, given that some of
these regions were still under Byzantine control and that Greek was spoken in some
areas. As for the Duchy of Benevento, where Autpert lived, the Lombard Duke (self-
styled ‘prince’) Arichis II displayed a sheer emulation of Greek culture, which may
have included the practice of speaking Greek.203
The northern Lombard grammarian and historian Paul the Deacon, one of the most
knowledgeable individuals of the period, in service at the court of Arichis II for some
years, admitted to having a limping knowledge of Greek language and literature.204 Even
if Autpert did not have much Greek, it is not difficult to imagine him exchanging views
on Greek liturgical texts and hymns with bilingual clerics in the many eastern monastic
communities of Rome, in the papal circle, and in southern Italy. His frequent and exact
observations on the conventions of the Greek language (‘graeca consuetudine’, ‘graeca
locutione’, ‘verba graeca’, ‘graece’, ‘graeco eloquio’), as well as his transliteration of
Greek expressions into Latin,205 point to his having some skills in Greek that actually
assisted him in his exegetical work.206 The dispatch of Greek texts from Pope Paul I to
the Frankish King Pippin in c.758 has been read as evidence for a genuine interest in
Greek as a language necessary to understand the patristic and the classical traditions.207
A clear indication that Autpert did handle Greek with some confidence is to be found
in the closing book of his commentary on Revelation, where he confidently embarks
on numerology applied to the Greek language.208 In particular, he reads numbers in

201 Berschin, 1980; cf. Cavallo, 1990, 47, 62.

202 Sansterre, 1983, 63; Berschin, 1980, 113–18; Ekonomou, 2007, 244ff, 250ff.; Goodson, 2010, 191;
Dyer, 2013, 46–7.
203 For example, in a letter to Charlemagne, Pope Hadrian (Letter 83, MGH, EMKA, CC, 617) notes that
Arichis adopted clothing and hair-styling ‘according to the use of the Greeks’.
204 Paul the Deacon, Versus Pauli Diaconi ad Petrum Grammaticum, XII, MGH, PLAK, 1, 49, vv. 16–18;
Berschin, 1980, 136–7.
205 Ap,
 1, 1, 4a, CCCM 27, 29, l. 14 and 37, l. 359 (where he writes in Greek); 1, 1, 13b, CCCM 27, 70,
l. 2; 3, 4, 3b, CCCM 27, 209, l. 3; 4, 9, 16, CCCM 27, 359, l. 26; 5, prologue, CCCM 27, 386, l. 34;
6, 13, 18, CCCM 27A, l. 15; 6, 13, 18, CCCM 27A, 516–523; 7, 14, 20b, CCCM 27A, 564, l. 214; 7,
15, 1, CCCM 27A, 570, l. 180; 8, 18, 2, CCCM 27A, 672, l. 122; 10, 22, 13, CCCM 27A, 860, l. 33.
206 Boulhol, 2014, 28, writes that there was no more room for Greek language in Gaul (in the seventh
century), except for, maybe, in the heart of some clerics who remembered that it was the language of
the Gospels. This seems to apply to Autpert.
207 Pope Paul I to Charlemagne, MGH, EMKA, CC, 24, 529. On Greek as a language for prayers and
liturgy, and on the importance of the Greek alphabet in eighth-century Gaul, see Boulhol, 2014, 32–3;
Gastgeber, 2018, 58–60.
208 In his exegetical work, Autpert uses grammar, etimology, semantics, and occasionally adds historical,
antiquarian, and even naturalistic notations; see Valastro Canale, 1996, 140–1, and the table at 151.
Stimulating observations about Autpert’s exegesis regarding the Fathers and his contemporaries are in
Matis, 2019, 98–106.
118 Textual icons in central Italy

the Greek letters Α Ω, Alpha and Omega, for the purpose of unveiling the mystery of
Christ’s apocalyptic monogram (Revelation 21, 6: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega,
the Beginning and the End’). Autpert transcribes in the Latin alphabet what he reads
in the occult numbers of the monogram as ‘theos Abraham, hi aidios alithia’ (from
the Greek ‘θεός Ἀβραάμ ἡ ἀΐδιος ἀλήθεια’), which he explains as ‘Deus Abraham et
sempiterna Veritas’, that is ‘The God of Abraham and the everlasting Truth’. Evidently
knowing how Greek was pronounced, he renders the sounds of the letters. In the word
‘alithia’ from ‘ἀλήθεια’, that is ‘truth’, and in the article ‘hi’ from ‘ἡ’, he captures traits
of spoken Greek, such as the tendency to pronounce vowels and diphthongs so that
they sound like iota (iotacism), and to emphasise some vowels by pronouncing an ‘h’
before them (rough breathing).209 The practice of transliterating Greek into Latin is
witnessed by texts intended for public performance, such as liturgical texts.210 Prob-
ably the same Autpert, who invested much time in preaching to his brethren and lay
people,211 had recourse to such practice.
The instance commented on previously goes some way to explaining why Autpert
seemed exceedingly cultivated to the savants of his time: Paul the Deacon called him
‘eruditissimus’, that is most learned.212 In the first half of the ninth century, the rev-
erent attitude towards the Greek language on the part of western savants would be
overturned by the Frankish monk Paschasius Radbertus, who derogatorily spoke of
Greek as a whirlwind confounding Latin purity.213

8 Texts and images

As we approach the end of this chapter, and before moving onto analysing figural
themes in the remaining ones, we cannot skip the question of the suitability of textual
evidence as a vehicle for shedding light on visual imagery. How can the writings of
Ambrose Autpert and others be applied to the analysis of contemporary or later artis-
tic commissions?
Used as primary sources in historical studies, texts are often considered by art
historians as ‘direct’ sources of inspiration in conceiving and producing visual arts.
This approach maintains an unrealistic, unidirectional, top-down transmission of
ideas from the textual to the visual realm, implicitly supporting the inferiority of the
visual and entirely discounting the role of intangible elements in shaping ideas and
images. Michael Camille has suggested that the dichotomy between ‘text’ and ‘image’
is the creation of modern scholarship.214 Texts and images were (and still are) often

209 In Ap, 10, 22, 12, CCCM 27A, 861–2, ll. 70–102. The Missa Graeca, a collection of liturgical texts
and hymns translated from Greek into Latin, to be read and sung in Greek during the celebration of the
Mass produced in the Carolingian domain during the ninth century also reflects iotacism and therefore
the on-going practice of reciting such liturgical texts; see Berschin, 1980, 35–7.
210 Kaczynski, 1988, 28–9 on the evidence from St Gall.
211 Ap 9, CCCM 27A, 718, ll. 50–69.
212 HL,  VI, 40, MGH, SRL, 179.
213 (Pseudo-)Jerome, Cogitis me = Paschasius Radbertus, De assumptione sanctae Mariae uirginis, XIII,
80, CCCM 56C, 145, ll. 669–71: ‘. . . plures orientalium circumeunt suis fecibus obuoluti, ne suo
nubilare uos uelint obscuritatis eloquio, uel graeco turbine latinam confundere puritatem. Sunt enim
et prudentes uirgines; sunt et fatuae!’.
214 Camille, 1994, 67, 78.
 Textual icons in central Italy 119

connected through the ‘spoken word’ while reading, preaching, and ruminating. In
combining a world of mental images with accompanying words, liturgical texts such
as hymns, antiphons, homilies, and prayers designed to be recited aloud, sung, heard,
and meditated did exert a deep influence on the faithful, shaping their mental images
and eventually their understanding of sacred images. Liturgical practices could inspire
what can be labelled ‘liturgical images’, that is images created through liturgical prac-
tices involving rituals, prayers, and chants.215 Recently, Hans Belting, Ivan Foletti, and
Martin Lešák have put it this way: ‘The anthropomorphic image, mental image, and
the image formed by rituals work together to make present what is absent’, referring
to the presence of the divine or the holy.216
As already mentioned in this chapter, we should not forget that in largely illiterate
or scarcely literate contexts, the verbal transmission of ideas and beliefs also had an
important role in shaping religious attitudes, mental visions, and visual images. This
should help in nuancing the idea of texts as unidirectionally inspiring other authors
or visual artists. Imagery, that is symbols, metaphors, ways of representing events
and objects, was often embedded in a shared visual culture, a shared experience of
devotional practices, and a widespread Christian imagination, rather than invented
ex-novo. Visual and textual culture, along with liturgical practices, collective memory,
and religious mentality were all interacting to form mental representations and specific
approaches to the sensible world.217 By acknowledging that liturgy, as well as private
devotion and pictorial images, had the power to shape religious attitudes and stimu-
late the elaboration of immaterial and material images of the sacred, the formulaic
assumption that texts ‘influence’ images can be finally overcome.218 Only in the pres-
ence of specific witnesses can an ‘influence’ be maintained and justify a comparative
discourse. This is the case, for example, in relation to works of art produced at S.
Vincenzo al Volturno, where Autpert lived and where his legacy was cultivated. This
may be the case also for ninth-century Rome, where his works circulated and could
thus validate the convincing connections already established between his ideas and
objects and mosaics commissioned by Pope Paschal I,219 as we shall see in Chapter 4.
Having said that, what is gained or lost during the translation from one medium into
another remains hard to determine. In fact, this process is never straightforward, in
that each system of signs has its own coherence and independence. Transmutation or
intersemiotic translation, that is a translation of signs from one medium into another,
is a complex process involving substitution, enhancement, cross-over, and cognitive
supplementation.220 This has not always been taken into account in art-historical stud-
ies, where new elements in iconography have been interpreted as a misreading of texts
on the part of patrons or artists, and not as an instance of artistic invention.

215 Ó Carragáin, 2013. For example, see the case of the singing of the Agnus Dei established by Sergius
I after the Council in Trullo; LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.
216 Belting, Foletti, Lešák, 2019, 15.
217 On mental imagery, see Thomas, 2016.
218 See Linardou, 2011, 133.
219 Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998; Ballardini, 1999, 2007; Thunø, 2002, 2005.
220 Jakobson, 1959; for updates and a discussion of subsequent literature, especially Umberto Eco’s, see
Dusi, 2015; Aktulum, 2017.
120  Textual icons in central Italy

Conclusions
In the absence of formal expositions of papal image theory, we have introduced the
writings of Ambrose Autpert – one of the few original authors active in Lombard Italy
in the mid-eighth century – which can offer elements that help us to reconstruct the
main doctrinal and political preoccupations of the time. Nurtured in the Latin and
Greek patristic culture, and stimulated by recent Greek liturgical imagery, Autpert
elaborated, especially in his homilies, destined for preaching to the laity as well as
monks, a rich imagery of Mary that cannot be seen simply as the expression of a par-
ticularly fervent and pious mind. This imagery responded to a pressing need to offer
a compelling and original response to the theological questions of his time, including
the humanity that Christ derives from his Mother and that made him depictable in
pictorial images. Autpert’s ‘textual icons’ of Mary and the Incarnate God encapsulate
and vividly render themes of contemporary eastern thought and practices. His ‘tex-
tual icons’ offer clues to inform an exploration of how Christ and Mary were seen
and represented in a period of major theological controversies, including iconoclasm,
and how their mental and material representation were intended to mediate paths to
salvation.
Inasmuch as the testimony of texts is important – and we will refer often to the
homilies of Autpert on the Transfiguration, on the Presentation of the Christ Child
in the Temple and the Purification of Mary, and on her Assumption in the next three
chapters – we should, however, be aware that they represent only one facet of the
complex prism of a specific culture. Hence, we will look at the circulation and inter-
section of themes related to iconophilia in texts, objects, pictorial images, liturgical
and devotional practices when the popes, Byzantium, the Lombards, and the Franks
were in confrontation over major theological and political questions. In some cases,
their interaction gave way to new ways of representing Christ and Mary, which were
consolidated in the medieval period and afterwards, while in others, they remained
isolated cases.
Chapter 4

A glimpse of salvation
Christ as light between the first
and second iconoclasm

In the years between the end of the first phase of the image controversy (787) and the
beginning of the second (815), the popes had the last word against the Byzantine aver-
sion to sacred images and the Carolingian scepticism towards them, but also against
the Christological ‘heresy’ of adoptionism. On sacred images, after Hadrian I had
defended them on the basis of tradition in a famous letter he wrote to Charlemagne,1
Paschal I expounded an image theory in a letter in Greek addressed to the Byzantine
emperor. Paschal I and his predecessor Leo III also clearly expressed their support
for sacred images through a wide-reaching artistic patronage. Along with the venera-
tion of relics, translated from suburban cemeteries to newly refurbished basilicas,2 the
popes promoted pictorial images. In doing so, they manifested doctrinal authority
and independence in the face of Byzantium and the Carolingians, since they implicitly
asserted that figural imagery was suitable for mediating a relationship with the divine.
But the papal programme went beyond this confrontation, as it was meant to set
spiritual and moral examples before the eyes of the faithful, offer visions of a celestial
afterlife, and thus stimulate the faithful to achieve salvation through the imitation of
Christ, Mary, the saints, and through the practice of good deeds. In a few words, this
was the papal iconophile message.
This chapter concentrates on imagery which was intended to reveal the humanity
and divinity perfectly combined in the Son of God, and in particular on the image
of Christ as ‘Redeeming Light’, depicted in mosaics commissioned by popes in the
first half of the ninth century. In a recent study on Roman mosaics of the late antique
and early medieval period, Erik Thunø has remarked that ‘Despite the dominance of
Christ in the early medieval apse conch, we know surprisingly little about this type of
image’.3 It goes beyond the scope of this chapter to produce a survey of the evidence
and do justice to its rich scholarly tradition, since its goal is to note the fact that in
the decades between the late eighth and the early ninth centuries in central Italy, this
image took shape in various media, including texts, mosaics, and stained glass. This

1 See his Hadrianum or Responsum to Charlemagne, in MGH, EK 3, 2, 5–57; commented on in Chapter 2.

2 Gregory III in the 730s, Paul I in 760s, and Paschal I in 820s were particularly active in this regard, see
Smith, 2000; on Paschal I, see Goodson, 2010, 221–34; more specifically on S. Cecilia, Hartmann, 2016;
on S. Prassede, Miedema, Slootjes, 2016. On relics in Roman basilicas between the late antique and early
medieval period, and how they were used to ‘build a communion of saints’, see Thunø, 2015a, 172–205;
esp. at 188: ‘Relics of martyrs were temporal bridges that could keep the Church a united entity’.
3 Thunø, 2015a, 93.
122 A glimpse of salvation

image was certainly rooted in an eminent textual and visual tradition of theophanies
produced between the fourth and the seventh centuries. Developed on the basis of
the account of Christ’s Transfiguration on the mountain, which was the ‘epitome of
any Christian theophany’,4 the idea of representing Christ as Light had been elicited
by debates and related anxieties on the possibility of visualising, and thus honour-
ing, God.5 However, while figural depictions until the seventh century were meant
as a response to the desire to experience the eternal vision of God,6 in the period of
the iconoclastic and adoptionist controversies they seem instead to enhance Christ’s
ineffable splendour at his Second Coming, when, after judging humanity, he will res-
urrect the righteous, and establish his kingdom. The well-rooted idea in scholarship
that Christ in the clouds references his Second Coming has been questioned by Yves
Christe, Thunø, and others, who rather see his presence as ‘ahistorical and timeless’.7
While it seems pointless to contradict the fact – not only the assumption – that an
image of Christ in the apse is indeed manifesting the timeless presence of God in the
sanctuary,8 the ninth-century depictions of theophanies that we shall discuss seem,
indeed, to have had an eschatological dimension, although they bear no reference to
the Final Judgement. Promoted in a period of theological controversies on Christ’s
nature and the legitimacy of representing him and his saints, the image of Christ as
‘Redeeming Light’ seems designed to offer a glimpse of the vision the righteous would
enjoy at the end of times, and thus inspire the faithful to nurture hope in resurrec-
tion, and in the meantime to practise good deeds necessary to the community of the
Church as well as to individual salvation.9 In order to reveal their ‘novelty’ in content
with regard to earlier theophanies, as well as their ‘timeliness’ in the period of interest

4 Bergmeier, 2014b, 66. On late antique theophanies, their meaning and their evolution, see Belting-Ihm,
1992, 69–75 (on the Transfiguration); Mathews, 1993; Spieser, 1998; for a recent appraisal, see Berg-
meier, 2017b, who defines them as the result of a synthetic combination of theophanic motifs and picto-
rial elements, some of which are of pagan origin.
5 Cf. the Arian controversy in c.400 and the contemporary debate on visualising God, which affected late
antique depictions of theophanies; see Spieser, 1998, 66–7; Krausmüller, 2017, posits that in eighth-
century Byzantium mysticism was rejected, and with it the idea that God could be seen or experienced;
I cannot agree with him, since the evidence he offers is too scant, being limited to Pseudo-Athanasios of
Alexandria, Sermo in Annuntiationem Deiparae, PG 28, 917–948.
6 This is Bergmeier’s main line of thought, 2017b, which he boldly recaps in the epilogue of his monograph
at 261: ‘The late antique people had no interest in depicting the future end of times in [figural] images’,
rather they wished to see God ‘here and now’.
7 Christe, 1974, 1996, 66–71, rejects that there is a reference to Christ’s Second Coming in late antique
depictions of theophanies on the basis of his reading of early commentaries on Revelation; rather he sees
them as representations of the heavenly Church; see also Thunø, 2015a, 98; Bergmeier, 2017b. In another
essay, Christe, 1973, 32–6, argues for Christ representing an omnipresent ruler; cf. with Mathews, 1993,
92–114, who emphasises the similarity of Christ’s depiction in the apse to pagan gods. See also Berg-
meier, 2017b, 181–259, who sums up the historiographical question, and maintains that late antique
theophanies respond to the wish to experience the vision of God and do not relate to the Second Com-
ing on the day of the Final Judgement. In a review of this book, Spieser, 2019, 241, declares his hope
that Bergmeier’s line of thought will become prevalent among scholars. On the medieval period, and the
distinction between the ‘present and eternal’ dimension of theophanies such as Christ’s majesty and the
‘future, eschatological’ dimension of his Second Coming, see Klein, 1990.
8 See Spieser, 1998, who believes that Christ’s image in the apse was aimed at persuading the faithful that
God was ‘truly present in the sanctuary’.
9 The importance of practising good deeds to enjoy the salvific light of God was propounded in their
homilies on the Transfiguration by Andrew of Crete, On the Transfiguration, PG 97, 941C–D; trans.
 A glimpse of salvation 123

here, I appeal to homilies on the Transfiguration – in which Christ appears as Light –

written between the late seventh and the eighth centuries, which attest to the circula-
tion of ideas across the Greek and Latin areas of the Christian oecumene.
In the second part of the chapter, with reference to a stained-glass panel discovered
some years ago at the monastery of S. Vincenzo al Volturno, I discuss how the idea of
Christ as ‘Redeeming Light’ was construed as a multilayered image with reference to
his Incarnation, Crucifixion, Transfiguration, and Second Coming. Finally, I situate
these developments in the papal artistic patronage of the early decades of the ninth
century, when, besides promoting figural manifestos, the popes’ protection of eastern
clerics also became crucial in responding to the second phase of Byzantine iconoclasm
and to the Carolingian tepid resolutions about sacred images.

1 Christ as the ‘Redeeming Light’ in Rome

Between the late eighth and the early ninth centuries, the debate on the legitimacy and
role of sacred images was marked by the iconophile Council of Nicaea II (787), the
papal and the Carolingian exchange on it, the reinstatement of iconoclasm in Byzan-
tium (815), and the Synod of Paris (825), on which we shall comment at the end of this
chapter. By the late eighth century, Rome had consolidated its role as the bastion of
Christian faith, therefore, the popes were in a strong position to formulate and dictate
what was ‘orthodox’ – including figural imagery. In these decades, an image of Christ
revealing what the faithful could enjoy eternally in the presence of God, and which,
therefore, could stimulate them to seek redemption and salvation, was taking shape in
the churches of Rome, starting with SS. Nereo e Achilleo with Pope Leo III (795–816).10
Following in the steps of his active predecessor Hadrian I, Leo III lavished on the
churches of Rome and Ravenna the most impressive set of donations ever recorded
until then, as accurately recorded by the Liber Pontificalis.11 Before him, the pontifi-
cates of Gregory II and of Hadrian I had been the most active in terms of patronage in
the period in which we are interested. They promoted expensive building enterprises
and refurbishments financed through a more careful management of rural proper-
ties, which witnesses the emergence of an independent political and economic self-
awareness.12 This papal largesse, spanning much of the eighth and the ninth centuries,
has raised questions about the supply of building and decorative materials, as well as

Daley, 2013, 189; and John of Damascus, On the Transfiguration, 20, PTS 29, 458–9; trans. Daley,
2013, 230–1. This idea is echoed in Autpert, Pu, 8, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 10–18, where he writes that the
faithful can embrace God daily thanks to the practice of good actions in favour of the weakest limbs of
the mystical body of the Church.
10 See Labatt, 2012, 3ff., on Rome as a locus of iconographic innovation between the seventh and the
ninth centuries against the theory supported by authoritative scholars including Ernst Kitzinger, Kurt
Weitzmann, and Richard Krautheimer, who saw it as the passive recipient of eastern influences; for a
critique to this theory, see also Brubaker, 2005.
11 LP II, 1–34; see Geertman, 1975, 38–55, for the list of donations; 56–70, for an analysis. Little remains
of what he promoted; on the mosaics, see Davis-Weyer, 1965, 1966, 1968; Belting, 1976, 1978; Curzi,
1993, who not only painstakingly retraces the history and the studies on these mosaics, but also con-
nects them with what is left of pictorial cycles promoted by Leo III’s predecessors during the eighth
century, especially John VII and Paul I.
12 Noble, 2000, 61–73.
124 A glimpse of salvation

about the required specialised workforce. While it is probable that an East–West cir-
culation of material supplies and craftsmen reached Rome, specialised craftsmanship
is indeed attested in loco during the early medieval period.13
Towards the end of his pontificate, in 814–16,14 Leo III rebuilt and decorated an old
titulus in the area of the Caelian Hill, the church of SS. Nereo e Achilleo, to host the relics
of the dedicatees, two early Christian martyrs (Figure 4.1). In it, he also commissioned
mosaics, which remain among the most distinguished elements of his artistic patronage.
The apsidal mosaic had lambs approaching the Cross against the backdrop of a curtain,
but it was entirely lost in the late sixteenth century, when Cardinal Baronio decided
to restore the church and eliminate its crumbling furnishings.15 What remains today
of the mosaic on the apsidal arch is the result of heavy restorations undertaken in the
nineteenth century.16 On the arch, it has the Annunciation on the left and the enthroned
Mother of God or Theotokos on the right, while the Transfiguration is in the middle.
This combination of scenes has been judged ‘unprecedented’17 (Figure 4.2). The transfig-
ured Christ, full-figured, robed in white with a golden stripe or clavus, holds a scroll and
blesses the onlookers. He is flanked by Elijah and Moses. The light he projects brightens
the dark blue background to form a light blue halo around his body and infuses the
scattered clouds either side of him with an intense orange-red colour. His disciples Peter,
James, and John prostrate themselves in front of this vision of new splendour.
One of the crucial episodes in the New Testament, and the only theophany described
in it, the Transfiguration epitomises the two natures of Christ in a vision of blinding
brightness: his divine light shining from his human body, thus uniting heaven and
earth. While praying on a mountain (which only in the fourth century came to be iden-
tified as Mount Tabor) with Peter, John, and James, Christ ‘was transfigured before
them. His face was shining as the sun, and his garments became white as the light’
(Matthew 17, 2). Moses and Elijah appeared and talked with Christ ‘about his depar-
ture, which he was about to bring to fulfilment at Jerusalem’ (Luke 9, 31). ‘Then a
cloud appeared and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud: “This is my Son,
whom I love. Listen to him!” ’ (Mark 9, 7). Saint Paul observed that the Transfigura-
tion is the moment in which the faithful can understand that in Christ the human
and divine meet and ‘are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory’
(2 Corinthians 3, 18). Early Christian exegetes used the Transfiguration account ‘as a
spring-board for spiritual rumination’ on an extraordinary vision of God, denied on

13 For example, glass working is attested on the site of the Crypta Balbi; see Saguì, 1993; Mirti et al., 2001.
However, there is no comprehensive study on the materials and techniques of medieval Roman mosaics.
Normally neglected by scholars, the question is approached by Thunø, 2015a. On the materiality of mosa-
ics in Byzantium, see James, 2017; Entwistle, James, eds., 2013; on Norman Sicily, see Borsook, 1990.
14 On the basis of the LP, Geertman, 1975, 64, notes that the reconstruction of the diaconia of SS. Nereo
e Achilleo was completed in summer 815.
15 The original appearance of the mosaic remains debated, see Curzi, 1993, 2018, 10–16; see Herz, 1988,
on the late sixteenth-century restoration of SS. Nereo e Achilleo, esp. 606–12 on the mosaics. On a
painting documenting the original apsidal mosaic, see Utro, 2004.
16 See Matthiae, 1967, 1: 225–75, and the corresponding illustrations for a reliable graphic reconstruc-
tion of the restored parts of the mosaic on the apsidal arch. Restorations undertaken in 1987 have been
published by Antellini, 1992; see also Curzi, 1993, for relevant literature and observations.
17 Garrucci, 1877, 110; Giunta, 1976, 196; Wisskirchen, 1991, compares it with S. Apollinare in Classe,
renovated by Pope Leo III; Curzi, 1993; Thunø, 2002, 129–31, and 2015a, 57–9. On the Transfigura-
tion in Rome, see the analysis of Labatt, 2012, 106–75, esp. 112–42 on SS. Nereo e Achilleo.
 A glimpse of salvation 125

Figure 4.1 R ome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, interior.

Photo: © Bibliotheca Hertziana/Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte.

Mount Sinai (Exodus 3, 6; Matthew 22, 32), but finally granted on Mount Tabor.18
The earliest extant figural depiction of the theme in monumental arts is in the apse
of the church of the monastery built in the mid-sixth century by Emperor Justinian
on the traditional site of the Burning Bush on Sinai.19 The more or less contemporary

18 Bucur, 2019, 136. On the exegetical association of Sinai and Tabor, and its treatment in seventh- and
eighth-century homilies by Anastasios of Sinai, John of Damascus and others, and in the readings
assigned for the feast in Byzantine Christianity, see, Bucur, 2019, 120–37.
19 See Weitzmann, 1966; Elsner, 1994; specifically on the symbolism of light in this mosaic, see Miziołek,
1990; on the exegetical interpretation and visual rendering of the standing Christ, whose feet are a
126  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.2 R ome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, apsidal arch, mosaics, c.815–16.
Photo: © Manuela Gianandrea.

mosaics in the apse of S. Apollinare in Classe also have been seen as a variation on the
theme of the Transfiguration, with the body of Christ replaced by a gold gemmed cross
with an imago clipeata of Christ at the crossing of the arms, and the monogram Α Ω
to the sides of the horizontal arm.20 Judging by what is extant, in SS. Nereo e Achilleo
the Transfiguration was depicted for the first time in Rome,21 although in late antique
and early medieval mosaics produced in the city, the physical and metaphysical motif
of light was a pivotal element in their imagery and in their accompanying metrical
inscriptions rendered with gold tesserae.22

reminder of his Incarnation on earth, see Deshman, 1997; on the dedicatory inscription of the Sinai
mosaic, see Leatherbury, 2016.
20 Bergmeier, 2014a.
21 Thunø, 2002, 143; Labatt, 2012, 106–75, dedicates an entire chapter to analysis of the Transfiguration
in Rome, concluding that it obtained an innovative treatment in the city.
22 On the trope of light and material splendour in Roman mosaic inscriptions, see Thunø, 2011, 2015a,
13–62 (esp. 47–51), and 209–15 for the transcription and translation of late antique and early medieval
Roman mosaic inscriptions. Thunø, 2015a, 15, 50, notes that the term metallum, which appears in the
inscription of SS. Cosma e Damiano and other inscriptions including those commissioned by Paschal, is
a term ‘as imprecise as . . . evocative of the strong luminosity and perhaps precious nature of the mosa-
ics’; he translates it as ‘metal’, while I prefer ‘gold tesserae’.
 A glimpse of salvation 127

Scholars have seen Leo III’s mosaic as relevant to the contemporary discourse on

the visualisation of the Incarnate God. Hans Belting wrote that the cross in the apse
surrounded by clouds was the ‘sign of the Son of Man in heaven . . . coming on the
clouds of heaven, with power and great glory’ (Matthew 24, 30), while the lambs
were ‘those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and
may go through the gates into the city’ (Revelation 22, 14) thus the Cross stands also
for the Tree of Life and reveals Christ’s First Coming or Parousia. Belting also says
that the Cross is a timeless theophany, while the apsidal arch reveals Christ’s pres-
ence in history, starting with the Annunciation, to which corresponds the Maiestas
of the Virgin in which the angel is a figure for John the Baptist, the precursor of
Christ (cf. Mark 1, 1–8), and completed with the Transfiguration which illustrates
his divinity.23 After a very accurate analysis of the mosaic cycle in SS. Nereo e Achil-
leo, Gaetano Curzi has declared that Belting’s observations, although not developed
in a full discussion, remain the most sensible reading of its overall significance.24 The
specific choice of depicting the Transfiguration has been explained by Thunø with
the ‘influences from contemporary Byzantine pictorial programs transmitted through
portable objects’ (such as the Pliska enkolpion, on which see infra; Fig. 4.17, Pl.
26).25 This assumption has been dismissed by Annie Labatt, mainly and arguably on
the basis of the different scale of monumental mosaics and portable objects.26 It goes
without saying that the theme of the Transfiguration was already known in Rome.
But, as we shall see in the next chapter, we cannot rule out that the circulation of
objects may have heightened the attention towards certain themes which appeared
relevant to contemporary preoccupations.
Both the Incarnation and the Transfiguration illustrate the perfectly combined
human and divine nature of the Incarnate God. As a result, some have hypothesised
that through the mosaics of SS. Nereo e Achilleo the pope intended to manifest his
rejection of adoptionism and iconoclasm: the Annunciation, as did the Transfigu-
ration, revealed the perfectly combined divinity and humanity in Christ, while the
Theotokos alluded to the divine maternity of Mary, and the Cross, the triumph of
Christ.27 Adoptionism worried Leo III, as it had worried his predecessor. A few years
after his election, in 798 Leo III convened in Rome a council against this ‘heresy’
which anathematised Bishop Felix of Urgell, one of its most vehement supporters.28

23 Belting, 1973, 103–4.

24 Curzi, 1993, 30. He nonetheless criticises Belting’s stretching of the parallelism between the mosaics of
Leo III and the Arch of Einhard (c.820–40), a reliquary container in the shape of a triumphal arch of
which a drawing remains (Paris, BnF, ms. Fr. 10 440).
25 Thunø, 2002, 130.
26 Labatt, 2012, 145–6; she however admits (at 156): ‘The East and the international crisis of image-
theory provided the occasion for a brief Roman florescence of the Transfiguration iconography’, with
reference also to the case of S. Zeno – for which see next section. Labatt, 2012, 162, believes also Christ
seated and encircled in a mandorla at the apex of the apsidal arch in S. Maria in Domnica should be
interpreted as a Transfiguration or as an allusion to this event, which does not seem plausible given the
lack of typical elements of the scene, apart from the presence of two figures in the spandrels which she
identifies as Moses and Elijah.
27 See De Rossi, 1899, 84; Toesca, 1927, 399, for the arch as a celebration of the hypostatic union of
divine and human natures in Christ; Giunta, 1976, on adoptionism; Curzi, 1993, 30–3, criticises Giun-
ta’s anti-adoptionist reading of the mosaic; with regards to iconoclasm, see Thunø, 2002, 148; Thunø,
2005, 277–9; and the appraisal in Labatt, 2012, 142–58.
28  Concilium Romanum a. 798, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 202–4.
128  A glimpse of salvation

As recalled in Chapter 2, Pope Hadrian had already admonished the Spanish bishops
and demanded that they refrain from such heresy,29 and Felix had been condemned
by the Frankish synods of Regensburg (792) and Frankfurt (794).30 Evidently, Leo III
realised that he needed to re-assert the papal position on this question, because the
‘plague’ of adoptionism, which was believed to be extinct after Hadrian’s admonition,
appeared to increase and spread even wider. Thus, Felix was once more anathema-
tised.31 Moreover, towards the end of his pontificate, more or less coincident with his
commission of the mosaic in SS. Nereo e Achilleo, and after almost three decades of
iconophile intermission, iconoclasm was reinstated in the Byzantine Empire with the
Council of Constantinople (815).32 Thunø sees the Transfiguration as an ‘especially
potent argument in favour of sacred images’.33 Therefore, one should conclude that
Leo’s pontificate was indeed troubled by heresies threatening division in the Church,
and thus we could agree with the idea he used the mosaics in SS. Nereo e Achilleo as
a manifesto of papal ‘orthodoxy’.
We should note, however, that in this mosaic a further message is implied: the Trans-
figured Christ, central in the narrative of the apsidal arch, offers to the faithful, as he
did to his actual disciples, a preview of the eternal light that the righteous will enjoy in
heaven. His golden clavus on the tunic may be a reference to the golden sash in the pas-
sage in Revelation (1, 13) about Christ at the end of times, when he will be ‘dressed in
a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest’. Christ leaves
the apse, the focal place in the programme, to the Cross, which reminds the onlooker
that the salvation of humankind was enabled by the sacrifice he made with his death by
crucifixion. This ‘unusual’ combination of scenes, we can argue, ultimately stimulated
the faithful to envisage redemption and future salvation. In this sense, we can say that
Leo III’s mosaic of the Transfigured Christ mediates salvation, while asserting the papal
belief in the agency of pictorial images.

2 T he case of S. Zeno

A few years later, in c.818–19, the Transfiguration was illustrated again in Rome in
the chapel of S. Zeno, off the south aisle of the church of S. Prassede (Figures 4.3–4.4).
This was the funerary oratory Pope Paschal I (817–24) built and decorated with mosa-
ics and precious marble for his mother Theodora, who died in 817.34 The mosaics

29 Hadrian I, Letter to the bishops of Spain, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 122–30.

30 Acts of the Council of Frankfurt (794), MGH, Conc. 2.1, 110–21; McCormick, 1994, 140–2; Mitalaité,
2007, 206–11, on the theological arguments put forward by Alcuin and Paulinus of Aquileia on the
occasion of this council.
31 MGH, Conc. 2.1, 203: ‘nunc magis ac magis crescendo pullulat’; 204: ‘Felici . . . si noluerit declinare de
heretico dogmate suo, in quo ausus est filium Dei adoptivum asserere, anathema sit’. Curzi, 1993, 31,
downplays the importance of adoptionism among the concerns of Leo III.
32 Alexander, 1953, 1958; Thümmel, 2005, 231–45.
33 Thunø, 2005, 278.
34 It is uncertain if Theodora was ever buried there, see Miedema, Slootjes, 2016, 72–3, for a recent reap-
praisal, as well as Foletti, Giesser, 2016, 228–30, who draw a relation between this chapel and eastern
funerary practices, in particular the recitation of the prayer Pannychis, which was probably composed
by Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople and used during the funeral vigil to express the wish of the
believer to be supported by God in the wait for the salvific light of Christ; for the text of the prayer, see
Arranz, 1974.
Figure 4.3 R ome, S. Prassede, interior.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Figure 4.4 E ntrance to the Chapel of S. Zeno, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 131

above the altar niche, to which the onlookers lift their gaze after pausing at the altar,
introduce the theme of the redeeming light of Christ. This element becomes meta-
phorically and physically pervasive in the oratory, through natural light filtered by the
openings, and through its figural representation.35 The Transfiguration appears in a
semi-circular section of the wall above the altar, framed by the deep niche of the apse.
While its position is without doubt focal, it has not been given much space, and conse-
quently is illustrated in a reduced scheme, with only the busts of Christ, Moses, Elijah,
Peter, and John (Figures 4.5–4.7, Pls. 5, 7). Among them, only Christ and Peter have
a nimbus, thus emphasising Peter’s role as main witness to Christ’s life and miracles.36
Scholars have attempted to retrace the origins of this scene by thoroughly analysing
its various elements; it seems sounder to consider, on the one hand, its innovative take
within the landscape of ninth-century Rome,37 and on the other hand, its relevance to
the general economy of the pictorial programme revolving around the salvific light of
the Redeemer.
Above the Transfiguration, Mary and John the Evangelist flank the window in a
sort of Deesis (Figure 4.8, Pl. 9). This is one of the earliest extant examples of such
iconography.38 In this case, they display their reverence not to the Crucifix but to the
salvific light of Christ entering from the most important window, the one east-facing
above the altar, and act as intercessors in favour of Theodora.39 A rectangular frame
below the Lamb of God is the locus devoted to commemorating her. She is depicted
half-length, veiled, with a square halo, and identified with the title ‘EPISCOPA’. The
unusual title, that could reflect her consecration to God, most likely alludes to her role
as the mother of the episcopus of Rome. The Virgin Mary, Praxedis, and Pudentiana
appear to her side (Figure 4.9). The female martyr saints feature in their capacity as
witnesses of the faith, imitators of Mary, celestial companions and role models for
Theodora.40
In the figural programme of S. Zeno, a special emotional bond between mother
and son is already shown in the mosaics on the outer wall of the entrance, where,
in two circling bands, the imagines clipeatae of Christ and the apostles have as

35 Wirenfeldt Asmussen, 1986, 74; Pace, 1999, 49; Kessler, Zacharias, 2000, 121; Thunø, 2002, 144;
Labatt, 2012, 128–9.
36 Labatt, 2012, 133, where she notes Peter’s focal role in the chapel of S. Zeno.
37 Labatt, 2012, 122–3, invites us to see this scene as the product of innovative thinking, after dutifully
retracing the intricate analysis offered by scholars.
38 Mackie, 1989, 176, says that this Deesis one of the earliest examples of the iconography, following
the one arguably interpreted as Deesis in St. Catherine’s on Sinai; at 192, she concludes that the
programme of the upper walls and vault of S. Zeno have a distinctive ‘eastern’ character; cf. Labatt,
2012, 125–6.
39 On the Deesis as related to prayer and intercession, see Walter, 1968.
40 One of the most authoritative voices among the early Church Fathers is Ambrose of Milan.
His De Virginibus, 2, 2, PL 16, 208–11, promoted the idea of Mary as an exemplary model of
purity, virtue, dedication, and prayer for women who wished to consecrate their life to God and
become his mystical brides. On consecrated women between Late Antiquity and the early medieval
period, see Schaefer, 2013; Foletti, 2016a, 61–2. On the virgins as companions of Theodora, see
Mackie, 1989, 184.
Figure 4.5 C hapel of S. Zeno, east wall, with altar and Transfiguration mosaic, Rome, S. Pras-
sede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Figure 4.6 C hapel of S. Zeno, east wall and vault, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Figure 4.7 Transfiguration, mosaic, detail, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
134  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.8 Deesis, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

counterparts Mary and Christ Child, two clerics, and eight crowned female mar-
tyrs41 (Figure 4.10, Pl. 6). Immediately facing the entrance, the niche above the
altar frames the Virgin holding the Christ Child, transmitting the mother and son
relation almost like an aerial. Made in the thirteenth century, this mosaic possibly
reproduces the original subject42 (Figure 4.11). Heavenly Christ and Mary are to be
seen as an ideal transposition of the terrestrial Paschal and Theodora: through the
mother, the son was born, but he brought her the light of salvation. In the architec-
ture and decoration of S. Zeno, the special bond between mother and son is a con-
stant undertone – an aspect which has not been sufficiently explored43 – while the

41 On the entrance wall see Brenk, 1973–1974, 217, who notes parallels for the clipei in pre- and post-
iconoclastic Byzantine coins, seals, and manuscripts (Chludov Psalter, Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129).
Mackie, 1989, 190, suggests that the virgins are those invoked in the Eucharistic Prayer or Roman
Canon: Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha, Lucia, Agnes, Cecilia, and Anastasia.
42 See Pace, 1997; Thunø, 2002, 143–4.
43 The mosaics of the chapel of S. Zeno and of the church of S. Prassede to which it is attached have been
treated separately. Against this historiographic trend, see Schaefer, 2013, 52–111, who highlights how
Figure 4.9 Theodora ‘Episcopa’, Praxedis, the Virgin Mary, and Pudentiana, mosaic, Chapel of
S. Zeno, north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Figure 4.10 C hrist, the apostles, Mary and Christ Child, two clerics, eight crowned female
martyrs, mosaic Chapel of S. Zeno, entrance wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Figure 4.11 Altar, thirteenth-century mosaic with Virgin and Child, mosaic, Chapel of S.
Zeno, east wall, Rome, S. Prassede 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 137

light of the Incarnate God offering hope of resurrection to the dead is the dominant
tone. Both these themes are expounded in historiae, that is narrative scenes, and in
imagines, that is iconic images that stand out from the golden background mosaics
that cover the walls.44
The theme of intercession and of the redeeming light of God recurs on the walls
of the oratory, where the imagery is skilfully made to interplay with natural light.
On the counterfacade, the empty throne of God, flanked by Peter and Paul in an
alternative Deesis, is illuminated by the natural light filtering through the most
important window, the one flanked by Mary and John the Evangelist (Figure 4.12).
Alluding to the mystical presence of the unknowable God, the empty throne or eti-
masia was a widespread feature in early Christian programmes of imagery.45 In this
specific case, it has been posited, it may well refer to Christ’s Second Coming, while
Peter and Paul assume the role of his representatives on earth and intercessors for
humankind at the Final Judgement.46 The light that originally filtered through the
side windows, later blocked, was also saluted by holy figures depicted to the sides
of their openings.47
On the north wall, to the right of the immured window, stand the Roman virgin
martyrs Praxedis and her sister Pudentiana, and on the left, Agnes, all with their hands
reverently covered, as if worshipping the light that originally entered through the
opening (Figure 4.13). Following a sixteenth-century restoration, the side windows
appear partly covered in mosaic and partly painted.48 They reproduce a typology of
window screens in plaster with circular holes filled with coloured glass disks which
might have originally screened the windows. Such plaster screens were in use in mid-
dle Byzantine churches where they complemented walls covered in mosaics. Through
their small openings and soft-hued glass, natural light pervaded their interior without
hitting with direct rays the reflective surfaces of the mosaics, thereby enabling an
optimum perception of their imagery.49 This detail, now lost, suggests great care in
planning the natural illumination of the chapel on the part of those who planned its
interior.

the two programmes convey a message about future salvation. The mother and son as pair are men-
tioned in Schaefer, 2013, 110–11, 316–17; see also Pace, 1999, 48–9. Goodson, 2010, 165–9, sees the
programme of S. Zeno revolving around concepts such as the resurrection, the Apocalypse, Paschal’s
concern for the salvation of his mother’s soul, with the unifying theme being the intercession of Christ.
44 On imagines and historiae in S. Zeno, see Kessler, 2000, 18–19.
45 On the meaning of the etimasia in the late antique and medieval period, see Di Natale, Resconi, 2013;
they set out to reconsider the eschatological associations of the etimasia, and concluded that it did
indeed reference eschatological concerns. Not all scholars, however, agree that it did reference the Sec-
ond Coming of Christ, see Bergmeier, 2017b, 128, and idem, 2020, also for further literature.
46 See Mackie, 1989, 178–9, who posits that the throne alludes to the Final Judgement. On the representa-
tion of the Final Judgement in Byzantine visual arts, see Brenk, 1964.
47 L’Orange, 1974–1975; Dell’Acqua, 2003, 53; Dell’Acqua, 2005, 202; Ballardini, 2007, 197–9; Foletti,
Giesser, 2016, 229–30; Bolgia, 2013, 219, posits that these windows were screened with lapis specula-
ris. The idea of the Christ–Light in this chapel is once more affirmed in the late medieval mosaic above
the altar, see Mackie, 1989, 184; Pace, 1997.
48 On the sixteenth century restoration and redecoration campaigns, see Caperna, 1999, 83–106, esp. 87.
49 Dell’Acqua, 2003, 51–3, 164; Dell’Acqua, 2005, 202, 2016b on the case of the ninth- to tenth-century
plaster transennae in the main church of Amorion, capital of the Byzantine thema of Anatholikon.
Figure 4.12 Etimasia flanked by Peter and Paul, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, west wall, Rome,
S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 139

Figure 4.13 A gnes, Pudentiana, and Praxedis flanking a former window, mosaic, Chapel of S.
Zeno, north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Below Praxedis, Pudentiana, and Agnes, in a deep niche is the Lamb of God (Fig-
ure 4.14), which represents Christ sent for the redemption of humankind (John 1,
29 and 36: ‘The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look, the
Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” ’; ‘When he saw Jesus passing
by, he said, “Look, the Lamb of God!” ’).50 The Lamb stands on Mount Zion, from

50 The Lamb is the first ‘Apocalyptic motif’ to appear in monumental art, although its significance is
mainly Christological; see Kinney, 1992, 202–3.
140  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.14 L amb of God, with the Harrowing of Hell or Anastasis on the right, mosaic,
Chapel of S. Zeno, niche in north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

which the four rivers of paradise flow. On the right side of the arch above the niche
is Christ’s Harrowing of Hell (Figure 4.15). This is one of the earliest known visual
renderings of such scene, called in Greek Anastasis, that is ‘resurrection’, therefore
suggesting hope for the dead. The origins of this iconography have been traced in the
period of the monothelete controversy, in that the Anastasis alludes to the coopera-
tion of the human and divine natures and wills of Christ in resurrecting the dead.51
Therefore, with the Transfiguration scene, S. Zeno also advances this novel depic-
tion in Rome. Labatt has identified Rome as the ideal seedbed for the conception
of the iconography of the Anastasis, which was actually used there only between

51 Kartsonis, 1986, 94–125, 227–30, sees this iconography as a response to the monothelete controversy,
in that it implies the question of the human–divine natures and wills of Christ. See also Sansterre, 1987,
436ff., on the Anastasis painted on the facade of the Oratory of the Forty Martyrs, next to S. Maria
Antiqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 141

Figure 4.15 H arrowing of Hell or Anastasis, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, right side of niche in
north wall, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

the eighth and ninth centuries while it flourished in Byzantine art.52 Gold or silver
personal amulets, called enkolpia, produced between the late eighth and the ninth
centuries, have the Anastasis among their rich figural repertoire. Produced in a
location yet to be identified, they certainly contributed to the dissemination of such
iconography – we shall return to them in the following chapters. For now, it suffices
to say that on both the enkolpia from Vicopisano (Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio
Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm) (Figure 4.16, Pl. 25) and Pliska
(Sofia, Representative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with Museum
at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4882, max. dim. 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm)
(Figure 4.17, Pl. 26) the scene, rendered in niello below the Ascension, has Christ
projecting rays of light that form a diagonal cross.53 This scene is a visual state-
ment that the Crucifixion, merging with the light that manifests Christ’s essence,
brings salvation to the dead. Thus, enkolpia reinforced the faithful’s belief in the
redeeming light of God. By considering the overall message of the funerary chapel,
one may also infer that in the case of S. Zeno the scene alludes to the same belief.

52 Labatt, 2012, 34–106, esp. 65–7 on S. Zeno.

53 On the  Vicopisano enkolpion, see Thunø, 2002, 20, 44, 120, 129–30; Bacci, 2004; Sureda i Jubany,
2015. On the Pliska exemplar see Dontčeva, 1976, 2011; Alchermes, 1997, 322; Taft, 1997b; Henning,
2007, 674; Parpulov, 2010; Elsner, 2015, 24–5.
142  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.16 H arrowing of Hell or Anastasis, enkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm,
from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia
Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

The climax of the mosaic programme of the oratory undoubtedly is in its vault.54
Four re-employed Roman marble columns at the corners not only give the place an
aura of solemnity, but also visually support four angels who, standing on globes, hold
up a clipeus with Christ placed in the centre of the vault against a golden background
(Figure 4.18, Pl. 10). With a golden cruciform halo on a dark blue background, he
holds a scroll to remind the faithful that he is the Incarnation of the Word (John 1,
1: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was
God’). Other elements, such as his golden robe and his splendour, which brightens

54 Christ is the apex of a clearly articulated heavenly hierarchy; see Wirenfeldt Asmussen, 1986, 68;
Mackie, 1989, 173–5.
 A glimpse of salvation 143

Figure 4.17 H arrowing of Hell or Anastasis, enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, from
Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Representative Collection, National Archaeological
Institute with Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822.
Photo: © Krassimir Georgiev.

and literally gilds the sky around him, suggest that this image is clearly the visual
and conceptual apex of the pictorial programme. It represents the heavenly vision of
the salvific and eternal light of God that Paschal was hoping he and his own mother
would enjoy at the end of times.
Scholars posited that the mosaics of S. Zeno were designed not only to convey the
desire for intercession and perpetual commemoration of Paschal’s mother, but also to
respond to the heretical image policy reinstated in Byzantium in 815.55 Arguably, the

55 Bertaux, 1900, 124, described the mosaics as ‘pezzi puramente greci’; Brenk, 1973–1974, believes the
mosaics reflect the resolutions of the iconophile Council of Nicaea II in the hierarchical display and pro-
portions of the figures; Sansterre, 1983, 171, sees Greek influence in the chapel; Wirenfeldt Asmussen,
1986, observes that, while Byzantine iconography has a bearing on the mosaics, the programme serves
Paschal’s ideology of renovatio; Mackie, 1989, acknowledges the eastern atmosphere of the chapel,
which she defines as ‘middle-Byzantine’, and notes that Paschal was using it to offer a visual statement
against iconoclasm, while she underlines the involvement of Roman craftsmen; McClendon, 2005, 145,
believes the church to ‘exhibit elements of Byzantine art’; Ballardini, 2007, 197, recognises eastern
and western aspects in the mosaics, but emphasises their western style and their response to Byzantine
iconoclasm; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 445, dismiss the idea of an eastern influence on the mosaics. On
eastern monks and the visual arts in Rome, see Sansterre, 1983, 163–73.
Figure 4.18 C hrist and angels, Chapel of S. Zeno, vault, Rome, S. Prassede, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 145

presence of ‘Greek’ monks in the monastery which Paschal annexed to S. Prassede has
been deemed influential with regard to the conception and the atmosphere of the ora-
tory, as well as to its distinctive ‘Byzantine’ atmosphere.56 While there may be some
truth in this, the fact that it was a chapel built by a Roman pope to promote the cult
of Roman saints should prevent its use as an index of Byzantine artistic practice in
Rome. In fact, the craftsmanship and decorative tradition which lie behind its mosa-
ics, sculpture, and overall design are well contextualised in the contemporary culture
of the apostolic city.57 Albeit usually associated with the material splendour of Byz-
antium and imperial patronage, mosaics are largely attested in late antique and early
medieval Rome, where they were favoured because of their preciousness and durabil-
ity, especially in projects which reveal the largesse of the papacy and its desire to leave
behind an everlasting legacy.58

3 Beyond the transfiguration in S. Prassede and S. Cecilia

For his most important projects Paschal commissioned mosaics from the skilled
craftsmen who had worked for his predecessor Leo III.59 After rebuilding the old
tituli of S. Prassede (818–19) and S. Cecilia (819–20), as well as the diaconia of S.
Maria in Domnica (818–19),60 Paschal covered the upper walls of their sanctuaries
in mosaics. The preciousness and durability of mosaics ensured that the message
they conveyed would impress the beholders for a long time. In S. Prassede, mosa-
ics were laid also on the triumphal arch separating the transept from the nave,
although the apex of these programmes remained in the apse. Being the focus
of liturgy, the apse functioned as the most prominent spot to broadcast to the
masses the agreed faith of the Church, traditions, and new views through figural
imagery.61
In the apses of S. Prassede and S. Cecilia, the figural scheme is almost identical
(Figures 4.19–4.21, Pls. 11–12). At the base of their conch twelve lambs, coming out
of the cities of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, draw closer to the Lamb of God. Being a
figure of Christ, the lamb has a cruciform halo, and stands on the source of the River

56 Mackie, 1989, 172, 196.

57 This is what Curzi, 1993, 28, concludes after a careful examination of the local material culture and
earlier literature.
58 I refer to Thunø, 2015a, also for earlier literature.
59 Founded on a stylistic analysis, there is consensus on this, although no specific technical study has
demonstrated it; see Davis-Weyer, 1965, 1966, 1968; Belting, 1976; Giunta, 1976; Curzi, 1993, 25–6;
Thunø, 2002, 129–31.
60 On the chronology of these buildings, see Ballardini, 1999, 22–3, 2007, 209. On early Christian tituli,
that is private residences at which Christian liturgical assemblies took place and their later transforma-
tion in small basilicas, see Baldovin, 1987, 108, 112–15; Hillner, 2007. On the decorative programme in
S. Zeno, see Brenk, 1973–1974; Nilgen, 1974; Wirenfeldt Asmussen, 1986; Mackie, 1989, 1995; Wis-
skirchen, 1990, 1992; McClendon, 1996, 104; McClendon, 2005, 143–8; McClendon, 2013, 224–5;
Cormack, 2000a, 96–7; Englen, 2003, 262; Goodson, 2010, 160–72, 190; Osborne, 2011, 229; Bru-
baker, Haldon, 2011, 443–5.
61 On Christian images in apses and their function, see Spieser, 1998, 63–4; Cormack, 2000a, 91; Brenk,
2010, 83–107, 109.
Figure 4.19 R ome, S. Prassede, triumphal arch and apse, mosaic, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Figure 4.20 S . Prassede, apse, mosaic, detail.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Figure 4.21 R ome, S. Cecilia, apse, mosaic, 819–20.

Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
148  A glimpse of salvation

Jordan in remembrance of the life-bearing ritual of Baptism. In the conch, against a

dark-blue background, the hand of God appearing amidst the clouds above offers a
laurel wreath to Christ, who is in full-figure and dressed in gold. The light that Christ
radiates colours the surrounding clouds in intense shades of orange and red. He is
accompanied by his disciple Peter, who was on Tabor, and other, newly chosen dis-
ciples, which include the Apostle Paul, the martyrs of Rome (Praxedis, Pudentiana,
and probably Zeno in S. Prassede; Cecilia, and probably Agatha and Valerianus in S.
Cecilia), and the actual donor, Pope Paschal. As Pope Pelagius II (579–90) had already
done in the mosaic he commissioned on the apsidal arch of S. Lorenzo fuori le mura,
Paschal projects himself as taking part in this eternal, beatifying vision reserved for
the righteous.
Thunø has argued that since the inscription accompanying the mosaic in S. Cecilia
(and the one in S. Maria in Domnica, to which we shall return in the final chapter)
underlined the role of the donor as the promoter of material restoration and thus of
a material and spiritual ‘transition from darkness to light – from invisibility to vis-
ibility’, the donor is cast as ‘principal agent in the history of Salvation’.62 Agent or
simply spectator in this vision, Paschal expresses his desire for a new life and for an
eternal vision of God through his use of a phoenix, the mythical bird that burned
itself on a pyre only to be reborn from its own ashes and rise again, depicted on top
of a palm tree to the side of the pope in both the apses of S. Prassede and S. Cecilia.
The wish to enjoy this salvific vision was also verbally expressed through the inter-
cessions for the dead which were recited in the Eucharistic Prayer or Roman Canon
(that had been formulated at the time of Gregory the Great, the immediate successor
of Pelagius): ‘To these, O Lord, and to all who rest in Christ, grant, we beseech Thee,
a place of refreshment, of light, and of peace’.63 We can imagine that, on hearing
these words, the faithful would lift their gaze to the apsidal conch and, through the
images there depicted, enjoy a foretaste of the luminous vision they will enjoy in
the afterlife. With this image in mind, they came to the sanctuary to take part in the
Eucharist rite.
The elements appearing on the apsidal arch in S. Prassede have also been seen
as related to the Eucharistic ritual. Here, the Twenty-Four Elders of Revelation
(4, 10), which are a reference to Old Testament prophets and New Testament
priests, appear in the spandrels, lifting their crowns to an enthroned Lamb, flanked
by seven candelabra, four angels, and the Four Living Creatures.64 In S. Cecilia,
however, under the eighteenth-century stucco decoration, the apsidal arch has,
instead of the lamb, an enthroned and crowned Virgin Mary with the Christ Child
on her lap. She is flanked by ten virgin martyrs holding crowns and proceeding

62 Thunø, 2015a, 109.

63 ‘Ipsis, Domine, et omnibus in Christo quiescentibus, locum refrigerii, lucis et pacis, ut indulgeas, depre-
camur’; see Mazza, 1995, 122–3.
64 Angheben, 2011, notes the presence of the candelabra as a reference to the Eucharistic rituals of the
Mass; on which see also Thunø, 2015a, 125–6; see Kinney, 1992, on the combination of these motifs
derived from Revelation in late antique and early medieval visual arts.
 A glimpse of salvation 149

from cities with bejewelled walls, likely alluding to Bethlehem and Jerusalem65
(Figures 4.22–4.23). Using his reading of Ambrose Autpert, Thunø identifies
this Virgin Mary as a figure of the ‘Church in heaven’, whose offspring are repre-
sented by the virgin martyrs who devoutly proceed towards her.66 At the apex of
the arch, she actually recalls the viewer’s attention to the fact that she is the one
through whom God became incarnate and assumed a human body perfectly com-
bined with his divine splendour, but also, that she is the one to whom the faithful
should appeal for intercession. I will come back to her intercessory role, and her
depiction as Queen of Heaven in Chapter 6.
Since Late Antiquity, theophanies were depicted in the apses to reveal the presence
of God. Arguably, Paschal’s theophanies in S. Prassede and S. Cecilia echo the one
in SS. Cosma e Damiano, commissioned by Pope Felix IV (526–30)67 (Figure 4.24,
Pl. 13). Here, an imposing Christ comes into sight from heaven, his body casting a
fiery-red light on the clouds around and before him. Below, Peter and Paul introduce
the saints Cosmas and Damian to him, while Saint Theodore and Pope Felix IV
assist on the sides, and a phoenix glows from the top of a palm tree. Like his prede-
cessor Leo III, Paschal I had a vested interest in reprising late antique theophanies.
On the one hand, their choice demonstrated that they intended to comply with the
traditions of the Church, including in matters of figural imagery, thus reassuring
the faithful. In his famous letter of c.793 responding to the Carolingian critique of
Nicaea II, Pope Hadrian I remarked on how his predecessors had been consistent for
centuries in their use of artistic patronage.68 Erik Thunø argued that Paschal’s ‘rep-
etition’ of the late antique theophanies accompanied by sophisticated inscriptions
in gilt tesserae projected his mosaics into a dimension beyond time, and celebrated

65 Thunø, 2015a, 18, notes: ‘These particular interpolations, to be sure, are exceptional to the S. Cecilia
program’ among extant Roman mosaics. Wilpert, 1916, 3: 1069, describes the mosaic accurately, after
a close inspection, and consequently criticises its graphic reconstruction given by Ciampini, 1690–1699,
2: tav. LI.
66 Thunø, 2015a, 78, with reference to Ambrose Autpert, Ap, 5, 12, 1a, CCCM 27, 443–4, ll. 17–19: ‘ipsa
beata ac pia Virgo hoc in loco personam gerit Ecclesiae, quae nouos cotidie populos parit, ex quibus
generale Mediatoris corpus formam’.
67 On which, see Christe, 1996, 79–81; Pace, 1999, 48–51, 2015, 472–4; Wisskirchen, 1999; Casar-
telli Novelli, Ballardini, 2005, 148–60; Osborne, 2008b; Foletti, 2015; Thunø, 2015a, 13–18,
states (at 16): ‘no apse conch prior to Ss. Cosmas and Damian displays the visual and textual
features that link the latter to S. Prassede’. After comparing the visual strategy behind a number of
late antique theophanies in apsidal mosaics, Bergmeier, 2014a, 2017b, concludes that in SS. Cosma
e Damiano the scene is a Traditio Legis, on which see also Christe, 1996, 79–81; Spieser, 1998. On
the dedication of the church to Cosmas and Damian, seen as ‘theologically inclusive saints’ across
the Christian Empire, see Maskarinec, 2018, 32–7, and previously Brenk, 2007. On the combina-
tion of Christ, apostles, saints, and donor in Roman apsidal mosaics in sixth–ninth centuries, see
Wisskirchen, 1998; Thunø, 2015a, 170 writes: ‘The introduction of the shared formula of post-
apostolic martyrs, donor popes, and golden inscriptions to the early medieval apse mosaics imposes
an enhanced mode of interaction between represented figures and viewers’. I wish to thank Ivan
Foletti for discussing the SS. Cosma e Damiano mosaics with me on the occasion of a photographic
and film campaign he directed in August 2016.
68 MGH, EK 3, 2, 49–50, esp. 50, quoted and commented in Chapter 2.
150  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.22 R ome, S. Cecilia, apsidal wall and arch, mosaic; graphic reconstruction: from
Ciampini, 1699, 2, tav. L.

Figure 4.23 The Theotokos, Rome, S. Cecilia, apsidal arch, mosaic; graphic reconstruction:
from Ciampini, 1699, 2, tav. L.

Rome as the locus for the eternal ‘communion of saints’ outside time and space.69
On the other hand, the reprise of late antique theophanies appears to have been a

69 Thunø, 2015a, 13–62; specifically, on the concept of ‘repetition’ in Roman apse mosaics, see ibidem,
198–205. Maskarinec, 2018, 137, on the ‘heavenly collective’ of saints in the mosaic in S. Prassede as
expressing the view that ‘all saints were assured a warm welcome in Rome’, especially if threatened by
invasions, oblivion, or destruction.
 A glimpse of salvation 151

Figure 4.24 R ome, SS. Cosma e Damiano, apse, mosaic, 526–30.

Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

response to specific historical circumstances.70 It has been argued that Leo’s and Pas-
chal’s mosaics were designed ad hoc to respond to various contemporary questions
including adoptionism71 and the second phase of the image struggle that unfolded
slightly earlier,72 or to complement Paschal’s wider project of reinforcing the image
of Rome as City of God.73 However, while the scriptural and figural prototype of
Roman theophanies is certainly to be identified in the Transfiguration described in
the Gospels (Matthew 17, 2; Mark 9, 7; Luke 9, 31), Paschal’s apsidal theophanies
not only elude the label of ‘Transfiguration’, but any other label of traditional Chris-
tian iconography; this is reflected in the difficulty scholars experienced in trying
to define them.74 In fact, an interaction between eternity and transiency, tradition

70 See Caviness, 2006, on the ‘paradigm shift in visual studies’ determined by the embrace of the reception
approach in art history, and the consequent shift between a focus on iconography and its meaning to a
focus on viewers and their specific circumstances.
71 See Giunta, 1976; Thunø, 2002, 148; Thunø, 2005, 277–9; Thunø, 2015a, 57–9; Labatt, 2012, 142–
58. While noting the importance of the repetition of such subject in Paschal’s apses, Wickham, 2009,
241, does not see in the Transfiguration mosaic ‘a specific response to iconoclasm’.
72 Ballardini, 1999, 6; McClendon, 2013, 225.
73 Goodson, 2010, 154–5, who nonetheless remarks the traditionalism of some aspects of these mosaics:
Thunø, 2015a, 192–7.
74 See Labatt, 2012, 158–9.
152  A glimpse of salvation

and innovation is at play in these mosaics,75 and indeed they seem to innovate the
genre of apsidal theophany. But how, and on what grounds? How were theophanies
described and understood between the eighth and ninth centuries?
In Rome between the late seventh and the early eighth century, the image of God
appearing among clouds in his glory, inspired by the Prophet Daniel (7, 13: ‘In
my vision at night I looked, and there before me was one like a son of man, com-
ing with the clouds of heaven’), and Matthew (24, 30: ‘all the peoples of the earth
will mourn when they see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven, with
power and great glory’), had been verbalised in an antiphon accompanying Psalms
sung during Advent: ‘Behold, on the clouds of heaven, the Lord comes in his great
majesty, halleluiah’.76 Another antiphon sung at Advent and inspired by Zechariah
(14, 5: ‘Then the Lord my God will come, and all the holy ones with him’), had
God appearing on a white cloud with thousands of saints: ‘Behold, the Lord will
appear . . . on a white cloud, and with him, thousands of saints’.77 Hence, when
the mosaics of Leo III and Paschal were laid, such visions combining theophany
and hope for salvation were well impressed on the minds of the worshippers in
Rome – as must have been the idea that pictorial images can open windows on the
otherworld.
In the eighth century, the Transfiguration, the most awe-inspiring epiphany of
Christ described in the Gospels, had been treated in Greek and Latin homilies. As
in other cases that we explore in the following chapters also in this one homilies
are treated as mirrors of how events of the Sacred Scriptures were perceived, either
by specific communities, or in the wider oecumene. Despite references occurring in
homilies on the Gospels to the incident of the Transfiguration on the mountain, the
earliest known Greek homily celebrating its feast is the one by Anastasios of Sinai
(d. c.700).78 Like other feasts, this one is earlier attested in the East, in Palestine and
Syria, in particular.79 Celebrated on 6 August, the feast of the Transfiguration was
linked to the Exaltation of the Holy Cross on 14 September, according to the Jeru-
salem calendar, since it was believed that the Transfiguration occurred forty days
before the Crucifixion.80 In the contemporary West, Bede, one of the most prolific
authors of the time, does not have a specific homily on the Transfiguration, pos-
sibly because its feast was not yet commemorated in early eighth-century England.
The feast might have been introduced in Rome in the late seventh century, follow-
ing the introduction of the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, first mentioned in

75 Osborne, 2001, 709, on the ‘mixture of contemporary and antiquarian models in practice’ in S. Prassede.
76 Nowacki, 2017, 93: ‘Ecce in nubibus celi dominus ueniet cum potestate magna alleluia’.
77 Nowacki, 2017, 94: ‘Ecce apparebit dominus . . . supra nubem candidam Et cum eo sanctorum milia’.
78 Anastasios of Sinai, Sermon on the Transfiguration, ed. Guillou, 1995, 216–58; trans. Daley, 2013,
163–78. For a recent appraisal of this homily, see Bucur, 2013, who reveals its rich intertextualities and
its approach to Biblical theophanies which finds parallels in John of Damascus, among others. On the
feast, see Daley, 2013, 19, 23.
79 Löw, 1954; Grumel, 1956, who supports the idea that the feast had also been established outside Jeru-
salem, at least since the early eighth century; see also Podskalsky, Taft, Weyl Carr, 1991.
80 Daley, 2013, 20, who refers to the Armenian lectionary of Jerusalem (see Renoux, 1961, 363), which
transmits the liturgical conventions of Jerusalem around 400.
 A glimpse of salvation 153

Rome under Pope Sergius I.81 Liturgical calendars from the Carolingian world dat-
ing between the eighth and the ninth centuries do have the feast listed, although not
always on 6 August.82 However, no earlier Latin homilies for this feast are known
before one securely attributed to Autpert addressed to his brethren,83 which does
not bear an explicit reference to any feast, and thus might have been intended as
part of the daily preaching to the monks.84
Autpert’s homily insists on the redeeming light of Christ, and on the transformative
agency of light: Christ, who was on the mountain in ‘his true flesh and true bones’,85
was transfigured by his glorification, and revealed his divinity through a ‘new’ light.
In this process, Christ’s face appears ‘different’, radiant like the sun:

This is certainly a different figure, a face of different kind, such that he who
was clearly seen in the flesh might of a sudden appear brilliant in majesty. What
wonder should it be if this is said regarding such majesty suddenly shining forth
from a body, when we are wont to say from day to day, when we catch sight of
someone washed after being filthy, or happy after grief: ‘He is not what he was, he
is another person from what he was’.86

Having enjoyed this extraordinary, exclusive revelation, the Apostle Peter voices
his desire to see God’s face as it shall be eternally. He anticipates the day of Christ’s
Second Coming and dares to ask him: ‘O my Lord, hasten the time, in which all that
has been written about you shall be fulfilled, and as you proceed to your glory, show
me your face not as it is [presently], but display it as you are [eternally]’).87 In Chris-
tian exegesis, from Jerome and John Chrysostom to Bede, the blinding theophany on
Mount Tabor had indeed been seen as a prefiguration of the Second Coming, when,

81 On the establishment of the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, see LP I, 374; trans. Davis, 2010, 83;
see Daley, 2013, 21–3, for a connection with the feast of the Transfiguration.
82 Löw, 1954, 439–40; he also remarks that the official date of 6 August was established by Pope Cal-
listus III in the fifteenth century.
83  Tr, CCCM 27B, 1003–24; for the addressee, see ibidem, 1005, l. 10: ‘fratres carissimi’. This homily is
only transmitted in a few manuscripts spanning several centuries until the early modern period: Paris,
BnF, lat. 13396, fols. 94r–108v, of the eighth–ninth century, from Corbie; Naples, Biblioteca Nazion-
ale Vittorio Emanuele III, ms. VI.B.2, fols. 76–86, eleventh century, from Montecassino or Troia; Paris,
BnF, lat. 11700, fols. 60r–64v, dated to 1179, from Corbie; Albi, Médiathèque Pierre Amalric (olim
Bibliothèque Municipale), ms. 47 (17), fols. 118r–123v, thirteenth century; Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 1276,
fols. 184v–189v, fifteenth century. Apart from some excerpts, this homily has never been studied; see
Leonardi, 1968, 123; Valastro Canale, 1996, 152–4; Dell’Acqua, 2013b, 577–9.
84 Weber, 1979, 884–5, dates it to the months of Autpert’s abbacy, 777–8.
85  Tr, 4, CCCM 27B, 1008, l. 14: ‘in uera carne uerisque ossibus’.
86  Tr, 5, CCCM, 27B, 1008, ll. 1–7: ‘Haec certe est altera figura, haec uultus species altera, ut qui erat in
carne conspicuus, subito appareret in maiestate coruscus. Quid autem mirum si hoc de tanta subito in
corpore coruscante dicitur maiestate, cum nos cotidie de quolibet dicere soleamus, cum eum uel post sor-
des ablutum uel post maestitiam laetum aspicimus: “Non est ipse qui erat, alius est quam erat” ’ (trans. A.
Lappin).
87  Tr, 16, CCCM 27B, 1019, ll. 19–22: ‘Domine, accelera tempus, quo cuncta quae de te scripta sunt
conpleantur, et sic in gloriam tuam transiens, ostende mihi, non qualis nunc es, faciem tuam, sed talem
sicuti es praebe’.
154  A glimpse of salvation

more resplendent than on Tabor, Christ will sit on a throne and judge humankind.88
Anastasios of Sinai,89 Andrew of Crete,90 and Autpert himself followed this line of
thought. This is what Autpert writes:

As we are informed by the Sacred Scriptures, then they will shine like the sun in
the kingdom of their Father – so why in this passage is the face of Christ compared
to the brilliance of the sun? Could it be that – a foul thing to say – they will have
as much brilliance in the Father’s kingdom as he who justified them? Who, other
than a heretic, would say this? It seems to me that this was done for four reasons,
namely either because he was as yet mortal, and this mortal nature of the flesh was
not able to show forth the brilliance of his divinity as it truly was; or because he
moderated the intensity of this light before the eyes of those who could see him,
so that they might grasp it; or he showed that form just as he knew it would be
displayed in the day of judgment to the elect and the damned; or, certainly, as it
is more true and more salvific, because he showed in brilliance the image of how
their limbs would, as it is said, shine in the future.91

In his discussion of the vision granted to Elijah and Moses and witnessed by the
disciples on Tabor, Anastasios of Sinai referred, as others had done before him, to
the vision denied to Moses on the Sinai, while pursuing an identification between the
Old Testament Lord and Jesus Christ which was suggested also by the readings for
the feast.92 Anastasios also wrote that the Transfiguration on Tabor is an image of
the Crucifixion on the Golgotha.93 This seems to be echoed by Autpert when, apro-
pos of the Transfiguration, he recalls that the Crucifixion was the climax of Christ’s
terrestrial experience.94 This connection between the Crucifixion and the Transfigura-

88 For example, John Chrysostom (d. 407), Homilies on Matthew, 56, 7, PG 58, 554; trans. Prevost, 1888,
349. Jerome (d. 420), Commentariorum in Matheum, III, 17, 9, CCSL 77, 150, ll. 316–17: ‘Futuri regni
praemeditatio et gloria triumphantis demonstrata fuerat in monte’. On the Transfiguration in Christian
sources and exegesis, see McGuckin, 1986, who also has various passages translated into English.
89 Anastasios of Sinai, Sermon on the Transfiguration, ed. Guillou, 238, l. 7–14; 241, ll. 12–13; see Bucur,
2013, 252, n. 6; Bergmeier, 2014b, 67.
90 Andrew of Crete, On the Transfiguration, PG 97, 941C; trans. Daley, 2013, 188.
91  Tr, 6, CCCM 27B, 1010, ll. 1–14: ‘Cum autem de sanctis scriptum nouerimus: Tunc iusti fulge-
bunt sicut sol in regno Patris eorum, quomodo hoc loco facies Christi solis claritati conparatur? Aut
numquid tantam, quod nefas est dicere, in regno Patris claritatem habebunt, quantam habet is qui
illos iustificauit? Quis hoc nisi hereticus dixerit? Quod quattuor ex causis factum fuisse mihi uide-
tur, scilicet uel quia adhuc mortalis erat, et ipsa carnis mortalitas claritatem diuinitatis eius ut erat
ostendere non sinebat, uel quia ante uidentium oculos, ut intueri posset, ipsa fulgoris sui magnitudi-
nem temperabat, uel etiam formam illam tantummodo praetendebat, quam in die iudicii et electis et
reprobis ostensurum se esse praesciebat, uel certe, ut uerius atque salubrius, quia figura membrorum
suorum qualia, ut dictum est, in futuro fulgebunt, in sua claritate monstrabat’ (trans. A. Lappin); see
Leonardi, 1968, 24, 41.
92 Bucur, 2013, 254–60, discusses association of Sinai and Tabor in the homilies of Anastasios of Sinai and
others refusing the labels of ‘typological’, ‘allegorical’, ‘figural’.
93 Anastasios of Sinai, Sermon on Transfiguration, ed. Guillou, 239, ll. 19–20; see Bergmeier, 2014b, 67.
94 See Leonardi, 1968, 41. Cf. the interpretation offered by Autpert in Tr, 13, CCCM 27B, 1016–17, ll.
19–22: ‘aspice serpentem auneum, hoc est in cruce pendentem Dominum, cuius nimirum passio dum
bene consideratur, omnia in nobis uitiorum mala extiguere probatur’, on the Brazen Serpent of the Old
Testament that saved the Jews, like Christ hanging from the cross in the New Testament saves human-
kind; and ll. 23–4: ‘Incipe igitur passionem Christi imitari uelle, et nullum erit mortale crimen quod te
 A glimpse of salvation 155

tion, expressed in homilies composed in various corners of the Mediterranean, helps

to clarify the message originally conveyed by the mosaic programme in SS. Nereo e
Achilleo to the onlooker.
While it is difficult to trace direct links between Anastasios and Autpert, it should
be considered that the former had been the abbot of the prestigious monastery of
the Theotokos (later of St Catherine) on Sinai, a major pilgrimage centre in the Near
East. His homily on the Transfiguration – a theme also prominent in the apse of his
own monastic church – could have functioned as a meaningful reference for the Latin
world. In the previous chapter I made clear that Greek language did not constitute a
barrier for Autpert, who seemed to have been aware of Greek exegetical and liturgi-
cal texts. Moreover, in the Latin West, where the feast of the Transfiguration is not
well attested before the eighth century, Autpert had only scattered references to the
Transfiguration in the homiletic production. Not only in this homily, but also in his
major commentary on Revelation, he reprises the discourse of the transforming vision
of God in a period of acute anxiety about the possibility of mentally seeing and repre-
senting the holy – the iconoclastic Council of Hiereia had brought it into the spotlight.
Autpert is aware that the human mind cannot rationally comprehend nor logically
describe God, that he defines, time and again, as ineffabilis, that is ineffable.95 This
and other linguistic–conceptual elements he adopts in speaking of God, the Trinity,
and Christ reveal an acquaintance with the language of negative theology of Neopla-
tonic origins. Such terminology, aimed at demonstrating what God is not, pervaded
the writings of early western and eastern Fathers, including Augustine and Gregory
of Nazianzos, whose works Autpert knew well. All the same, his acquaintance with
negative theology and Christian Neoplatonism remains to be investigated. While it
holds true that Autpert might have derived some elements from Augustine, who was
one of the filters by which Christian Neoplatonism was passed on to the early Middle
Ages, he might also have come into contact with Pseudo-Dionysios, the most eminent
representative of negative theology.96 Dionysios was an eloquent commentator on the
Transfiguration.97 Not only was his thought absorbed by eighth-century prominent
Greek authors such as Andrew of Crete and John of Damascus,98 but his writings, too,
circulated in the West much earlier than the first Latin translations attest, and Rome

possit extinguere’, where Autpert exhorts the faithful to imitate the passion of Christ so that no mortal
crime could destroy them.
95 For example, see Ap, 1, 1, 5c, CCCM 27, 47, ll. 18–19; 10, 21, 23, CCCM 27A, 827, ll. 1–17; Pu, 3,
CCCM 27B, 987, ll. 52–3; OrA, 14, CCCM 27B, 943, l. 25. In western exegesis after Augustine the
adjective ineffabilis is only found in Autpert. Slightly later it recurs in Paulinus of Aquileia (d. 802), a
Lombard theologian at the service of Charlemagne and especially engaged in opposing adoptionism,
see his Contra Felicem libri tres, I, 12, 17, 24, 36, 38; II, 17, 23, CCCM 95, 17, l. 6, 23, l. 20, 30, l. 20,
42, l. 6, 46, l. 31, 66, l. 2, 74, l. 14. See Scaravelli, 2008, on how the opposition to adoptionism spurred
Carolingian Mariology.
96 Negative theology in Autpert is only hinted at by Leonardi, 1968, 95; Grégoire, 1985, 263–4; Gambero,
2007, 270. On negative theology, with particular reference to Pseudo-Dionysios, see Beierwaltes, 1977;
Carabine, 1995; Perl, 2007. On the genesis and the purposes of the Corpus Dionysiacum in the age of
Emperor Justinian, conceived in order to offer a synthesis of Christian doctrine and offer solutions to
ecclesiological and theological problems of the sixth century through the voice of a pseudo-apostolic
auctoritas, see Mainoldi, 2017, 2018.
97 See Elsner, 1994, apropos of the Transfiguration mosaic of Sinai.
98 Pseudo-Dionysios certainly had a bearing on Andrew of Crete and John of Damascus, see Louth, 1997;
Cunningham, 2014.
156  A glimpse of salvation

might have been an important mediator in their transmission.99 Negative theology

might also have had a bearing on Autpert’s vision of God. Sharply aware of human
ineptitude at attempts to comprehend God, Autpert writes: ‘O ineffable love, inacces-
sible love, incomprehensible love, which lover, however strong, comprehends you as
you are? Who can understand you worthily?’100 This awareness did not stop him from
feeling an ardent desire to embrace God. To this end, he foresees a mystical alterna-
tive: even before the Final Judgement, Christ’s redeeming light can be enjoyed through
a ‘mystical’ embrace that involves all the senses.101
The theophanies represented in the apses of S. Prassede and S. Cecilia reverberate
exactly with Peter’s innermost, uncontainable desire to see and mystically embrace
God as he is eternally – Paschal, the successor of Peter, wishing it just as Peter had
on Mount Tabor.102 Christ incarnate, transfigured, visible in the perfect unity of his
divine and human natures, shines in a light that redeems the world, but at the same
time is projected towards the eternal kingdom established upon his Second Coming.
Thunø noted that the Incarnate God in Paschal’s mosaics functions as the ‘compass’
which orientates the physical and metaphysical light of the Church of God.103 To
this Christocentric interpretation, I would add that the fiery aura surrounding the
Christ–Light must be seen not only as an effective visual means that emphasises his
supernatural manifestation, as in earlier theophanies, but also as the visual manifes-
tation of his unique capacity to ignite hearts, redeem the world, and enlighten his
kingdom forever. Against the official reinstatement of iconoclasm in Byzantium in
815, and against those Carolingian theologians who vocally declared pictorial images
incapable of projecting the future and lifting the minds to the spiritual vision,104 the
theophanies promoted by Leo III and Paschal I were as straightforward as they were
timely. Their rendering of the eternal light of heaven in mosaic, although material
and imperfect when compared to the future celestial vision, was devised to whet the
spiritual appetite of the faithful for reaching heaven, and to stimulate them to practise
good deeds, seek redemption, and nurture hope in resurrection. The novel message of
these mosaics consisted of their manifestation of a firm belief in the efficacy of figural
imagery to open views on, and thus sustain the hope for, future salvation – personal
and communal. Upon this aspect rests their timeliness.

4 A  stained-glass panel with Christ

from S. Vincenzo al Volturno
The question of visualising the Incarnate God, and the salvific message he conveyed,
also occupied the mind of those who conceived and produced a panel made of small
multicoloured glass fragments connected by lead cames and representing the bust of

99 Irigoin, 1997; Jeauneau, 1997.

100  Ap, 1, 1, 5c, CCCM 27, 47, ll. 18–20: ‘O amor ineffabilis, amor inattingibilis, amor inconprehensibi-
lis, quis te quamlibet amator ualidissimus ut es adprehendat? Quis te digne capiat?’.
101 Cf. Pu, 8, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 10–18, where he writes that God and the mystical body of the Church
can be embraced mystically every day through the practice of good deeds. On the mysticism of Aut-
pert, see Leonardi, 1968, passim.
102 Labatt, 2012, 129–42, on Peter’s pivotal role in these early ninth-century theophanies.
103 Thunø, 2015a, 89–105, 131–2; Thunø, 2014.
104 Kessler, 1994, 535–6, with a number of textual references.
 A glimpse of salvation 157

Christ (Venafro, Isernia, Archaeological Museum, 190 × 105 × 25 mm), found in

2007 by archaeologists excavating on the river bank of the early medieval monastery
of S. Vincenzo al Volturno (Figures 4.25–4.26, Pls. 15–16).105 Window-glass produc-
tion flourished in this monastery in the early ninth century in order to supply grand
building campaigns. It continued, albeit on a smaller scale, until 881.106 However,
the figural panel featuring Christ remains unique among its glass finds. In fact, in the
monastic buildings, it was usual for geometrically cut window-glass panes to be set
into wooden grills that were then fitted into large arched windows107 (Figure 4.27).
The panel with Christ certainly antedates the Arab sack of the monastery in 881, as
the archaeology of the site suggests, but it might well date to a few decades earlier,108
and can easily claim to be the earliest preserved example of figural stained glass with
its original connecting lead cames (or strips) in the West. It is also the most technically
and conceptually complex, as well as the best preserved of the early figural represen-
tations of Christ in window-glass – others being only fragmentary, such as an early
eighth-century example from Bede’s monastery at Jarrow, reconstructed from scat-
tered glass panes, that might represent either Christ or an apostle.109
On the Vulturnense panel, Christ is clearly identified by his conventional cruciform
halo and by the Greek letter alpha of the two-letter monogram Α Ω on the left side
of the halo (Revelation 21, 6: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the
End’).110 His face is formed of a single colourless piece of glass (Figure 4.25). Other
glass panes are very intense in colour, with emerald green, clear amber-yellow, azure,
and ruby-red. The latter, used in the three arms of his cross-halo and in a couple of
elements in his robe, is unique in the thousands of coloured glass fragments recovered
from the Volturno monastery. Red glass, as a matter of fact, was very difficult to pro-
duce and thus very rare in the early medieval period.111
The donor of this figural window must have known that window-glass could carry
images. Already in the first half of the eighth century, if not earlier, figural glass screens
were produced north of the Alps. Their figural features were rendered either by jux-
taposing specially cut panes, or by applying a pigment obtained by grinding glass
that then had to be fire-tempered to adhere to glass panes.112 Since in the remarkably
abundant glass finds of the ninth-century monastery there is no trace of glass paint-
ing, it is evident that the local master glazier did not know how to make and apply
it. Therefore, to respond to the challenge of representing Christ on a glass screen, the
master glazier had to resort to a combination of experience and ingeniousness. For
example, to render the capitalised letter alpha, the string of pearls on the halo, the

105 On its discovery, see Marazzi, 2010a.

106 Hodges, Leppard, 2011, on the activity of the workshops; Dell’Acqua, 2002, on glazed, ready-made
window-frames stocked until they were destroyed in 881.
107 Dell’Acqua, James, 2002.
108 The piece has been published by Dell’Acqua, 2010; Marazzi, 2010a.
109 Cramp, 2006, 67–71.
110 Kinney, 1992, 202, has noted that the Α Ω is not an exclusive reference to Revelation, since it appears
also in other contexts: ‘Generally it signified Christ’s priority to the created world’.
111 In Roman Antiquity opaque oxblood-red glass was obtained by adding to the mixture copper or its
oxides. Ruby-red, translucent window-glass panes would be produced only later in the Middle Ages;
see Freestone, 1987; Kunicki-Goldfinger et al., 2014.
112 See Balcon-Berry, 2014, for an overview.
158  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.25 C hrist, glass and lead cames, 190 × 105 × 25 mm, obverse, San Vincenzo al Vol-
turno, from the riverbank sector, stratigraphic layer 17107, first half of the ninth
century, Venafro (Isernia), Archaeological Museum.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

locks of hair, the chin and the creases of the drapery, he soldered, pierced, or scored
lead strips which were later applied to the obverse of the glass screens (Figure 4.25).
Against transmitted light, these unusually fashioned lead strips produced ‘pictorial’
effects that made the image of Christ appear vibrant, almost imbued with the spirit
of life. The lead strip circumscribing the area between the top of the halo and Christ’s
shoulder is ‘U shaped’, so it could hold glass panes only on one side: this suggests that
the figure of Christ was originally inserted in a cruciform outline, and then probably
soldered to a larger window-screen. Thus, technical innovations matched the novelty
of the contents of the panel, which effectively conveys brightness – the essence of
 A glimpse of salvation 159

Figure 4.26 C hrist, glass and lead cames, reverse.

Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

God – while recalling his Incarnation, Crucifixion, Transfiguration, and Second Com-
ing, as we shall see in the next two sections.

5 Circumscribing the uncircumscribable

The stained-glass panel from S. Vincenzo formulates a visual discourse that is more
sophisticated than one might surmise at first glance. It picks up the threads of a ques-
tion debated for centuries by Christian exegetes, that is the possibility of seeing God
160  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.27 G eometrically cut window-glass panes, from San Vincenzo al Volturno, sector
CL/W, stratigraphic layer 3168, ninth century, Venafro (Isernia), Archaeological
Museum.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

following the promise that Christ himself made during the Sermon on the Mount:
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God’ (Matthew 5, 8).113 At the same
time, its visual discourse also seems to respond to debates of that time on the possibil-
ity of representing Christ in the perfect union of his human and divine natures. The
face of Christ on the screen is made of a single, clear pane of glass. No visible traces
of paint appear to delineate his facial features, or any other detail. Puzzling as it may
seem at first, this lack of features can be explained through the theology of light. In
the Gospel, Christ says ‘I am the Light of the World’ (John 8, 12). This line of thought
is expanded in Revelation (21, 23–4), where the Heavenly Jerusalem ‘does not need

113 This possibility was also alluded to by the opening statements of the Fourth Gospel: ‘No one has ever
seen God, but the one and only Son, who is himself God and is in closest relationship with the Father,
has made him known’ (John 1, 18). However, the Christian tradition was contradictory on this very
point. One strand maintained that no one can see the face of God (Exodus 3, 6; 19, 21; 33, 20; John 1,
18; 1 Timothy 6, 16); another, that seeing God can be a blessing either in the terrestrial or in the eternal
life (Job 19, 26; Psalms 11, 7; 17, 15; Revelation 22, 4). For a summary, see Viljoen, 2012; Kessler,
2000, 35, discusses it in the context of the iconoclastic controversy.
 A glimpse of salvation 161

the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb
[Christ] is its lamp. The nations will walk by its light. . . .’. But being ‘like the sun
shining in all its brilliance’ (Revelation 1, 16), the face of Christ can be blinding to
the physical eye, it bewilders sensorial apprehension as much as rational understand-
ing. As a consequence, humankind is incapable of rendering visually, or describing
verbally, the likeness of the Christ–Light.114 However, natural light offered a perfect
solution to overcome this impasse: perceptible, intangible, and unmeasurable with the
technical means available then, it came to be seen as the most perfect manifestation
of the Incarnate God and of the inseparable essence of the Trinity. Already in early
Christian times the presence of Christ was seen as and in the natural light entering
through basilica windows, to the sides of which prophets and apostles, God’s messen-
gers, were painted.115 A large number of written records and monuments perpetuated,
and elaborated on, the identification between Christ and natural light.116 A Syriac
hymn composed around the mid-sixth century for the Cathedral of Edessa invited
worshippers to recognise a symbolic representation of the mystery of the Trinity in
its three apsidal windows, because the light they let into the church is one, while the
prophets, apostles, martyrs, and confessors could be recognised in the window open-
ings in the nave.117 At the Abbasid court in the late eighth century, Patriarch Timothy
of Baghdad was questioned about the likelihood that only one person of the Trinity
could become incarnate. He answered with a metaphor of light: the light and the heat
of the sun are united in the air through which they pass, although only its light (that is
Christ) is perceptible to human eyes.118 In Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages,
of all the artistic media, glass came to be appreciated as the most suitable to transmit,
as well as reflect, light.119 This emphasis on the symbolic relevance of light determined
the perception that glass was the most appropriate medium to allow a glimpse of the
ungraspable essence of God.120 Transformed by fire in mosaics, in window panes, in
enamels, glass embodied pictorial images through, and as, light.
In the first (720s–87) and second (815–43) phase of Byzantine iconoclasm, the
two related questions of seeing the Incarnate God and God in his eternal glory were
approached with nuanced differences. In the first phase, John of Damascus admit-
ted the impossibility of depicting the uncircumscribable God and focussed on the
possibility of seeing the likeness of the Incarnate God, as well as on the legitimacy
of reproducing and venerating it.121 His was the first systematic reflection on Chris-

114 This explains the varying iconographies of Christ’s face in early Christian art. On the Holy Face, see
Kessler, Wolf, eds., 1998; Belting, 2005; Frommel, Wolf, eds., 2006; Wolf, Calderoni Masetti, Dufour
Bozzo, eds., 2007; Kessler, 2007a, 2007b; Bacci, 2014; Dietz et al., eds., 2016.
115 Kessler, 2002, 76.
116 See Dell’Acqua, 2003, for an exhaustive selection of textual and material sources on late antique and
early medieval window-glass and architecture. See also Ivanovici, 2016, on Late Antiquity.
117 Grabar, 1947, 54–5; ed. and English trans. Palmer, Rodley, 1988.
118 Thomas, 2006, 128.
119 Artisanal glass was not perfectly transparent; it allowed the transmission of light though. On the
chemical ambiguity of glass, and the fascination it exerted in the past, see Beretta, 2009.
120 On mosaics as an appropriate medium to convey the metaphysical essence of God, see Borsook, 2000;
Dell’Acqua, 2008; Thunø, 2005, 279, with reference to Leo III’s and Paschal I’s mosaics and their
accompanying inscriptions.
121  On the Divine Images, II, 2, PTS 17, 71–2; trans. Louth, 2003, 61–2: ‘if we were to make an image
of the invisible God, we would really sin; for it is impossible to depict one who is incorporeal and
162  A glimpse of salvation

tian visual art. All the same, despite John being a staunch iconophile, he was aware of
the difficulty, if not of the impossibility, of portraying the ‘true’ likeness of God even
in his human shape. As a consequence of this, he placed great importance on the Man-
dylion of Edessa, one of the most important images ‘not-made-by-human-hands’ of
the Christian tradition, in his defence of holy images.122 The Mandylion was the image
Christ himself produced by wiping his face with a cloth, leaving on it an impression
of his own likeness in order to satisfy the human desire for seeing it. The legend of
the Mandylion, that sees an envoy of King Abgar of Edessa trying to portray Christ
and failing to do so, exposed human bewilderment at the task of portraying Christ
(Figure 4.28). In Christian theology, the human mind can only catch a glimpse of the
divine likeness, and human hands can only render a sketch, that is an imperfect image
of it. Even the impression left by Christ himself on the cloth was blurred, signifying
that his human–divine features could not be perfectly fixed on earthly material. Pious
imagination was needed to complete the picture.123 Early in the ninth century, Theo-
dore of Stoudios justified the production of pictorial images by saying that the infinite
God became ‘circumscribed’ in a human body through the Incarnation, thus acquiring
qualities such as comprehension, quantity, quality, position, place, time, shape and
body – the categories formulated by Aristotle for the apprehension of the physical
world.124
Chronologically situated between John of Damascus and Theodore of Stoudios,
Ambrose Autpert addressed the legitimacy and appropriateness of material represen-
tations of the Incarnate God, as well as the uncircumscribability and ubiquity of divine
light. Supporting the legitimacy and appropriateness of representations of the divine

formless, invisible and uncircumscribable . . . if we make an image of God who in his ineffable good-
ness became incarnate and was seen upon earth in the flesh, and lived among humans, and assumed
the nature and density and form and colour of flesh, we do not go astray’; see Kessler, 2000, 35. See
also, On the Divine Images, I, 22, PTS 17, 111; trans. Louth, 2003, 36: ‘I have seen the human form of
God, and my soul has been saved’; which would be echoed in the Acts of Nicaea II, Mansi XIII, 241A,
249E; ACO II, 3.3, 646, 654; trans. Sahas, 1986, 76, 83.
122  On the Divine Images, I, 33 (= II, 29 = III, 45), PTS 17, 145; trans. Louth, 2003, 41. Being a Syr-
ian, John certainly knew about the precious image-relic of the acheiropoieton kept in Edessa, the
important centre of Syriac Christianity in Mesopotamia occupied by Muslims since 638. On the Man-
dylion in John of Damascus’s iconophile discourse, see Barber, 2002, 25. See also Gero, 1977, 25–36;
Parry, 1996, 99–113; Speck, 1990, 565–77; Brubaker, Haldon, 2001, 251–2, 2011, 182; Speck, 1989,
believes some chapters in the sermons on images are later interpolations. On the disputed dating of
John’s orations on images, see Alexakis, 1996, 125ff.
123 When the Mandylion arrived in Constantinople from Edessa in 944, the future emperor Constantine VII
was the only one who recognised Christ’s features on the cloth. On the legend of the Mandylion, see
Cameron, 1984, 1998; Drijvers, 1998; Illert, 2007. On the Holy Face, which has an abundant litera-
ture, see Kessler, Wolf, eds., 1998; Belting, 2005; Frommel, Wolf, eds., 2006; Wolf, Calderoni Masetti,
Dufour Bozzo, eds., 2007; Kessler, 2007a, 2007b; Bacci, 2014; Dietz et al., eds., 2016.
124 Theodore of Stoudios, Antirrheticus II, PG 99, 351–8; Antirrheticus III, PG 99, 389–90, and 395–6;
Parry, 1996, 29, and 59–60. The deposed Patriarch Nikephoros of Constantinople, who had a pivotal
role in the second phase of iconoclasm with Theodore, also used a terminology inspired by Aristotle
when referring to the circumscribability of Christ, see his Antirrheticus II, 12, PG 100, 355–60; see
Alexander, 1953, 39–40; Sansterre, 1994, 223–4; Barber, 2002, 123. For an in-depth analysis of this
question and on the high level of philosophical culture on the part of iconophile theologians, see Eris-
mann, 2016, 2017. John of Damasc had recourse to logic, although not grounded in Aristotle, in his
own apology for holy images; see Parry, 1996, 52–63; Erismann, 2017, 179–82. Nonetheless, John of
Damascus was aware of Aristotle’s Physics, probably through the sixth-century commentary of John
Philoponus; see Ladner, 1953, 17.
 A glimpse of salvation 163

Figure 4.28 The Genoa Mandylion or ‘Sacro Volto’, panel painting, thirteenth century, Genoa,
Monastery of San Bartolomeo degli Armeni.
Photo: © Kunsthistorisches Institut/Max-Planck-Institut, Florence.

essence, he wrote a long passage in the fifth book of his commentary on Revelation,125
which I have referred to in Chapter 3. On the possibility of seeing God or imagining
his likeness, in the final book of the commentary, Autpert observes that although one

125  Ap, 5, prologue, CCCM 27, 365–85.

164  A glimpse of salvation

may suppose that God has a face similar to human faces, his resemblance remains
incomparable.126

Here is clearly shown the nature of that service that is performed by the servants
who ceaselessly gaze upon the face of their Lord. And what should we think that we
can come to know through the face of God except an understanding of our vision of
him? However, the human mind should not conceive of him in any corporeal sense
and must not think of him as having an appearance of the kind that is perceived by
corporeal eyes. Regarding the experiencing of this vision, it has been said through
Paul: ‘We see now as through glass darkly, but then shall we see face to face’.127

Autpert concludes with a reference to Saint Paul that humans can only catch a
glimpse of God’s likeness during their terrestrial life, and that they will eventually
enjoy his vision in the eternal life (1 Corinthians 13, 12: ‘For now we see only a reflec-
tion as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face’). The vision of God, Autpert states,
is pervaded with light, because God’s simple and immutable essence is nothing else
than claritas – that is brightness, bright light and not simply light – since brightness
is his very nature.128 But even though the divine light is uncircumscribable, ubiqui-
tous, and immaterial, it ‘fills what is inside, and circumscribes from the exterior what
has been filled’, engendering the circumscribed image of God through his Incarnate
Son.129
Although Autpert invites the faithful to wait for the eternal, uncircumscribed vision
of God, he also reminds them to behold a physical object to understand the indis-
soluble combination of human and divine in the Incarnate God. In particular, he has
recourse to the image of the carbunculus, a dark-red garnet. A digression is in order
here. Autpert notes that the carbunculus is apparently black and dull like a piece of
charcoal, but just as a charcoal touched by fire gleams in the darkness, so the carbun-
culus hit by a ray of light reveals its true colours. Thus, Autpert turns observations
from real life – a charcoal slowly burning in the fireplace and a dark-red gemstone hit
by a ray of light – into a metaphor for the revelation of the divinity of Christ through
his human substance.130 Being mentioned in Revelation, the carbunculus is commented

126 Cf. Augustine, De Trinitate, IX, 2, 2, CCSL 50, 294, ll. 60–1: the human mind can consider more easily
what is more familiar, i.e. the human form and the man is an inferior image of God.
127  Ap, 10, 22, 4a, CCCM 27A, 840, ll. 2–9: ‘Hic manifeste ostenditur quae sit illa seruorum seruitus,
qui faciem Domini sui indesinenter aspiciunt. Et quid per faciem Dei, nisi cognitionem uisionis eius
intellegere debemus? Absit autem ut aliquid corporeum in eo mens humana fingat, et talem eum faciem
habere, qualem consueuit corporeis oculis uidere, existimet. De qua uisionis cognitione per Paulum
dicitur: Videmus nunc per speculum in enigmate, tunc autem facie ad faciem’.
128  Ap, 10, 22, 4a, CCCM 27A, 840, ll. 13–15: ‘Neque enim illi simplici atque incommutabili essentiae
aliud est claritas, aliud natura, sed ipsa ei natura sua claritas, ipsa claritas natura est’ (‘Nor is the bril-
liance of his simple and unchanging essence anything else, nor his nature anything else, but his nature
itself is brilliance, and brilliance itself is [his] nature’; trans. A. Lappin).
129  Ap, 8, 18, 4a, CCCM 27A, 675, ll. 29–30: ‘Incorporeum lumen est, quod et interiora repleat et repleta
exterius circumscribat’ (‘He is an incorporeal light, which fills what is within, and once filled, excludes
what is on the outside’). On the uncircumscribability of God, that humans cannot grasp, Autpert refers
to western and eastern ‘witnesses of the Church’ (‘Ecclesiae testes’) such as Ambrose, Gregory of Nazi-
anzos, and Athanasios of Alexandria, but especially draws on Augustine, Ep. 147, CSEL 44, 274–331.
130  Ap, 2, 2, 17b, CCCM 27, 133–4, ll. 3–27; Dell’Acqua, 2017; Cf. Thunø, 2002, 154, who uses this
passage when discussing the enamel on the cross-reliquary of Pope Paschal I, and idem, 2005, 268–9,
 A glimpse of salvation 165

on by Latin and Greek Christian exegetes;131 but the closest antecedents to Autpert’s
metaphor are to be found in the Greek tradition and in the recent eastern debate on
the visualisation of the Incarnate God. Through the image of the burning coal with
which an angel purified the mouth of Isaiah (Is 6, 6–7), Andrew of Crete appealed
to the five senses in order to emotionally engage the faithful in a vibrant apprehen-
sion of the Incarnation in the womb of Mary.132 In his Exposition of the Orthodox
Faith, dated to the 740s, John of Damascus stated that the Eucharist, that is the body
of Christ which unites materiality and divinity in order to purify the faithful from
sins, can be compared to the ‘burning carbuncle [or charcoal] of God’ (‘τοῦ θείου
ἄνθρακος’).133 The Greek and Latin exegetical tradition notwithstanding, no author
before Autpert clearly stated that the carbunculus, in which a gemstone merges with
the burning charcoal, signifies the Incarnate God. This was suggested not only by the
Scriptures and their interpretation, but also by real-life experience combined with a
perceptive attitude to materiality.
Because of its colour, reminiscent of blood, life, and death, the carbunculus was
widely used in early medieval liturgical objects and reliquaries, including crosses hold-
ing relics (Figure 4.29, Pl. 14). One of the most notable of such objects was the Lat-
eran Cross, yearly anointed and taken in procession on the feast of the Exaltation of
the Holy Cross in Rome (Rome, Museo Sacro of the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana,
c.255 × 240 × 45 mm, stolen in 1943–4) (Figure 4.30). Made of pure gold and tightly
encrusted with pearls, emeralds, and garnets, it had as its centrepiece a large garnet of
irregular shape resembling the outline of a human head, and strikingly conjuring up
the Holy Face of Christ. Dated between the fifth and the early ninth century on the
grounds of technical as well as stylistic features,134 it has been identified by some with
the reliquary cross discovered by Pope Sergius I in a dark corner of St Peter’s sacristy,
for which Paschal I commissioned a silver gilt cruciform casket (Figure 4.31).135 While it

à propos of the apse mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica, similarly commissioned by Paschal.

131 See Dell’Acqua, 2017.
132 Andrew of Crete, On the Annunciation, PG 97, 896B: ‘Χαίροις, ἡ Σεραφική τοῦ μυστικοῦ ἄνθρακος
λαβίς’; trans. Cunningham, 2008, 207: ‘Hail, the seraphic tongs for the mystical coal! [cf. Is 6, 7]’.
Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition, I, 4, PG 97, 1080A; trans. Daley, 1998, 107: the Holy of the
Holies can only be mentioned by lips purified by the coal of the Seraph. Andrew of Crete, On the
Dormition, II, 15, PG 97, 1069A: ‘ἡ λαβὶς τοῦ καθαρτικοῦ ἄνθρακος’; trans. Daley, 1998, 133: Mary is
‘the tongs for the purging coal’; see Tsironis, 2011, 185; Linardou, 2011, 148.
133 John of Damascus, Exposition of the Orthodox Faith, IV, 13, PTS 12, 196, ll. 126–7.
134 Lauer, 1906, 49–60, fig. 10, believed the Lateran Cross to be a product of late eighth-century Francia
which was presented by Charlemagne to Pope Hadrian I; Grisar, 1906, 109–22, 1908, 82–97, figs.
40–2, dated it to the fifth or sixth centuries; Volbach, 1941, 15, noted that its technique recalls the
early seventh-century book cover of the Gospels given by Gregory the Great to Theodolinda (Monza,
Tesoro del Duomo); Frolow, 1961, 227–8, entry no. 123, dated it to the ninth century because of its
affinity with Carolingian jewellery; see also Jülich, 1986–1987, 139; Morello, 1991, 94; Cornini,
2010, 71; Hahn, 2012, 80; Ballardini, 2014.
135  LP I, 374; trans. Davis, 2010, 83: Sergius established that, ‘for the salvation of the human race’, the
cross he found should be ‘kissed and worshipped by all Christian people on the day of the Exaltation
of the Holy Cross in the basilica of the Saviour called Constantinian’. See Grisar, 1906; Lauer, 1906,
who wrongly identified the reliquary cross of Sergius I with the enamelled cross of Paschal I. Ballar-
dini, 2014, 739–42, rejects this assumption and endorses Cecchelli, 1926–1927, 146–56; Cecchelli,
1951–1952, 24–6, who identified the reliquary cross found by Sergius I with the stolen Lateran cross.
The first secure description of the Lateran Cross, dating to shortly before 1100, recalls that it held rel-
ics of the navel and foreskin of Christ, see the Descriptio lateranensis Ecclesiae, 13, De ecclesia Sancti
166  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.29 S t Cuthbert’s Cross, gold, cowrie shell, garnets, 60 × 60 mm, seventh century,
Durham, Durham Cathedral Collections.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

is impossible, and not even necessary, to establish if Autpert ever saw this specific cross,
certainly the memory of a similar object and of burning charcoal must have inspired
him to recast the exegetical image of the carbunculus in a powerful ‘textual icon’ of the
Incarnate God. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the cross-shaped halo of Christ on the
panel from S. Vincenzo al Volturno is made of a dark-red glass, which is unparalleled
among the thousand fragments uncovered from the early medieval buildings.
In sum, the previously mentioned passages align Autpert with the anxiety about
seeing, knowing, and portraying God that, hugely important in Christian culture for
a long time, was particularly felt in his own times.136 During the iconoclastic con-
troversy, the theme of the Transfiguration, filtered through the writings of Pseudo-
Dionysios, became an important argument supporting the manifestation of the divine
through the body of the Incarnate God.137 It is tempting to see the reflections of Aut-
pert on God’s brightness, human circumscribability versus divine uncircumscribabil-
ity, and on the varying brightness of the carbunculus reflecting Christ’s two natures, as
the most fitting theological underpinning for the stained-glass panel from S. Vincenzo.
Those responsible for the panel may well have pondered on the important legacy of
the former Abbot Autpert.

Laurentii in Palatio, in Valentini, Zucchetti, 1946, 3, 356. Ballardini, 2014, 741, notes that no other
relic container is described as carefully as this in the Descriptio.
136 Elsner, 2012, 376, noted ‘a greater accent on epistemology’, that is on methods, validity, and scope of
knowledge in the period of Byzantine iconoclasm. On the anxiety of seeing and representing God in
medieval culture, see Kessler, 2007b.
137 Brubaker, 1999b, 304–7; Thunø, 2002, 143; see de Andia, 1997, for the theme of the Transfiguration
in negative theology, in particular in Dionysios and Maximos the Confessor.
Figure 4.30 L ateran Cross, gold, red garnets, amethysts, pearls, c.255 × 240 × 45 mm, fifth–
ninth century? Rome, Museo Sacro of the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, stolen
in 1943–4.
Photo: © BAV.
168  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.31 Cruciform casket, wrought, embossed and gilded silver, niello, 10 × 29.5 ×
25 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 60985.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.

6 T he context of the Crypt of Epyphanius

The Christ panel was found a few meters away from the Crypt of Abbot Epyphanius
at S. Vincenzo al Volturno, where it is likely it was originally installed.138 This subter-
ranean oratory was accidentally discovered in 1832 during agricultural works. Roughly
cruciform in shape (c.5.5 × 7.5 m, width of its arms 1.5 m, max. height 3 m), it had been

138 For this hypothesis, see Dell’Acqua, 2010.

 A glimpse of salvation 169

dug out of the bedrock at c.2.15 m under the sanctuary of an eighth-century church139
(Figure 4.32). Along with the Basilica of S. Vincenzo Maggiore and a luxurious guest
residence, the oratory was part of a newly devised scheme to attract pious and wealthy
benefactors.140 But did the panel fit in the visual discourse of the crypt? And if so, how?
The dating and conception of the painted programme of the crypt, that entirely covers
its walls, have been anchored to the abbotship of Epyphanius (824–42) (Figure 4.33),141
since he appears in proskynesis at the feet of the Crucifixion, with a square halo, a fea-
ture that has been interpreted as identifying either a recently deceased or a still living
person,142 and in any case an accurate portrait.143 The abbot is identified by a prominent
inscription in white capital letters running at the bottom of the scene (‘DOM[inus] EPY-
PHANIUS ABB[as]’) (Figure 4.34, Pl. 17). Recent technical observations have revealed
that his portrait was not originally part of the Crucifixion, and that it was added later,
on a newly laid layer of plaster using pigments, such as the rare Egyptian Blue, not found
elsewhere in the oratory. This obliges us to move the date of its murals to an earlier time,
but if by only a few months or a few years, it is not yet possible to say.144
The painted imagery appears organised along two ideal axes: a south–north axis,
between the entrance and the only window, with female and male martyrs offering
examples of faith, moral resilience, and hope to reach the eternal life; an east–west
axis, between the fenestella confessionis and the apse, with the Annunciation, Christ in
majesty, and the enthroned Virgin as favoured intercessor in heaven. Its two ideal lines
cross in Christ in the vault. The prominence of Mary in the imagery of the oratory,
especially in the apse, suggests that the apse originally hosted an altar dedicated to her.
Between the eighth and ninth centuries Mary gradually took a more important position
in ecclesiastical space and liturgy: altars were dedicated in her name, either in rotundas,
as for example the Pantheon in Rome,145 or in underground oratories placed below
the main altar of a church, as maybe was the case in the Crypt of Epyphanius. These
altars became the ideal locus for celebrating the ‘triptych’ of concepts revolving around
Mary’s supernatural maternity: Virginity, Incarnation, Redemption.146 Given its lim-
ited dimensions, we must imagine the Crypt of Epyphanius being used for private and
votive Masses, rather than communal Eucharistic Masses. This is suggested also by the
fact that the narrative cycles of the Infancy and Passion of Christ and of the martyrdom
of Stephen and Laurence are interspersed with devotional images in front of which one

139 This has been identified with one of the churches founded by Epyphanius, see CV I, 288; cf. Marazzi,
2014, 23; on its archaeology, see Hodges, Mitchell, Gibson, 1993.
140 On the archaeology of the site, see Hodges, 1993, 2011, 435–6; Hodges, Mitchell, 1996; on the dona-
tions the monastery received, see Wickham, 1995, 145.
141 Toesca, 1904; Belting, 1968, 30–2; De’ Maffei, 1985, 270–96; Mitchell, 1993, 76–81, forthcoming;
Exner, 2000; Peroni, 2007. For an assessment, see Dell’Acqua, 2013a.
142 Ladner, 1941b.
143 Osborne, 1979.
144 These technical features have been discovered through archaeometrical analyses undertaken by Vin-
cenzo Gheroldi and Sara Marazzani, whom I thank for sharing this information, in September 2017;
see Gheroldi, Marazzani, 2018, esp. 268–71, on the figure of Abbot Epyphanius. On the Egyptian Blue
in early medieval Italian mural painting, see Nicola et al., 2018.
145 See McKitterick, 2016, 254–5; Thunø, 2015b, 234–7.
146 Palazzo, 1996, 322–4.
Figure 4.32 C astel S. Vincenzo (Isernia), S. Vincenzo al Volturno, Crypt of Epyphanius and
South Church (Santa Maria in insula?), early ninth century.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018, after Hodges, Gibson, Mitchell, 1993.
 A glimpse of salvation 171

Figure 4.33 Crypt of Epyphanius, pictorial scheme: 1 Christ?, 2 John offering the Book of the
Revelation to Christ?, 3 Wise Virgins, 4 Virgin Mary as Platytéra toˉn ouranoˉn (‘wider
than the Heavens’) with donor, 5 Christ in the vault, 6 Virgin Mary Adsumpta into
heaven, 7 donor, 8 five archangels, 9–10 Annunciation (Incarnation), 11 Nativity, 12
Bath of the Christ Child, 13 Crucifixion with Epyphanius, 14 Weeping Jerusalem, 15
Women at the Sepulchre, 16–17–18 Resurrected Christ between the protomartyrs
Laurence and Stephen, 19–20 Martyrdom of Stephen and Laurence, 21 donor, 22 The
hand of God casting a ray of light, Castel S. Vincenzo (Isernia), early ninth century.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018, after Hodges, Gibson, Mitchell, 1993.

might pause, meditate, address hopes, worries, vows, and offer candles and incense.147
These devotional images appear as ‘mural icons’ not only because they vividly express
the idea of sanctity or piety, but also because they are painted on specially laid layers of
plaster in focal positions, in some cases niches with sills for votive offerings.148

147 These include the enthroned Virgin Adsumpta into heaven in the vault of the apse (Pl. 20), the Virgin
as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’) on the right side of the entrance (Pl. 21), the Cru-
cifixion in the north arm (Fig. 34), the nearby Resurrected Christ between Stephen and Laurence in a
niche (Pl. 19), and an unidentified deacon in a niche on the opposite wall.
148 Mitchell, 1993; Gheroldi, Marazzani, 2018. With regards to frontal depictions of the enthroned Virgin
Mary and Christ Child, Maguire, 2015, 219, has noted that such images could function at one and the
same time ‘as doctrinal statements . . . as amulets . . . or as expressions of intercession’. This observa-
tion is applicable to the votive images that alternate with the narrative ones in the Crypt of Epyphanius.
Figure 4.34 C rucifixion with Abbot Epyphanius (824–42) in proskynesis, Crypt of Epyphanius,
mural painting, 824–42.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 173

In the richly painted imagery of the crypt, two representations of Christ help to
contextualise the stained-glass panel just described. One is Christ in majesty in the
vault (Figure 4.35, Pl. 18). Beardless, sitting on a double globe–mandorla and bless-
ing the onlookers, he glows in the glory of his Second Coming, when he welcomes the
righteous into heaven (Matthew 24, 30–1). His majesty is projected by an extraordi-
narily large cruciform halo, a dignified composure, an ample mantle elegantly draped,
as well as by the nuances of red in his garments.149 This image finds a close stylistic,
iconographical, and conceptual comparison with Christ the ‘King of Kings’ illustrated
in a manuscript arguably connected to the scriptorium of S. Vincenzo al Volturno
(Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare, ms. Cap. CXLVIII/8, fol. 8r)150 (Figure 4.36). Believed
to follow in date the painted cycle of the crypt, the manuscript has Christ seated on
a gemmed throne accompanied, to either side of his head, by the inscription ԠREX/
REGUM’, that is ‘King of Kings’ that alludes to his Second Coming (1 Timothy, 6, 15;
Revelation 17, 14; 19, 16). The cross that precedes the inscription visually recalls the
salvific Crucifixion. His cruciform halo is inscribed with the three letters of the word
‘LUX’, that is ‘light’. His eternal light and royalty are thus extolled.
The second depiction of Christ in the crypt that seems to be relevant to the imagery
of the stained-glass panel is in a niche of its north arm. There, between the deacons
and early martyrs Stephen and Laurence, a youthful, beardless, and resplendent Christ
stands while holding a book inscribed with the words ‘I am the God of Abraham’ that
Moses heard from the Burning Bush (Exodus 3, 6; Matthew 22, 32) (Figure 4.37, Pl.
19). His cross-halo has on the left the Greek letter omega. This letter has been inter-
preted either as part of the monogram Α Ω pronounced by Christ as an enthroned
king in the Heavenly Jerusalem upon his Second Coming (Revelation 21, 6: ‘I am the
Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End’); or of the word ‘φῶς’ that is ‘light’
pronounced by Christ when questioned about his identity during his preaching ministry
(John 8, 12: ‘I [Christ] am the light of the world’); or of the phrase ‘ὁ ὤν’, ‘I am who
I am’ (Exodus 3, 1), addressed by God from the Burning Bush to Moses to express that
he wished to remain hidden and unintelligible.151 For the learned ones who worshipped
in the Crypt of Epyphanius, the monogram Α Ω, seen on the glass panel and which may
also have been on this mural, would have held more than an apocalyptic reference. In
the last pages of his commentary on Revelation, Autpert unveiled what he called the
‘mystery’ of this monogram (see Chapter 3). This commentary was the highest achieve-
ment of his intense exegetical work on Sacred Scriptures of which the Vulturnense com-
munity remembered and would be proud of for centuries.152 According to Autpert, the
monogram Α Ω encapsulates at the same time ‘one nature, one eternity, one majesty,

149 On the depiction of the depiction of the Second Parousia, that precedes the Final Judgement (Matthew
25), in the ninth century, see Kessler, 2000, 88–103, also for previous literature.
150 On this manuscript and its stylistic and technical connections with the Crypt of Epiphanius, see Belt-
ing, 1968, 213; Crivello, 2005; sceptical about these connections, are Nordenfalk, 1965; Nees, 2008.
Cf. the image painted in the vault of the crypt also with contemporary Carolingian psalters, where
Christ in majesty is a model for rulership; see Jaski, 2016, 74, 84.
151 Cf. Belting, 1968, 38–9; De’ Maffei, 1985, 316–19; Dell’Acqua, 2010, 20–1. On the hidden and
unintelligible God, who nonetheless manifests himself in a plurality of ways, including light, see Bei-
erwaltes, 1977, 133ff.
152 See the twelfth-century monastic chronicle CV I, 181.
Figure 4.35 C hrist in majesty, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault, mural painting, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Figure 4.36 C hrist as ‘King of Kings’, Homilies of Gregory the Great, San Vincenzo al Vol-
turno, early ninth century, Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare, ms. Cap. CXLVIII/8,
fol. 8r.
Photo: © Vercelli, Biblioteca Capitolare.
Figure 4.37 R esurrected Christ between Stephen and Laurence, Crypt of Epyphanius, mural
painting, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 177

one power’ of the Trinity, and Christ’s ‘perfect divinity and authentic humanity’.153
Adopting the tools of numerology, Autpert reads in the letters Α Ω the phrase ‘The God
of Abraham (is) the everlasting Truth’.154 Therefore the monogram Α Ω accompanying
Christ on his Second Coming, when he unveils his face eternally, could bear an implicit
reference to the ‘God of Abraham’ who remained invisible in the Burning Bush.155
Next to this niche with Christ, Stephen, and Laurence is a relatively small window,
the only direct source of natural light for the crypt (40 × 142 cm) (Figure 4.38).156 The
small dimensions and the figural subject of the stained-glass panel suggest that it might
have been originally displayed here. If this was the case, the stained-glass panel would
have echoed and expanded the epiphanies of Christ in the niche and in the vault.
Transformed by light, its matter, glass and lead made the reality of the Incarnate God,
his redeeming sacrifice on the Cross and his future coming, visible and tangible. At the
centre of a window-screen, the original cruciform outline of the panel was a reminder
that the Crucifixion had been the climax of his terrestrial experience.157 The red glass
of the halo may have alluded to the perfect dual nature of the Incarnate God (this is
what Autpert wrote apropos of the dark-red garnet or carbunculus).158 The clear glass
used to shape his face gave the impression that it was made of light, as upon his Trans-
figuration. His apocalyptic monogram Α Ω recalls the eternal light that he will reveal
to the righteous upon his Second Coming. In other words, the glass panel presented
Christ in the perfect union of his human–circumscribed (Crucifix) and divine–uncir-
cumscribed natures (his light), thus enabling a vision that was denied to Moses and
offering a preview of the eternal splendour of the Redeemer upon his Second Coming
(through the reference of the Α Ω).159
If it was originally placed here, the glass panel would have also contributed to the
message of revelation and salvation of the crypt in another crucial way. Merging with
the ray of light cast by the hand of God painted in the vault of the window in the north
arm, the natural light filtered by the glass panel reached Christ in the majesty of his
Second Coming in the main vault, thus illuminating his manifestation (Figures 4.35,

153  Ap, 10, 22, 13, CCCM 27A, 862, ll. 85–6: ‘una est natura, una aeternitas, una maiestas, una potestas’
(‘one nature, one eternity, one majesty, one power’); ibidem, ll. 101–2: ‘perfecta deitas et uera . . .
humanitas’ (‘perfect divinity and authentic . . . humanity’).
154  Ap, 10, 22, 13, CCCM 27A, 861–2, l. 70–102. Offering material to reconsider the question of the
waning knowledge of Greek in the late eighth-century Italy, Autpert transcribes the sound of the Greek
words ‘θεός Ἀβραάμ ἡ ἀΐδιος ἀλήθεια’ as they were pronounced, and transliterating them in Latin as
‘theos Abraham, hi aidios alithia’.
155 A few decades later, Nikephoros of Constantinople would use the genealogy of Abraham in his apol-
ogy of sacred images, see Antirrheticus I, 25–6, PG 100, 261–75; Parry, 1996, 79, 200.
156 For various hypotheses about the original setting, see Dell’Acqua, 2010, 20–2.
157 Cf. the interpretation offered by Autpert in Tr, 13, CCCM 27B, 1016–17, ll. 19–22: ‘aspice serpentem
auneum, hoc est in cruce pendentem Dominum, cuius nimirum passio dum bene consideratur, omnia
in nobis uitiorum mala extiguere probatur’, on the Brazen Serpent of the Old Testament that saved the
Jews, like Christ hanging from the cross in the New Testament saves humankind; and ll. 23–4: ‘Incipe
igitur passionem Christi imitari uelle, et nullum erit mortale crimen quod te possit extinguere’, where
Autpert exhorts the faithful to imitate the passion of Christ so that no mortal crime could destroy
them; see Leonardi, 1968, 41.
158  Ap, II, 2, 17b, CCCM 27, 133–4, ll. 3–27.
159 On eighth- and ninth-century reflections on Moses and the unveiling of Old Testament mysteries, see
Kessler, 1994, 568ff., also with specific reference to Autpert.
Figure 4.38 Crypt of Epyphanius, window in the north arm (40 × 142 cm), early ninth
century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 A glimpse of salvation 179

4.39, Pl. 18). We could conclude that this stained-glass panel, transfigured by natural
light, may have ingeniously contributed with its refined rhetoric to the ninth-century
iconophile discourse on seeing and depicting God. It would have served, too, as medi-
ator for salvation: appealing to the senses, imagination, and knowledge of Scriptures
on the part of the faithful, it would have offered a stimulus to meditate upon the
redemption provided by Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross, to imagine his splendour on

Figure 4.39 H and of God casting a ray of light, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault of
the north window, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
180  A glimpse of salvation

his Second Coming, and thus to nurture hope of salvation. It is likely that the passages
the former Vulturnense abbot Autpert wrote about the nature of God being his claritas
or brightness are the intellectual background for such a refined conception. They were
written in a period in which Lombard Italy does not record other original voices on
this matter. It is a fact that the Vulturnense community nurtured the important legacy
of Autpert, which has been long since connected to the decorative programme of the
crypt.160 Moreover, those who conceived the pictorial programme were acquainted
with books and scriptoria, and thus may have been well acquainted with the writings
of the most notable author of the monastery: as recently unveiled, they transmitted a
carefully laid-out plan to the artists who painted the crypt, a plan which closely fol-
lowed practices of manuscript production and illustration.161

7 T he legacy of Autpert

While is not hard to imagine that the legacy of Autpert may have affected the way the
light of the Redeemer was thought of in his monastery, one wonders whether his think-
ing about God’s simple and immutable essence being expressed through claritas may
also have had some impact outside its walls, for example on those who conceived the
mosaics of Leo III and Paschal I in which the Christ–Light is dominant. Scholars have
posited and maintained that Autpert’s writings offered a theological underpinning to
Paschal I’s artistic patronage, especially on his vision of Christ and of the Virgin,162
notwithstanding the lack of secure connections. However, besides the fact that Aut-
pert dedicated and sent his commentary on Revelation to Pope Stephen III, and that
his death was mentioned in a letter by Pope Hadrian to Charlemagne (see Chapter 3),
other evidence does seem to connect his legacy to the papacy in the early ninth century.
Albeit elusive, if not even speculative, it should be re-examined here.
The Chronicon Vulturnense, the twelfth-century monastic chronicle of S. Vincenzo
al Volturno, mentions Pope Paschal I twice. It includes him in a list of popes from Peter
until the early twelfth century, saying: ‘He [Paschal] dedicated this church of Christ’s
martyr Vincent, which [Abbot] Joshua made, and received the pact of confirmation by
Emperor Louis [the Pious]’.163 Paschal features once more in the account of the conse-
cration of the abbey-church, held in 808, to which also the Emperor Louis the Pious
and his wife, described as the sister of Abbot Joshua, allegedly attended.164 Paschal
was not yet pope in 808, and there is no other proof of his visit to the monastery, thus
we must conclude that the retrospective reconstruction of the past in the chronicle is
undoubtedly selective and imaginative. For all that, in mentioning Paschal, as well as
Carolingian rulers and Lombard dukes and princes, the chronicle offers an idealised

160 Declared by the twelfth-century monastic chronicle CV I, 181, this is confirmed by the art-historical
analysis of the crypt; see Toesca, 1904; Belting, 1968; De’ Maffei, 1985; Exner, 2000, who have pos-
ited that the conception of the painted imagery in the Crypt of Epyphanius heavily relies on Autpert’s
writings.
161 See the technical study of Gheroldi, Marazzani, 2018, esp. 261.
162 Wisskirchen, 1990, 1995–1997, 1998; Thunø, 2002, 2005; Ballardini, 2007.
163  CV I, 90.
164  CV I, 221; Marazzi, 2014, 25.
 A glimpse of salvation 181

picture of a vast political-economic network that actually supported the wealth and
power of S. Vincenzo al Volturno between the eighth and ninth centuries.165
Besides Carolingian and Beneventan patronage operating at different levels, S. Vin-
cenzo possibly benefited more than it has been thought so far from connections with
the papacy. In fact, the papacy seems to have helped raise S. Vincenzo to the status of
a political and religious centre of international importance. In the mid-eighth century
Pope Stephen II entrusted its abbot with a crucial diplomatic mission to the Lom-
bard King Aistulf.166 Some decades later, in 784, Pope Hadrian engaged directly in the
affairs of the community and probably even steered the choice of the abbot.167 In 817,
the year Paschal was elected, the power of Prince Grimoald IV of Benevento, in whose
territory S. Vincenzo lay, was usurped by contesting aristocrats; as a consequence the
Principality was in turmoil. Having followed a career within the ranks of the Lateran
clergy during which he had witnessed popes arbitrating between Carolingian, Lom-
bard, and Byzantine interests, Paschal must have been aware of the need for political
stability in central–southern Italy. The papacy, as well as segments of Roman elite, had
a specific interest in exerting control – either as proprietors or as rulers – on central
Italy and its main monasteries.168 Since the mid-eighth century, the popes sought to
secure their lands and exert territorial rights in these regions, and were frustrated first
by the Lombards, then by the Carolingians. To put this right, soon after his election,
Paschal quickly concluded a pact with Louis the Pious which itemised lands and towns
identified as subject to the papacy.169 These could not include S. Vincenzo, which lay
in Langobardia minor. This notwithstanding, in this shifting political scenario, it is
not implausible – although not proven – to think that like some of his predecessors
including Hadrian I, Paschal also assumed a sort of spiritual and political patronage
of the Vulturnense monastery. In this regard, Richard Hodges posited that Paschal’s
political and artistic ‘renascence’ probably had a ripple-effect on the political strategy
of leading religious centres in central Italy.170
The fictive nature of the mentioned account in the Chronicon Vulturnense, and
the dearth of information on Paschal’s eventual visit to S. Vincenzo, should not lead
us to dismiss entirely the possibility that he was at some point in contact with this
monastery, and with the legacy of Autpert. When the Chronicon refers to Paschal’s

165 Like other contemporary monastic chronicles, the CV purposefully claims political networks and land
donations in order to secure the monastery’s properties after the Norman occupation of central and
southern Italy; see Classen, 1982; Sennis, 2003; Loud, 2005. Some of the pivotal documents of the CV
are forgeries according to Zielinski in CDL IV/2, 88–135; Marazzi, 2012, 15–17, notes that even if
forged these documents reflect the memory of past properties. On the selective and purposeful use of
the resources of the past in the early medieval period, see Pohl, Wood, 2015.
166  LP I, 441–2; trans. Davis, 2007, 53–5.
167 Hadrian I, Letters to Charlemagne, MGH, EMKA, CC, 66 and 67, 593–7.
168 This is better documented in the case of Farfa: on the patrimonium Savinense, that is the territory of
Sabina, see Arnaldi, 1986, 47–56; Marazzi, 2000, 69–77; Costambeys, 2007, 323–52. The terms used
to define territory, holdings, and legal rights are intentionally ambiguous in Carolingian documents
with regards to granted immunities and protection, and in papal documents with regards to their
expectations. Ambiguity could lead to wider claims in a period in which the popes had indeed vast
holdings in central Italy but did not have sovereignty nor exercised potestas, that is power, over this
territory.
169  Pactum Ludowicianum, MGH, Capit. 1, 172, 352–5; Noble, 1984, 149–53; Arnaldi, 1986; Ballardini,
1999, 10–14; Costambeys, 2007, 314–22. The Pactum also re-defined the procedures of papal election.
170 Hodges, 2011, 439, 447.
182  A glimpse of salvation

consecration of the church dedicated to Vincent, it may be referring to the impressive

annular crypt added to the main abbey-church dedicated to the martyr. While the dat-
ing for the annular crypt is debated,171 the portraits of two monks with square haloes
found there and identified with abbots Joshua and Talaricus offer an approximate
date for its construction, since Talaricus died in 823 and the square halo indicates a
portrait, seemingly painted when he was either alive or recently deceased.172 Hence,
Paschal’s papacy, which ended with his death in February 824, coincided more or less
with the addition of this crypt.
Antonella Ballardini has recently found a clue in an eleventh-century copy of a hom-
iliary collated at S. Maria Maggiore in the tenth century, if not earlier, that connects
Autpert’s legacy with Paschal. Between the feast of the Presentation in the Temple
of the Christ Child and Easter, passages referring to Paschal as patron of S. Maria
Maggiore are accompanied by excerpts from the Church Fathers as well as from Aut-
pert, in particular from his homily on the Presentation in the Temple (Rome, BAV, S.
Maria Maggiore Manoscritti 122, fols. 124v–128r).173 In the same manuscript a hom-
ily, attributed to Autpert probably because of its references to Revelation, is given a
place of honour close to the feast of the dedication of the basilica (fols. 137v–139r).
Therefore, this manuscript offers a witness to the reception of the writings of the for-
mer Vulturnense abbot in the tenth century (if not earlier) in the main Marian sanctu-
ary of Rome. This had been the focus of Paschal’s personal piety: notwithstanding his
patronage of a vast network of holy sites in Rome, he favoured S. Maria Maggiore
probably because of his devotion to the Virgin, as well as for family connections he had
with the Esquiline Hill.174 He refurbished its presbytery, where, on a raised platform,
he relocated the episcopal throne, as well as offering precious liturgical furnishings.175
His lavish benefactions to the basilica are listed in the Liber Pontificalis, as well as in
the aforementioned homiliary.176 In sum, while the copy of Autpert’s commentary on
Revelation sent to Stephen III in 769 was probably still held in the papal library in the
early ninth century, the occasion and the modalities through which Paschal may have
encountered Autpert’s written legacy remain hypothetical.

8 I conophilia as official policy

The analysis scholars have undertaken of Paschal’s iconophilia has opened new ways
of looking at his political strategy involving visual media.177 It now appears clear that

171 The chronology of the annular crypt in S. Vincenzo Maggiore is not crystal clear from an archaeologi-
cal point of view. Marazzi, 2014, 90–4, believes it was constructed between 800–20s, and suggests it
was covered with flat marble slabs as was, sometime later, in S. Prassede and SS. Quattro Coronati
in Rome and in the annular crypt in Farfa. Instead, Hodges, Leppard, Mitchell, 2011, 43–4; Hodges,
2011, 439, suggest the annular crypt was added in c.820. For a comparison between the structure of
the abbey church with its raised presbytery and antique marble spolia, and the churches built or refur-
bished by Paschal I in Rome, see Goodson, 2010, 113–23, 135.
172 Mitchell, 2011, 119. On Talaricus’s tomb, see Mitchell et al., 1997.
173 Ballardini, 1999, 49, 64; see also de Blaauw, 1994, 384. I thank Antonella Ballardini for sharing infor-
mation on this manuscript, September 2017.
174 The site hosted rich patrician houses since Roman times, see Wolf, 1990, 20.
175 On the throne, see Gandolfo, 1976.
176 See LP II, 60–2; trans. Davis, 1995, 24–9. See also de Blaauw, 1994, 382–94; Saxer, 1996–1997; Bal-
lardini, 1999, 49, 64; Bauer, 2000, 101–5; Goodson, 2010, 123–5.
177 Thunø, 2002, 2005; Ballardini, 1999, 2007.
 A glimpse of salvation 183

in the space of a relatively brief pontificate, he filled the city with the holiness of all
saints and magnified its cultural identity as a Christian capital. Newly erected build-
ings and urban planning, as well as pictorial images and material objects, were all
invested with the role of consolidating Rome’s position at the centre of the Christian
oecumene and redesigning its relation with the main political powers around it.178
Although S. Prassede, like S. Maria in Domnica and S. Cecilia, referenced early Chris-
tian architectural models in order to embed Paschal’s office within an ‘unbroken papal
tradition’ of patronage,179 his patronage appears imbued with new significance and
ambitions responding to contemporary political circumstances.180
In the first months of his pontificate, Paschal paid particular attention to the basilica
dedicated to Peter, the founder of the Church, and used this as a stage on which to
pay respect to the traditions of the Church, as well as to respond to main political and
doctrinal challenges of his time. Following the example of his predecessors, Paschal
contributed to the transformation of St Peter’s transept. Lying above the crypt where
the apostle was buried, and that, as such, represented the material and spiritual foun-
dations of the Church, the transept had been transformed between the seventh and the
ninth centuries into a stage for celebrating papal sanctity.181 In the southern arm, oppo-
site the funerary oratory of Paul I, Paschal built his own burial chapel and dedicated
it to the early Christian martyrs Processus and Martinian, the warders of Saint Peter
during his detention in the Mamertinum prison.182 Paschal decorated his mausoleum
with precious furnishings, now lost, including a number of bas-relief images in silver
and gold, among which was ‘a fine gold image with the face of God’s holy mother’.183
In the eighth century Gregory III, Paul I, and Hadrian commissioned similar bas-relief
images in precious metal for St Peter’s and S. Maria Maggiore,184 probably having
an anti-iconoclastic agenda in mind, as it has been argued.185 By displaying promi-
nent bas-relief icons, attractive for their lustre and almost three-dimensional presence,
Paschal contributed to the tradition of the Roman Church that contemplated the use
of pictorial images to evoke the divine, and make it visible, even tangible, in eyes of
the faithful. Another commission of Paschal in St Peter’s has been seen as a specific
response offered to the reinstated iconoclasm. At the southern entrance of the crypt,
he added a commemorative altar for Pope Sixtus II (257–8).186 Martyred with his

178 Noble, 2001b, 49–56; Goodson, 2010, on papal use of the built environment of Rome. On Paschal
and relics, see Goodson, 2010, 221–34; especially on S. Cecilia, Hartmann, 2016; on S. Prassede,
Miedema, Slootjes, 2016.
179 Wickham, 2009, 240; see Thunø, 2015a, 58–60, on the style and contents of the inscriptions in Pas-
chal’s apsidal mosaics as bearing an obvious reference in sixth- and seventh-century Roman examples,
such as SS. Cosma e Damiano and S. Agnese.
180 In her monograph on Paschal, Goodson, 2010, 153, 165, 222, 226, 256, mentions iconophilia as one
of the elements of Paschal’s ecclesiastical-political strategy aimed at creating a new topography of
power, although she does not delve into it.
181 Ó Carragáin, 2013; Story, 2013.
182 For the topography of the altars in Old St Peter’s, see de Blaauw, 1994, 566–80; in Paschal’s oratory,
Ballardini, 1999, 37–40.
183  LP II, 58: ‘imaginem ex auro purissimo, habentem vultum sanctae Dei genitricis’; trans. Davis, 1995,
22; Ballardini, 1999, 39.
184 For Gregory III, see LP I, 417–18; trans. Davis, 2007, 22–3; Paul I, see LP I, 465; trans. Davis, 2007,
83; Hadrian I, see LP I, 503; trans. Davis, 2007, 151–2.
185 McClendon, 2013, 222; van Dijk, 2013, 246. See Chapter 1 for considerations on bas-relief icons.
186 Ballardini, 1999, 34–44, 2007, 194; Goodson, 2010, 182–6.
184  A glimpse of salvation

deacons in 258 under Emperor Valerianus, Sixtus II, in the early medieval period,
became an example of popes succumbing to the hand of heretic rulers, and thereby an
‘icon of orthodoxy’.187 Perhaps it is no coincidence that Gregory III, apparently one
of the first to oppose the rise of iconoclasm in the 730s, commemorated Sixtus II and
his deacons with imagines clipeatae painted on the walls of the lower church of S.
Crisogono in Trastevere188 (Figure 4.40).
It should be noted that under Paschal, iconoclasm was no longer a heresy exclusively
associated with Byzantium. It had drawn closer to the heart of western Catholicism.
In the last years of the reign of Charlemagne, who died in 814, and in the early reign
of Louis the Pious, a number of Carolingian court figures sympathised with various
forms of iconoclasm. These included Theodulf d’Orléans, recognised as the author of
the Libri Carolini; Benedict of Aniane, the reformer of monasticism; Bishop Agobard
of Lyon; and Bishop Claudius of Turin, who was an open iconoclast. They all hailed
from Visigothic Spain, and probably shared cultural and spiritual affinities, although
it has not been ascertained if their origins and proximity to Muslim territories had
a bearing on their aversion to figural imagery.189 To these and other circumstances,
Paschal reacted with a broad strategy operating along the lines of his predecessors, of
which diplomacy was an obvious part. Between the seventh and the ninth centuries,
the popes, who mostly came from the ranks of Lateran officers, acted in a remarkably
consistent way: once entered into the service of the Lateran, despite different ethnic
origins or geographical backgrounds, they embraced the interests of the Church. Pas-
chal’s successors would do likewise later in the ninth century.190
Not long after his election in 817, Paschal refused to receive an envoy of Theodotos
I, the recently elected patriarch of Constantinople, who in 815 had presided over the
council which reinstated iconoclasm.191 Paschal explained the reasons for his rebut-
tal in a letter, elegantly written in Greek, addressed to the Byzantine Emperor Leo V
between late 818 and early 819.192 In so doing, he bypassed and defied the authority
of the patriarch.193 In fact, in the eyes of Paschal, Theodotos was an iconoclast. In
the letter, Paschal defends the creation and veneration of sacred images because they
represent the Incarnate God who submitted himself to the Passion for the redemption
of humankind. Drawing on the core arguments of papal iconophilia – the produc-
tion and veneration of sacred images as ancient traditions of the Church, endorsed
by the authority of the Church Fathers – Paschal’s letter to Leo V is among the only

187 Melograni, 1990, 174–5. On pope as martyrs, see Davis, 2010, xxi–xxiv.

188 Sansterre, 1983, 81, on the possibility that this was a Latin monastery rather than Greek, as it is listed
among the Latin foundations in the Life of Leo III, LP II, 23. On the establishment of S. Crisogono to
serve the needs of the Basilica of St Peter’s, see Jeffery, 2013, 160–1. On the paintings Gregory III com-
missioned in this church, see Melograni, 1990, 161–78. If he also translated their relics, it is unknown,
see Bolgia, 2006.
189 See Freeman, 1994, 180–3, on Theodulf; Boureau, 1987; Boulhol, 2002, 70–83; Brunet, 2011a, on the
Carolingian ambiguity with regards to iconoclasm, especially by looking at Louis the Pious’ support of
the iconoclastic Bishop Claudius of Turin (c.816–28).
190 See Noble, 1984, 186–7, 2000, 61–73; Del Buono, 2010.
191 Sansterre, 1983, 129.
192 On Paschal’s letter, ed. Mercati, 1901, 227–35; Ferrari, 1957, 3–10; Grumel, 1960, 40; Sansterre,
1983, 175, 198; Noble, 1985, 61, defines the letter as ‘pedestrian’; Thunø, 2002, 136–9; Englen, 2003;
Svizzeretto, 2003; Kessler, 2008. On Methodios as scribe, see the Life of Methodios, 2, PG 100, 1245A.
193 Englen, 2003, 264.
 A glimpse of salvation 185

Figure 4.40 C hrist between the Evangelist Mark, Pope Mark, martyrs, and Pope Gregory IV,
mosaic, c.830, Rome, S. Marco, apse.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

meaningful witness to a verbally articulated discourse on images on the part of the

popes after the so-called Hadrianum or Responsum sent by Hadrian to Charlemagne
c.793.194 In fact, as noted in previous chapters, their predecessors did not engage in
theorising about sacred images. Between the seventh and the ninth centuries, their
wide-reaching artistic patronage remained the main instrument deployed to combat
heresies, including iconoclasm.
The debate over sacred images during the first phase of Byzantine iconoclasm, which
ended with the Council of Nicaea in 787, had been characterised by relatively simplis-
tic arguments on both the iconoclastic and iconophile sides – with the exception of the
articulate iconophilia of John of Damascus. Some of these arguments paradoxically
coincided, for example in relation to the tradition of the Church, and to the adher-
ence to Trinitarian and Christological orthodoxy.195 Instead, Paschal’s letter reveals
an elaborate iconophile pattern of thought, based on direct quotations from John of
Damascus, and expressed with solemn Greek rhetoric. These elements are carefully
employed to fine-tune the pope’s argument to the theological and doctrinal background

194 MGH, EK 3, 2, 5–57; commented on in Chapter 2.

195 Gero, 1977, 95, notes the ‘relatively unsosphisticated appeal to observe the second commandment’
which characterised the first phase of Byzantine iconoclasm. On Hiereia, see Chapter 2.
186  A glimpse of salvation

of the Greeks.196 It is very likely that the letter was produced with the direct involve-
ment of Greek clerics, probably including the learned Methodios. He was a Sicilian
Greek, who spent his life in Rome and Constantinople. Trained as administrator and
scribe,197 he embraced monasticism, suffered imprisonment in Constantinople as a
traitor because he had brought the letter of Pope Paschal to the emperor, but having
gained imperial favour, in 843 became patriarch of Constantinople.198 One week later,
on 11 March, he officially restored the cult of sacred images in agreement with the
regent Empress Theodora.199
As might be expected, Paschal’s dismissal of the patriarchal envoy in 817 was wel-
comed by Byzantine iconophile theologians. Among these was the influential monk
Theodore of Stoudios. He wrote two letters to Paschal to report on the persecution of
those who used holy images and solicited him to use his apostolic authority to put an
end to the controversy. In asking the pope to accept and answer his letter, Theodore
urged him to follow the example of Christ, who had accepted the letter sent to him by
King Abgar of Edessa and answered accordingly.200 This reference was intended to bring
to mind the Mandylion. As noted previously, the Mandylion was one of the arguments
used by iconophiles to defend the production and cult of holy images, since it attested
that Christ himself wished his likeness to be reproduced. Theodore of Stoudios was cer-
tainly striking a chord with Paschal. The fame of the Mandylion had reached Rome at
least by the mid-eighth century, if not earlier, through the iconophile orations on sacred
images of John of Damascus and by word of mouth. At the Lateran Synod of 769,
Pope Stephen III declared that he had heard about signa of Christ from eastern Chris-
tians, including the Mandylion.201 The fame of the acheiropoieton also reached Constan-
tinople, where it was used as an anti-iconoclastic argument by Patriarch Nikephoros
(806–15), as well as Theodore of Stoudios, ‘in a manner owing more to academic and
polemical research than to religious experience or to a first-hand knowledge’, as noted
by Averil Cameron.202 Those mentioned are interesting instances of oral exchange of
information – something which has usually been discounted by past scholars.

9 A gain on dissenting refugees

As in the case of Maximos the Confessor and other eastern monks in the seventh and
the eighth centuries, and of Methodios in the early ninth, the role of eastern clergy
as advisors to the popes, as conveyors of knowledge and practices, and as opponents

196 Ballardini, 2007, 196.

197 On Methodios’s activity as a scribe, Agati, 1994, 148, for further literature.
198 On Methodios and the Byzantine emperors, see Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 390, 397, passim.
199 The events are recalled in the Synodikon, a compendium of orthodox and heretical councils, edited by
Gouillard, 1967; Lauritzen, 2016; see also Lauritzen, 2017. On these events, see also Canart, 1979;
Thümmel, 2005, 271–4; Karlin-Hayter, 2006.
200 Theodore of Stoudios, Ep. 271 and Ep. 272, CFHB 31.2, 399–401 and 402–3, esp. on Abgar see Ep.
271, 401, ll. 56–9. Earlier he urged Pope Leo III, see Ep. 33 and Ep. 34, CFHB 31.1, 91–4 and 94–9.
On the relations of Theodore with the papacy, see Hatlie, 1996, 264, n. 4 and 270, n. 40. On Theo-
dores’s anti-iconoclastic propaganda, see Thümmel, 2005, 241–2, 251–5.
201 MGH, Conc. 2.1, 90: ‘relatione fidelium de partibus orientis advenientibus’; Sansterre, 1983, 163, n.
149. On the tradition of the Holy Face in Rome, also known as Veronica, see van Dijk, 2013, who
believes that interest in it arose at the time of Hadrian I.
202 Cameron, 1998, 43. Only in 944 would the Mandylion be transferred to the Byzantine capital, see the
Narratio de imagine edessena, 57; trans. Illert, 2007, 305.
 A glimpse of salvation 187

of the politics of Byzantium, was crucial in this long period of doctrinal and political
controversy with the empire. The early ninth-century iconophile Life of Saint Stephen
the Younger casts eastern monks as custodians of orthodoxy.203 Possibly, the papacy
saw them in this light. Like his predecessor Paul I (see Chapter 2), Paschal I also
granted a monastery he built, next to S. Prassede, to ‘a holy community of Greeks’.
Specifically echoing the wishes expressed by Paul I for his own ‘Greek’ monastery, Pas-
chal asked his monks to pray day and night and to chant the psalms in Greek (‘grece
modulationis psalmodie’).204 Since the early seventh century, monks had been involved
in papal liturgy.205
Paschal’s move to support Greek monks and their liturgical customs has been seen
as a specific response to the reform of the Church promoted by the Carolingians.206
Their reform included the establishment of a standard homiliary in c.787,207 the
imposition of the Roman (Latin) chant in 789,208 and the unification of monastic
practice throughout the Carolingian domains between 816 and 817.209 Although
designed for the territories north of the Alps, the Carolingian ecclesiastical reform
might have prompted Paschal to defend a varietas in the cultic practices under papal
control which reflected the cultural diversity of the Christian communities of Rome.
Paschal’s support of eastern monastic communities can also be included within his
response to Byzantine politics. He might have intended to ease the pressure that
‘heretical’ Byzantine emperors had put on eastern monasticism since the second half
of the eighth century. Although not all ‘Greek’ monks and clerics of Rome were dis-
senting refugees from Byzantium – the definition of ‘Greek’ applied also to people
hailing from southern Italy210 – the presence of dissenting refugees was certainly
palpable in Rome and was noticed also outside its borders. In one of the letters
addressed to Paschal, Theodore of Stoudios identifies the city as the very source
(‘πηγή’) of orthodox truth, and as a safe haven (‘λιμήν’) against the heretical tem-
pest.211 That this must have been the case is witnessed by another letter that the
Byzantine Emperor Michael II wrote to the Carolingian Emperor Louis the Pious
in April 824. Michael implicitly accuses the former Pope Paschal, who had died
two months earlier, of having offered shelter to eastern clerics and laymen who
had ‘become alienated from the apostolical tradition’, were unwilling to cease their
illicit veneration of sacred images, and while in Rome vilified the Byzantine rulers
by representing them as ‘heretical’. In order to sweep away such calumnies, Michael,
in his letter, professed his orthodoxy listing his belief in the Trinity, the Incarna-
tion of the Logos in the Virgin, the double nature and will of God, the intercessory
role of the ‘unviolated ruler, mother of God, ever-virgin Mary’ and of the saints,
the sanctity of relics, and the truths expressed by the Six Ecumenical Councils of
the Church. The emperor intentionally omits the Council of Nicaea II, which had

203 Auzépy, 1999, 271.

204  LP II, 54; trans. Davis, 1995, 11; Sansterre, 1983, 9ff., 38, 42ff., 71–2, 87; Goodson, 2010, 186–92.
205 Costambeys, Leyser, 2007, 272.
206 Goodson, 2010, 190.
207 Charlemagne, Epistola Generalis, MGH, Capit. 1, 30, 80–1.
208 Charlemagne, Admonitio generalis, MGH, Capit. 1, 22, capit. 80, 61.
209 On the reforms of the Frankish Church the literature is abundant; see McKitterick, 1977; de Jong,
1995, 2015, 87–8, on the Biblical underpinning to their reforms; Diem, 2016.
210 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 445.
211  Ep. 272, CFHB 31.2, 402, ll. 24–5. See also Goodson, 2010, 189.
188  A glimpse of salvation

temporarily restored the cult of sacred images (787–815). Michael also suggested
that Louis summon a synod for the purpose of rectifying the idolatrous worship of
sacred images in the West.212 Moreover, he openly disclosed to Louis his hopes that
the newly elected pope, Eugene II, would forcibly expel from Rome eastern clerics
and laymen, labelled as ‘pseudo Christian seductors, calumniators of the Church’.213
However, Eugene II resisted Byzantine and Carolingian pressure, and maintained
an independent political profile. His successors also continued to support ‘Greek’
monasteries of Rome. They kept the doors open to those coming from ‘Alexandria,
Jerusalem, Constantinople and its surroundings, Mount Olympus, and the rest of
the world’, as is reported in a letter written by Pope Nicholas I to the Byzantine
Emperor Michael III in 865.214

10 T he Synod of Paris (825) and the papal response

Prompted by the letter of Emperor Michael II, in 825 Louis the Pious convened a meet-
ing of bishops in Paris to discuss the question of the veneration of sacred images. Like
the Council of Gentilly, convened by his grandfather Pippin in 767, Louis’s ecclesiasti-
cal synod had an unmistakable political dimension. His bishops collated an impres-
sive florilegium of sources, which they glossed with refined arguments.215 Dogmatic
passages from Augustine were used to explain the difference between adoration and
veneration, which in Latin was more difficult to articulate than in Greek, as the misun-
derstanding caused by the translated version of the acts of Nicaea II demonstrated.216
The Paris florilegium contained excerpts from the letters of Gregory the Great,217 of
Pseudo-Dionysios to John the Evangelist,218 as well as from recent writings, including
Bede’s Historia Anglorum,219 and a letter of Germanos of Constantinople to Bishop
John of Synnada lamenting the disrespectful attitude towards sacred images held by
Bishop Constantine of Nakoleia. The proceedings of the Paris synod, known as the
Libellus Synodalis, stated that the letter of Germanos to John of Synnada stimulated
Pope Gregory II to urge the Byzantine emperor and the patriarch of Constantinople
to react against rising iconoclastic attitudes (‘postquam litteras beati Gregorii papae
suscepit’).220

212 Acts of the Synod of Paris (825), MGH, Conc. 2.2, 480–532, esp. 479–80; Davis, 1995, 37; Noble,
2009, 260–3.
213 Cf. Sansterre, 1983, 42–3.
214 Pope Nicholas I, Letter to Emperor Michael III, MGH, EK 4, 88, 478; Sansterre, 1983, 39, 44. In
868 Pope Hadrian II held a sort of ‘ecumenical banquet’ at which he personally served monks from
Constantinople, Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria, the representative of the four patriarchates over
which Rome presided; see LP II, 176–7; trans. Davis, 1995, 266–9; Sansterre, 1983, 39.
215 Acts of the Synod of Paris (825), MGH, Conc. 2.2, 480–532; Boureau, 1987; McCormick, 1994,
145–53; Thümmel, 2005, 208–9, 285–9; Noble, 2009, 263–86.
216 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 501–2; Noble, 2009, 274–5. See Chapter 2.
217  Epistulae IX, 209, and XI, 10, CCSL 140A, 768, and 873–6.
218 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 512.
219 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 517–18.
220 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 518; Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 94–8. The letters of Germanos and Gregory II had
been collated in the Acts of Nicaea II that most probably were to hand in Paris.
 A glimpse of salvation 189

Following a similar line to the Libri Carolini, but without mentioning them,221
the bishops in Paris agreed with the Church Fathers that sacred images were per-
missible in that they visualise the invisible. As such, they should be used with dis-
cretion during prayer. However, images should not be compared to the Cross, and
thus should not be the object of adoration by indiscrete worshippers (‘indiscretus
cultor’), nor the target of unrestrained destroyers (‘intemperans distructor’).222
They, in fact, could also be useful in teaching.223 Ultimately, the synod adopted a
mild policy. As noted by Thomas Noble, Louis the Pious, like his father Charle-
magne, had come to the conclusion that with regard to sacred images he would
rather ‘agree to disagree’ with Rome and Byzantium than impose his will on
them.224 In fact, it should be remarked that the analysis of extant figural artefacts
commissioned during or after the period of the Carolingian image controversy
reveal that the Franks did not embrace the mild iconoclasm propounded by the
Libri Carolini.225
Two years after the Synod of Paris, Pope Gregory IV (827–44) took office. He
responded to this political climate in a very specific way. He not only supported
the Greek monasteries of Rome,226 he also promoted artistic patronage, picking up
the threads of papal iconophilia. In the Basilica of S. Marco in Rome, which he
rebuilt and decorated in c.830–1, he had the apse decorated in mosaic with a stand-
ing Christ resplendent in glory, eliciting prayer and veneration, while offering hope
for salvation. In the mosaic, Pope Mark (290–336), Agapitus and Agnes are to the
left side of Christ, and Felicissimus, the Evangelist Mark, and Gregory IV, who is
introduced by the evangelist, are on the opposite side. Christ wears a purple robe,
stands on a suppedaneum on which the monogram Α Ω is inscribed to the sides of
his feet, and holds a book open at a page that reads ‘I am light, I am life, I am resur-
rection’ (‘Ego sum lux, ego sum vita, ego sum resurrectio’)227 (Figure 4.40). Clau-
dia Bolgia has convincingly connected this mosaic to two factors in papal policy:
first, the wide-reaching political ambitions of Gregory IV in challenging the rising
power of Venice, where the relics of the Evangelist Mark arrived in 828; second,
the pope’s firm iconophile stance. The choice of Felicissimus and Agapitus has also
been remarked on: they were martyred under a ‘heretic’ emperor, together with

221  LC, 1, 9, MGH, Conc. 2.2, Suppl. 1,154, ll. 15–26; Noble, 2014, 98.
222 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 473–551, esp. 506–7.
223 MGH, Conc. 2.2, 487; Kessler, 1994; Noble, 2014, 100.
224 Noble, 2009, 264, 268.
225 I disagree with Elbern, 1986–1987, 17–19, who argued that the iconography of the Maiestas Domini
disappears in the Carolingian arts between 790–810 as a result of the Carolingian debate about the
role of sacred imagedisregarding the material evidence, as for example the mural paintings in the main
church of the monastery of Müstair painted in the late eighth century, when Charlemagne apparently
was its munificent patron. For a discussion, see Poilpré, 2005, 206–13.
226  LP II, 79; trans. Davis, 1995, 63; Geertman, 1975, 79–80; Goodson, 2010, 188, n. 87.
227 On the theme of Christ as sun, light, and resurrection with regard to S. Marco, see Thunø, 2015a,
99–103, who relies on earlier scholarly interpretations (esp. Wilpert, 1916, 3: 1072: ‘Christ überragt
alle an Grösse und hat allein den Nimbus. Änlich der aufsteigenden Sonne hat das seiner Gestalt
entströmende Licht die Wolken gerötet’) and late antique poetry on Christ as rising sun. The Christ in
the apse of S. Marco probably inspired the mural painting in the apse of S. Maria in Pallara (S. Sebas-
tiano al Palatino), dated to the tenth century; see Marchiori, 2009, 248–50.
190  A glimpse of salvation

Figure 4.41 D eacon Felicissimus (?), mural painting, Rome, S. Crisogono, lower church,
731–41.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Pope Sixtus II (Figure 4.41). As recalled earlier, Sixtus had been celebrated by Greg-
ory III as an ‘icon of orthodoxy’ exactly a century earlier in S. Crisogono, and a few
years earlier by Paschal I in St Peter’s.228

Conclusions
In the years coinciding with the official reinstatement of iconoclasm in Byzantium,
Leo III and Paschal I promoted mosaics representing the Christ–Light, which can
be seen as belonging to a tradition of theophanies illustrated in apsidal mosaics of

228 Casartelli Novelli, Ballardini, 2005; Foletti, Giesser, 2016, 222–5; Bolgia, 2006, for a political analysis.
 A glimpse of salvation 191

late antique Rome.229 Major scholars have maintained that the figure of Christ in the
apsidal mosaics of late antique and early medieval Rome reveals the timeless pres-
ence of God in the sanctuary – an assumption one can easily agree with. However,
in this chapter I have essentially argued that it did have an eschatological reference,
too: salvation, after all, is what all the faithful were seeking by embracing Christian
faith, and the depiction of the Christ–Light in the focal space of the apse could offer
a glimpse of that future and hopefully glorious moment. I have also argued in favour
of the timeliness of the image of the Christ–Light. With regard to the background
of the historical circumstances and theological debates of the late eighth and mid-
ninth century, this image responded to three issues: re-asserting the perfect unity of
Christ’s divine and human natures; bearing a reference to the deliverance brought
by the Incarnate God; and confirming the papal position on figural imagery as an
effective medium for inspiring prayer, emotional participation in the liturgy, and con-
templation of the divine. It should be noted that the epiphanies of the Christ–Light
promoted by Leo III and Paschal I would have no direct following in late medieval
Rome,230 a fact which should reinforce the idea that they were appropriate and func-
tional in earlier periods.
A note is due on the main material involved in these pictorial programmes: glass
was among the most favoured media in major papal programmes of artistic patronage
in late antique and medieval Rome. The choice for mosaics to decorate the sanctuary
is grounded on the fact that glass was seen as a durable material, as well as attractive
to the eye in transmitting or reflecting the ever-changing natural light, thereby evok-
ing the spiritual light of God that reveals itself with changing intensity according to
the spiritual perfection of the beholder.231 The stained-glass panel of S. Vincenzo al
Volturno, a unique piece of evidence from the early medieval period, seems to have
been generated by the same thinking about the properties of glass, its symbolic refer-
ences, and its adaptability to express the claritas of God bearing clear reference to his
Incarnation, Crucifixion, Transfiguration, and to the establishment of his kingdom
upon his Second Coming.
We can conclude by saying that, in the face of the reinstatement of Byzantine icono-
clasm in 815 and of Carolingian ecclesiastical policies affirmed at the Synod of Paris
ten years later, pictorial images were consistently used and presented as capable of
mediating salvation in much the same way as did prayer, the participation in the sacra-
ments, and the practice of good deeds.

229 Spieser, 1998, 2011, 105, on mosaics in the apses revealing the divine presence.
230 The tenth-century apsidal mural painting in S. Maria in Pallara, although based on the scheme of a
late antique theophany, has no element suggesting Christ’s divine light; see Marchiori, 2009, 248–50.
More closely reminiscent of late antique theophanies is the twelfth-century apsidal mural painting of
S. Silvestro at Tivoli, where Christ is flanked by Peter and Paul and two palm trees, on one of which
appears a phoenix, and the light which radiates from Christ, colours the clouds around; I thank Armin
Bergmeier for his advice on this point. Bergmeier, 2017b, 266, notes that, during the period of Byz-
antine iconoclasm, theophanies were important in that they demonstrated that God had manifested
himself on earth through visions. However, after iconoclasm, they disappeared because the negotiation
of the divinity and visibility of God were no longer pressing themes.
231 On the material qualities and symbolic significance of glass between Antiquity and the Middle Ages,
see Dell’Acqua, 2008.
Plate 1 Route of the procession established in Rome on the vigil of Marian feasts by Pope
Sergius I (687–701).
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2019.
Plate 2 V irgin Mary as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’), Christ Child, Peter,
Paul, and Pope Constantine I, mural painting, Rome, Santa Sabina, narthex, c.712–15.
Photo: © Manuela Gianandrea.
Plate 3 V irgin Mary, ‘effigiem . . . in statu’, gilt silver, embossed, commissioned by Pope Paul I
(757–67), artistic impression.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018.
Plate 4 Christ among Greek saints, detail, mural painting, 757–67, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua,
east aisle.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 5 Transfiguration, mosaic, c.815–16, Rome, SS. Nereo e Achilleo, apsidal arch.
Photo: © Manuela Gianandrea.
Plate 6 Christ, the apostles, Mary and Christ Child, two clerics, eight crowned female mar-
tyrs, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, entrance wall, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 7 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, with altar and Transfiguration mosaic, 818–19, Rome,
S. Prassede.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 8 Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall and vault, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 9 
D eesis, detail with the Virgin Mary, Chapel of S. Zeno, east wall, 818–19, Rome, S.
Prassede.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 10 Christ, mosaic, Chapel of S. Zeno, vault, 818–19, Rome, S. Prassede.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 11 Pope Paschal, the phoenix, Praxedis, Paul, mosaic, Rome, S. Prassede, apse, detail,
818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 12 Christ, with Pope Paschal, the phoenix, Cecilia, and Paul on the left, and Peter, Agatha (?),
and Valerianus (?) on the right, mosaic, Rome, S. Cecilia, apse, detail, 819–20.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 13 C hrist, the phoenix, Paul, and Peter, 526–30, Rome, SS. Cosma e Damiano, apse,
mosaic, detail.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 14 St Cuthbert’s Cross, detail, gold, cowrie shell, garnets, 60 x 60 mm, seventh cen-
tury, Durham, Durham Cathedral Collections.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 15 Christ, glass and lead cames, 190 x 105 x 25 mm, obverse (in transmitted light),
San Vincenzo al Volturno, first half of the ninth century, Venafro (Isernia), Archaeo-
logical Museum.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 16 Christ, glass and lead cames, 190 x 105 x 25 mm, obverse, San Vincenzo al Volturno,
first half of the ninth century, Venafro (Isernia), Archaeological Museum.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 17 C rucifixion with Abbot Epyphanius (824–42) in proskynesis, Crypt of Epyphanius,
mural painting, 824–42.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 18 Christ in majesty, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 19 Resurrected Christ between Stephen and Laurence, mural painting, detail, Crypt
of Epyphanius, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 20 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault of the
apse, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 21 The Virgin as Platytéra tōn ouranōn (‘wider than the heavens’), mural painting, Crypt
of Epyphanius, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 22 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded cop-
per, cloisonné enamels, 27 x 17.8 x 3.5 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums,
inv. no. 61881.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.
Plate 23 
S taurotheca of Paschal I, gilded copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 x 17.8 x 3.5 cm,
Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61881.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.
Plate 24 Casket for the staurotheca of Paschal I, gilt silver, 19.7 x 6.2 x 3 cm, Rome, 817–24,
Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61888.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.
Plate 25 
E nkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9x6.5x1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S.
Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali
Ecclesiastici.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 26 
E nkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 x 3.2 x 0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Repre-
sentative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with Museum at the Bulgar-
ian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822.
Photo: © Krassimir Georgiev.
Plate 27 Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Chludov
Psalter, Constantinople, ninth century, Moscow Hist. Mus. MS. D.129, fol. 163v,
detail.
Photo: © Moscow, The State Historical Museum.
Plate 28 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, embossed gold lamina, Golden
Altar, Milan, 840s, Milan, Basilica of S. Ambrogio.
Photo: © 2015. Foto Scala, Firenze.
Plate 29 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Drogo
Sacramentary, mid-ninth century, Paris, BnF, lat. 9428, fol. 38r, detail.
Photo: © BnF.
Plate 30 T he Virgin Mary, mosaic, from Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII,
705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Plate 31 T he bust of the Virgin Mary, pigments on parchment, Homiliary of Agimundus,
Rome, c.800, Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fol. 64r, detail.
Photo: © BAV.
Plate 32 The Theotokos, S. Maria in Domnica, apse, mosaic, detail, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
Chapter 5

Christ Child as the Lamb

of God on the altar

On a cross-shaped reliquary of the True Cross (a staurotheca) in gilded coppedeco-

rated with a Christological cycle in cloisonné enamels, Mary holds the Child above
an altar in front of an elderly man. This scene illustrates the Presentation of the
new-born Christ Child in the Temple; it was his first public appearance (Figure 5.1,
Pls. 22–3). This reliquary was commissioned by Paschal I (817–24) – a pope much
preoccupied by the reinstatement of iconoclasm. The Gospel says that forty days
after his birth, Joseph and Mary took the Christ Child to the Temple of Jerusalem
to present him to the Lord (Luke 2, 22–39), following a ritual prescribed by the
Law of Moses which coincided with the purification of the mother from giving
birth to another sinner. The parents had to bring a symbolic offering to thank God:
‘a year-old lamb for a burnt offering and a young pigeon or a dove for a sin offer-
ing. . . . But if she [the mother] cannot afford a lamb, she is to bring two doves
or two young pigeons, one for a burnt offering and the other for a sin offering’
(Leviticus 12, 8). The Gospel says that Mary and Joseph offered ‘a pair of doves
or two young pigeons’, implicitly admitting their poverty. In the Temple, the fam-
ily met a pious old man, Simeon, who, inspired by the Holy Spirit, took the child
in his arms and praised God by saying: ‘my eyes have seen your salvation, which
you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
and the glory of your people Israel’. Simeon also prophesised that the Child was
‘destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will
be spoken against’ (Luke 2, 34), and that Mary would share the physical pains of
her Son during his crucifixion: ‘And a sword will pierce your own soul too’ (Luke
2, 35).1 Simeon foresees Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross as the new instrument of
redemption. An old woman living in the Temple, the prophetess Anna, also recog-
nised in the Child the Redeemer of Israel. Therefore, Simeon’s recognition of Christ
as the redeeming Light of the world, and of Mary as the bearer of Christ–Light, as
well as the future sacrifice of Christ’s life and Mary’s sorrow, are the main themes
embedded in this Gospel episode. There is no mention of the Child being suspended
above or put on an altar.
In the most comprehensive overview of the depiction of this Gospel episode,
Dorothy C. Shorr identified the scene on Paschal’s staurotheca as the earliest extant

1 This passage is not clear in Luke and was interpreted differently by exegetes.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 193

Figure 5.1 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded
copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 × 3.5 cm, Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican
Museums, inv. no. 61881.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.

depiction of the Presentation in which an altar features between Mary and the devout
man Simeon.2 Shorr also remarked that by the late Middle Ages, the altar had become
very prominent, and the figure of Simeon had been merged with a high priest holding
a knife to kill the animals brought in offering to the Temple. As a consequence, the epi-
sode of the Presentation in the Temple was often confounded, and visually combined
with, Christ’s Circumcision (Luke 2, 21), a ritual prescribed by the Law of Moses to be
performed on new-born boys eight days after birth (Figure 5.2).3 Notwithstanding the

2 Shorr, 1946, on the altar 20–1. She noted that the altar and the interior setting of the Temple are not
depicted before the ninth century, and listed six iconographic schemes to illustrate the Presentation in
the Temple in western and Byzantine art: Mary holding the Child; Mary and Simeon holding the Child;
the Child standing on the altar supported by Mary and Simeon; Simeon alone holding the Child; Simeon
returning the Child to Mary; the Child held by Joseph.
3 A notable example is the altarpiece painted by Ambrogio Lorenzetti for the Cathedral of Siena, described
as the Circumcision of the Lord in an inventory of the cathedral dated to 1458 (Hornik, Parsons, 2003,
129), and by modern interpreters (for example, van Os, 1984, 84–5). Shorr, 1946, 28–9, believed this
altarpiece had played an exemplary role in the visualisation of the Presentation in the Temple in Italian
and northern art. Painted in 1342 by Ambrogio Lorenzetti for the Cathedral of Siena (Florence, Uffizi
Gallery, tempera on wood, 257x168 cm), the altarpiece belonged to a set of four altarpieces designed to
Figure 5.2 A mbrogio Lorenzetti, Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, tempera on
wood, 257 × 168 cm, Siena, 1342, Florence, Uffizi Gallery.
Photo: Public domain.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 195

fact that her analysis involved a wide cultural and chronological approach, Shorr did
not answer certain focal questions. Did the understanding of the Presentation episode
change over the centuries, and if so, how? Did theological controversies between the
seventh and the ninth centuries affect its perception in the early medieval period, and
how? What happened in the period we are interested in that led to the introduction of
an altar in its depiction? In order to clarify these issues, it is necessary to trace how the
episode was illustrated in visual arts in the preceding centuries; which were the themes
celebrated in the feast; how the event it commemorated was interpreted by exegetes,
and how its representation through liturgical texts and visual arts shaped its under-
standing in the medieval religious cultures. With this in mind, through a selection of
examples, we shall first analyse how the episode of the Presentation was illustrated in
Rome and in the Mediterranean between the fifth and the eighth centuries. Secondly,
we shall need to look at how the feast of the Presentation was celebrated and under-
stood throughout the medieval period. Following this overview, it will become appar-
ent that by the late eighth and the early ninth centuries, in the period coinciding with
the image controversy, something must have changed in how the Gospel episode was
perceived. In fact, on Paschal’s staurotheca, and on more or less contemporary port-
able objects from various corners of the Mediterranean, the Christ Child was depicted
for the first time above an altar referencing the Lamb of God ready to be sacrificed,
probably as a consequence of theological controversies and related preoccupations.
Once more, the possibility of seeing and depicting the Incarnate God was at stake.
This scene, in particular, seems to have offered exegetes, homilists, and visual artists
the opportunity to remind the faithful of the reality of Christ’s Incarnation and of his
corporeal sacrifice for their redemption through his symbolic sacrifice on the altar of
the Temple in Jerusalem.

1 T he Presentation as epiphany between the fifth

and the eighth centuries
The earliest known depiction of the episode is in the mosaic programme of S. Maria
Maggiore (432–40). In the centre of the triumphal arch is the empty throne or
Etimasia, flanked by Peter and Paul. In the top register of the left spandrel, behind
Peter, is the scene of the Annunciation, and behind Paul, in the opposite spandrel, is
the Presentation (Figures 5.3–5.4). The protagonists of this event, the Holy Family
meeting with Simeon and Anna, are here outnumbered by three angels and eight
males, identified as priests, appearing behind Simeon. This extraordinary crowd of
people does not find parallels in early representations of the scene.4 The prominent
position occupied by the Presentation in S. Maria Maggiore needs to be understood

be displayed in the transept celebrating Mary: the Birth of the Virgin and painted by Pietro Lorenzetti
(1342) on the altar for Saint Savinus, the Annunciation by Simone Martini (1333) on the altar of Saint
Ansanus, the mentioned Presentation, and the Maestà, or Virgin in majesty, by Duccio di Buoninsegna
(1308–11) on the main altar; see van Os, 1984, 77–89. There are many more examples in which the
two events of the Circumcision and the Presentation are conflated, and they include Andrea Mantegna’s
Circumcision or Presentation in the Temple, c.1460, Florence, Uffizi Gallery, 86x42,50 cm; Fra’ Bartolo-
meo’s Tabernacolo Del Pugliese, c.1500, Florence, Uffizi Gallery, 31x30 cm.
4 The iconography of the event would be fairly consistent throughout the Middle Ages in showing Mary,
Joseph, Simeon, the Infant Christ, and often Anna, as protagonists. See Tschochner, 1989, 145.
Figure 5.3 S . Maria Maggiore, triumphal arch, mosaic, 432–40.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Figure 5.4 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, Rome, S. Maria Maggiore, trium-
phal arch, right side, detail, mosaic, 432–40.
Photo: © Beat Brenk.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 197

in the context of a specific communication strategy. Beatrice Leal noted that on the
lower parts of the arch the stories are not arranged in a chronological order, but
are rather aligned in horizontal rows: the revelations of Annunciation and Presen-
tation in the top row, and the positive versus hostile reactions to the Incarnation
in the two middle rows.5 In contrast to the revelation of the birth of the Saviour
addressed to the humble shepherds and to the Magi, the Presentation in the Temple
in S. Maria Maggiore implies an official introduction to the Jewish community,
represented by its priests. However, Simeon, who first recognised the Saviour in
the small infant, was not a priest, but simply a devout man who spent his life wait-
ing to receive divine illumination. (An apocryphal tradition led to the idea that he
was a priest.6) In S. Maria Maggiore, he has been given the facial type of Peter, the
apostle symbolising the ecclesia ex circumcisione, that is the Church originating
from the conversion of the Jews. Thereby, the accent of the scene is deliberately
on the recognition of the Son of God by Judaism, and on the establishment of the
Christian Church.7 These mosaics were laid out during the period between two of
the most significant councils held in Christian Antiquity, Ephesus (431) and Chal-
cedon (451); both were focussed on the definition of the perfect hypostatic union
of the divine and human natures in Christ.8 The celebration of the Incarnation of
God and the foundation of his Church seem indeed the overarching themes of this
mosaic programme. When the Presentation was illustrated in S. Maria Maggiore,
the commemorative feast of this event was not yet celebrated in Rome. It has been
hypothesised that the relatively late introduction of the feast in the West could
explain why its representation is not attested in early Christian western art.9 How-
ever, we should be aware that although the feast was celebrated in Jerusalem since
the late fourth century, as we shall see later, its illustration is not recorded, or at
least not preserved from that region. The emergence of pictorial imagery must not
necessarily be connected to the introduction of liturgical feasts notwithstanding
their undeniable impact on religious experience.
After S. Maria Maggiore, the earliest extant depictions of the Presentation are
from Constantinople and, again, from Rome: one is a fragmentary mosaic from
the former church of the Theotokos Kyriotissa, later known as Kalenderhane
Camii, archaeologically dated to the reign of Emperor Justin II (565–74) (Istanbul,

5 Leal, 2016, 134, 143, and table 1.

6 The Protoevangelium of James (24) reports that after Zacharias was slain in the Temple, Simeon was
chosen to succeed him as High Priest.
7 See Brenk, 1975, 19–24. Under Pope Celestine I (422–32), a mosaic was laid on the counterfacade in
S. Sabina showing the personifications of the ecclesia ex gentibus and the ecclesia ex circumcisione to
the sides of a long dedicatory inscription. Cunningham, Allen, 1998, 14, underline how heretics, Jews,
ideological adversaries are usually addressed in early homilies with derogatory comments. Although still
blamed by Sophronios in the seventh century, Jews, along with other heretics, were no longer to be the
main target of Christian polemics, since their lack of recognition of Christ as Son of God was no longer
a main issue.
8 See Folgerø, 2008, on the bearing of these councils on these mosaics and the emphasis of David and
Christ and therefore on the human nature of Christ.
9 Shorr, 1946, 19.
198  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Archaeological Museum),10 and the others are a mosaic and a mural painting pro-
moted by Pope John VII (705–07) in his own funerary oratory in St Peter’s and
in S. Maria Antiqua respectively. When compared with S. Maria Maggiore, these
depictions appear simplified, probably to highlight the intimate, revelatory meeting
between the Holy Family and the devout Simeon. The Jewish clergy as well as the
angels have disappeared, the Temple is simply alluded to with a pair of columns, the
elegantly clad Mary of S. Maria Maggiore has become a humble woman, veiled and
dressed in simple garments. The mosaic of the Theotokos Kyriotissa is focussed on
Mary handing the Child to Simeon, and the remaining portions of the composition
do not suggest the original presence of other figures, details, or of any architectural
features11 (Figure 5.5).
In S. Maria Antiqua, the Presentation is on the west wall of the presbytery, in the
top register of a Christological cycle that extends also to cover the opposite wall,
superseding two earlier painted cycles of disputed chronology (Figures 5.6–5.7). The
presbytery was redecorated under John VII,12 as mentioned in Chapter 2. The Presen-
tation scene is faced by the Adoration of the Magi on the east wall (Figure 5.8). This
is not a mere coincidence. In fact, both these scenes recall the epiphany or revelation
of Christ as the Saviour: the first epiphany to the Gentiles represented by the Magi
(Matthew 2, 1–12); the second epiphany to the Israelite community represented by
Simeon and Anna in the Temple of Jerusalem.13 The Presentation scene, with fading
colours and extensive lacunae, has the couple arriving at the gates of the Temple with
a pair of turtle doves, held by Joseph, showing that they were unable to afford a lamb
for the altar for holocausts or burnt offerings. Mary walks forward holding her Child.
Simeon bows in respect with veiled hands ready to embrace the Child whom he has
recognised as the salvific Light. Joseph and the prophetess Anna, behind Mary, are the
only witnesses to this moment of revelation. The essential setting, the reduced number
of figures, the modesty of the poor couple, all seem to enhance the figure of Mary.
She is the humble Virgin chosen as mother; she is the one who brings the Child to the
Temple. Other murals on top of the apsidal wall seem to hint that the episode of the
Presentation of the Christ Child foreshadows Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross, and his
mother’s sorrows: the prominent depiction of the Adoration of the Crucifix and the
Raising of the Dead both remind the faithful of the need to see the Cross as an instru-
ment of salvation.14

10 Striker, Kuban, 1971, 255–6; James, 2017, 77–9, 222–3.

11 This mosaic was contextualised in the contemporary religious culture of Constantinople by Natalia
Teteriatnikov in her paper ‘On the iconography of the Hypapante in Byzantine art’ matching mine ‘On
the iconography of the Hypapante in western art and the earliest Latin homilies on the feast’ in the
session ‘New feasts, new sermons. The cult of Mary on the eve of iconoclasm’ which I convened with
Beatrice Daskas at the International Byzantine Congress, Belgrade, August 2016.
12 On the patronage of John VII in S. Maria Antiqua, see Sansterre, 1982, 1987; Andaloro, 2016c; Delogu,
2018; for a detailed description of the sequence of paintings in this area of the church, see Bordi, 2016,
47–9.
13 Thunø, 2002, 75, noted that these scenes, both focussed on the Incarnation, are paralleled on the silver
box made to contain the enamelled staurotheca of Paschal I.
14 For a discussion of this Crucifixion and a contemporary homily on the Transfiguration of Anastasios of
Sinai, see Bergmeier, 2014b.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 199

Figure 5.5 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mosaic, 565–74, from the church of
the Theotokos Kyriotissa (Kalenderhane Camii), Istanbul, Archaeological Museum.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Mary’s role appears further emphasised in the Presentation scene in the mosaic
programme of the oratory that John VII built in the north corner of Old St Peter’s as
his own burial place. This was the first burial place erected for a pope in the basilica
after the memorial that Sergius I (687–701) erected in the transept to commemo-
rate Leo the Great, the champion of Roman ecclesiastical authority and orthodoxy.15
Lost in the reconstruction of the basilica, the programme is documented in early

15  LP I, 375; trans. Davis, 2010, 84; Sansterre, 1982, 384; Vircillo Franklin, 2017, 618. On the topogra-
phy of the altars in St Peter’s, see de Blaauw, 1994, 566–80.
Figure 5.6 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting, 705–7, Rome, S.
Maria Antiqua, presbytery, right side.
Photo: © Giulia Bordi.

Figure 5.7 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting, 705–7, Rome, S.
Maria Antiqua, presbytery.
Drawing: From Nordhagen, 1968.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 201

Figure 5.8 A doration of the Magi, mural painting, detail, 705–7, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, pres-
bytery, left side.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

seventeenth-century drawings and by remains of the mosaics held in various loca-

tions16 (Figures 5.9–5.10). The central panel, still preserved (Florence, S. Marco),
depicts a standing Mary orans, to which I shall return in Chapter 617 (Pl. 30). Around
the Virgin, a Christological cycle was illustrated on three registers: the Annunciation,
the Visitation, the Nativity, and the Adoration of the Magi in the top one; the Presen-
tation and the Baptism in the middle one; other scenes of Christ’s ministry at the bot-
tom. On the left side of the oratory was a cycle showing the ministry of Peter, probably
intended to affirm the authority and primacy of the Church of Rome.18 From existing
drawings, the Presentation mosaic had Mary handing the Child to Simeon at the gate
of the Temple, with Anna talking with Joseph behind her. Shorr included this lost
mosaic from the papal oratory among the western examples showing a ‘persistence

16 Ballardini, 2011, 2012; Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013.

17 Lidova, 2013.
18 Sansterre, 1982, 382–3; Tronzo, 1987, argued that the Peter cycle on the north wall was added in the
twelfth century; see also Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 206–8.
Figure 5.9 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mosaic, Rome, Old St Peter’s,
Oratory of Pope John VII, 705–7, drawing from Grimaldi, 1621, fol. 97r, detail.
Photo: © Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana/Mondadori Portfolio.

Figure 5.10 Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII, mosaic programme, 705–7,
drawing from Grimaldi, 1621, fol. 97r.
Photo: © Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana/Mondadori Portfolio.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 203

of the eastern tradition’, since its focus is the ‘meeting’ with Simeon and Anna.19 As
in the mosaic from the Theotokos Kyriotissa and in the painting of S. Maria Antiqua,
Mary is clearly shown here as the ‘God-bearer’, who conveys the Saviour to the those
who believe and recognise him in the small infant. In these depictions, the humility
and poverty of the family, hinted at in the offering of the birds, is also remarked on.

2 Christ on the altar

The fact that in the Gospel episode of the Presentation in the Temple Christ Child
Child is the Lamb of God is implicit: he is the real offering Mary and Joseph brought
to the Temple and symbolically placed on the altar of God. According to extant evi-
dence, only in the early ninth century was this idea visualised by depicting an altar –
the altar for the burnt offerings – between Mary with the Child, and Simeon. The
earliest securely dated object showing the scene of the Presentation in the Temple with
the infant Christ held by Mary above an altar is in a cycle of seven episodes from the
Infancy of Christ on the staurotheca commissioned by Pope Paschal I, a cross-shaped
reliquary of the True Cross, in gilded copper with cloisonné enamels20 (Figures 5.1,
5.11, Pls. 22–3). This staurotheca has been preserved for centuries with its silver-gilt
container (Figure 5.12, Pl. 24) in the arca cypressina, a cypress-wood chest donated
by Pope Leo III to the Lateran to keep safe its most sacred relics.21 Recently, Manfred
Luchterhandt has hypothesised that Paschal originally conceived it as a gift for S.
Maria Maggiore.22 Reminiscent of Paschal’s special devotion to Mary and her sanctu-
ary, this new hypothesis seems to better frame the overall message of the staurotheca,
which extolls Mary’s role in the divine economy.
A dedicatory inscription in enamel running on its sides, which has been remounted
at some point, reads: ‘Accept, I beg you, my sovereign, queen of the world [regina
mundi], this standard [vexillum] of the Cross which Bishop Paschal has offered you’.23
Erik Thunø observed that the term vexillum, originally meaning a standard or a ban-
ner to be taken in battle, was used by early Christian authors to signify relics or
objects carried in processions.24 The layer of encrusted balm found on the reverse of
the cross suggests that it was ritually anointed and carried during Marian proces-
sions as vexillum of the Incarnation and Crucifixion. In circumscribing the cross-
shaped container of relics of the Cross like a girdle of words, the inscription also
has a symbolic meaning that alludes to the ineffable mystery of the Incarnation and

19 Shorr, 1946, 20.

20 Wessel, 1969, 46–50; Thunø, 2002; Luchterhandt, 2017. On its relation to the iconoclastic controversy,
see Thunø, 2002, 25–51. The chronology of the staurotheca cannot be more accurately pinned down
within Paschal’s pontificate. I thank Guido Cornini and Barbara Pinto Folicaldi, Rome, Musei Vaticani,
for discussing the object on the occasion of a private view.
21 On the arca there is the inscription ‘S[an]C[t]a S[an]C[t]ORV[m]’, that is ‘Holy of the Holies’. By the
fourteenth century this name came to be used to identify the oratory containing the collection of relics,
which was rebuilt by Pope Nicholas III (1277–80). On the contents and the opening of the arca, see
Volbach, 1941, 5–6; Galland, 2004, 19–31.
22 Luchterhandt, 2017, 389–93.
23 The inscription has been reconstructed as follows by Morey, 1937: ‘ACCIPE QUAESO A DOMINA MEA
REGINA MUNDI HOC VEXILLUM CRUCIS QUOD TIBI PASCHALIS EPISCOPUS OPTULIT [sic]’.
24 Thunø, 2002, 25–6.
Figure 5.11 Staurotheca of Paschal I, gilded copper, cloisonné enamels, 27 × 17.8 × 3.5 cm,
Rome, 817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61881.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.
Figure 5.12 Casket for the staurotheca of Paschal I, gilt silver, 19.7 × 6.2 × 3 cm, Rome,
817–24, Rome, Vatican Museums, inv. no. 61888.
Photo: © Musei Vaticani.
206  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

future salvation: the womb of a virgin circumscribed the uncircumscribable God, who
would be hung on a cross for the salvation of humankind. The fact that Mary’s praise
encircles the cross-shaped container perhaps also hints at the idea that Mary was co-
responsible in the redemption of humankind through the Incarnation.25
On the enamelled cross, the scene of the Presentation is part of a pictorial pro-
gramme. The Annunciation is illustrated on the top section of its vertical arm, in a
prominent position appropriate to a container of relics of the Incarnate God. The
scene is followed, below, by the Visitation. The Journey to Bethlehem is on its left arm,
the Nativity and the Bath of the Infant Christ are at the crossing of the arms, and the
Adoration of the Magi is on the right arm. Finally, on the lower arm are the Presenta-
tion of the Christ Child in the Temple, and his Baptism. The Nativity and the related
scene of the Bath effectively present Christ’s human, circumscribed, fragile nature,
while his divinity is acknowledged in the Adoration and in the Presentation scenes.26
The Presentation has Mary smiling, dressed in a purple maphorion and red slippers
holding the Child clad in yellow and with a cruciform halo, similarly in yellow, this
colour obviously alluding to gold. The Child holds a book, rendered in translucent
green enamel, like the cross in his halo, to demonstrate he is the Incarnate Logos of
God. The altar is a cube in white opaque enamel and adds to this visual discourse
as a vivid reminder of the Child’s mystical sacrifice on the altar for burnt offerings,
prefiguring his physical sacrifice on the Cross. Simeon, on the other side of the altar,
wears a white mantle over a grey tunic and is ready to embrace the Child, his hands
covered with a white drape in a sign of respect, and his feet bare to demonstrate his
humility. Behind Mary and Simeon two figures with no specific features appear, which
are to be identified, respectively, as Anna and Joseph. The scene is essential in its ele-
ments. It aims at stating squarely that Mary brought the Incarnate God into the world
only to offer him in sacrifice for communal salvation: first, mystically, in the Temple,
and then, physically, on the cross.
Shorr noted that Paschal’s staurotheca marks the first appearance of the altar in the
Presentation scene, an element that she defines as a ‘Byzantine’ innovation.27 Indeed,
the altar appears in Byzantine depictions of the Presentation on personal amulets or
enkolpia.28 In particular, the Vicopisano and the Pliska enkolpia, mentioned in pass-
ing in the previous chapter, are relevant for our case. On the nielloed and gilt sil-
ver Vicopisano cross (Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici,

25 The concept of Mary as co-Redeemer or co-Redemptrix is debated in the Catholic Church – supported
by some, opposed by others. This on-going discussion adds evidence to the fact that Mary’s role is still
not clearly defined from the point of view of doctrine. I thank Mary Cunningham for alerting me to
this question; see Galot, 1957, 2005; Richer, 2010, 117–29; Arentzen, 2017, 85, 137. About Mary as
container of the Incarnation, in the late medieval period this idea was visualised in wooden tabernacles
known as ‘opening virgins’, carved in the shape of Mary and destined to contain the hosts; see Bynum,
2011, 88ff.
26 The earliest known western examples of the Bath of the Infant Christ are in the early eighth-century
oratory of John VII in St Peter’s and in the contemporary catacombs of S. Valentino; a century later, in
the Crypt of Epyphanius, and in the mid-ninth century Drogo Sacramentary (Paris, BnF, Par. lat. 9428,
fol. 24v); see Nordhagen, 1961; Osborne, 1981b, 85–6; Thunø, 2002, 30–40.
27 Shorr, 1946, 31–2.
28 Thunø, 2002, 20, 44, 120, 129–30.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 207

Figure 5.13 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, enkolpion, silver, gold, niello,
10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth
century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

from Vicopisano, Pieve di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm),29 the Presenta-

tion is on the obverse, on the right, paired with the Nativity and the Bath of the Infant
Christ on the left, the Annunciation on the top arm, the Baptism at the bottom, and
the Crucifixion with Mary and John the Evangelist at the crossing (Figures 5.13–5.14,
Pl. 25). The Presentation has Mary holding Christ above a clothed altar while passing
him to Simeon, who reverently waits with veiled hands. Christ, dressed in a tunic and
a pallium, and not in swaddling clothes like a new-born baby, acknowledges with a
gesture of his right hand the old man who has recognised him as the Saviour. Unfor-
tunately, the Vicopisano cross is decontextualised, hence it can be related to Byzantine
culture and dated to the ninth century only through stylistic and epigraphic compari-
sons with similar objects.
On the Pliska cross,30 the Presentation in the Temple scene is similarly on the obverse
of the external cross and is paired with the Nativity (Figures 5.15–5.16, Pl. 26). The

29 Thunø, 2002, 20, 44, 120, 129–30; Bacci, 2004; Sureda i Jubany, 2015.
30 Dontčeva, 1976, 2011; Alchermes, 1997, 322; Taft, 1997b; Henning, 2007, 674; Parpulov, 2010; Els-
ner, 2015, 24–5.
208  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Figure 5.14  E nkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm, from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve
di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, ninth century, Pisa, Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni
Culturali Ecclesiastici.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

iconography is identical to the Vicopisano cross.31 The Annunciation on top, the Bap-

tism at the bottom, and the Transfiguration in a roundel at the crossing complete
the visual message of this side. The nielloed gold enkolpion was found in the fortress
at Pliska, the ancient Bulgarian capital, in archaeological layers dated to the second
half of the ninth or early tenth centuries, suggesting it was produced earlier.
The altar is also shown in an emblematic object of ninth-century iconophile Con-
stantinopolitan art and culture, the Chludov Psalter (Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129,
fol. 163v) (Figure 5.17, Pl. 27). This is one of the earliest extant illustrated Greek
psalters, produced in Constantinople either immediately after the reinstatement of
iconoclasm (815) or, perhaps, more likely, during the patriarchate of Methodios (843–
7) or Photios (858–67).32 This illustrated psalter openly expresses a firm iconophile
stance.33 In the Presentation scene, Joseph stands on the left, holding to his bosom a

31 Dontčeva, 1976, 61, followed by Taft, 1997b; Parpulov, 2010, 49, correctly described the scene on the
Pliska enkolpion as Presentation in the Temple; Elsner, 2015, 24–5, as Circumcision.
32 See Grabar, 1983; De’ Maffei, 2011, for a date after 815; Der Nersessian, 1970, for a date after 843.
33 Corrigan, 1992, 129–39; Peers, 2004, 35–58.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 209

Figure 5.15 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 ×
0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Representative Collection, National
Archaeological Institute with Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv.
no. 4822.
Photo: © Krassimir Georgiev.

pair of birds, while Mary, clad in an ample blue maphorion and with a prominent
gold halo with a blue rim, holds the Child ready to pass him to Simeon. The Child,
dressed in a tunic and a pallium that enhance his authoritative appearance and with
a cruciform gold halo with a blue rim, blesses the old man, who reverently waits for
him with veiled hands on the other side of an altar. The altar is draped with a purple
cloth and is surmounted by a domed canopy. Simeon has the largest halo in the scene,
emphasised with a red rim, as if to remark that he is a pivotal figure – which, in fact
he was, being recognised by exegetes as the transition figure between the Old and the
New Testament, as we shall see later in this chapter.
It is not known whether the Child on the altar was represented on vestes (altar
cloths) donated to S. Maria Maggiore by popes who preceded and followed Paschal,
Leo III (795–816) and Gregory IV (827–44), on which the Presentation featured along
with other Christological scenes, including the Annunciation, Nativity, Baptism, and
Figure 5.16 Enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Rep-
resentative Collection, National Archaeological Institute with Museum at the
Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, inv. no. 4822.
Photo: © Krassimir Georgiev.
Figure 5.17 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Chlu-
dov Psalter, Constantinople, ninth century, Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129, fol.
163v, detail.
Photo: © Moscow, The State Historical Museum.
212  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Resurrection.34 In the case of Leo III, the Liber Pontificalis refers to the scene by men-
tioning Simeon (‘et sancti Symeonis’), and thus underlining the focality of his meeting
with the Holy Family – as it had been done in the sixth-century mosaic of the Theo-
tokos Kyriotissa or in the early eighth-century murals of S. Maria Antiqua and mosaic
in St Peter’s. In the case of Gregory IV, the Liber Pontificalis indicates the scene as the
‘Adpraesentatio’, therefore remarking the aspect of the Child’s official Presentation
in the Temple and thus probably involving the altar. The origin of these figural silks
remains hypothetical, with the papal household in Rome,35 as well as major produc-
tion centres such as Alexandria, or Constantinople, or Tyre, being possible sources.36
In the Carolingian domain north of the Alps, between the late eighth and the early
ninth century, a conventional representation of Mary and Simeon meeting in the Tem-
ple is found in the top register in the wall-paintings of the abbey-church of Müstair
(Graubünden, Switzerland), allegedly founded by Charlemagne in c.780 on an impor-
tant alpine pass leading to Italy. In the vast painted cycle, this scene is much damaged
in its upper half, although it is clear that the focus is the meeting of Mary and Simeon
in the Temple rather than the Child’s mystical sacrifice, since there is no altar37 (Fig-
ure 5.18). The novelty of the altar appears, instead, in an object produced some dec-
ades later, a psalter lavishly illustrated with ink drawings in Reims or in the Abbey of
Hautvilliers under Archbishop Ebbo (816–35, 840–1), or slightly later (Figure 5.19).38
Here the Canticum Simeonis is accompanied by a complex drawing at the top of the
page showing Mary passing the Christ Child to Simeon above an altar. Anna stands
behind Simeon, while Joseph on the left, outside the Temple, holds the birds with
veiled hands. Rays of light which emanate from the base of the altar, reaching a group
of standing people on the far left, illustrate the divine grace reaching those who believe
in God. As counterpart to them, on the right side, a group of martyrs holds branches
of palms – the palm being a symbol of their martyrdom in the name of God.
The altar is prominent also in the scene of the Presentation on another Carolin-
gian work of art. This is a precious metal revetment known in scholarly literature as
the Golden Altar, donated likely in the 840s by the Frankish Archbishop Angilbertus
(824–59) to adorn the altar–tomb of Saint Ambrose and of the Milanese protomartyrs
Gervasius and Protasius in the Basilica of S. Ambrogio in Milan, the Carolingian capi-
tal in Italy (Figures 5.20–5.21, Pl. 28).39 The centrepiece on the front of the altar–tomb
is Christ in majesty, encircled in a mandorla of garnets and pearls at the intersection
of the arms of a cross, with three cabochon dark-red garnets marking his cruciform
halo. In the four corners of the cross, the apostles adore Christ, while the symbols
of the evangelists in the arms of the cross certify the authenticity of the story of God
made flesh, told in twelve repoussé panels. In sum, the entire front of the altar is cen-
tred on the human–divine Christ: he is eternally living in glory, while his paradigmatic

34 On Leo III, see LP II, 2; trans. Davis, 2007, 117. On Gregory IV, see LP II, 76; trans. Davis, 2007, 57;
Saxer, 1996–1997, 227; Geertman, 1975, 68, notes that in the Life of Leo III, the LP describes the depic-
tions on the vestes, while this is not the case in the Life of Hadrian I.
35 Noble, 2000; Miller, 2014, 83.
36 King, 1966; Saxer, 1996–1997, 229–32; Delogu, 1998; McCormick, 2001, 501–70; Brubaker, Haldon,
2001, 92–3, 2011, 336–50.
37 I thank Jürg Goll for providing a photo of this scene. For the paintings and their dating, cf. Goll, Exner,
Hirsch, 2007; Ataoguz, 2013; Mitchell, 2013.
38 De Wald, 1932; Köhler, Mütherich, 1994, 85–135; Chazelle, 1997, argues for a date to c.845–55; Cail-
let, 2005, 179–82, for the year 823.
39 Elbern, 1952; Capponi, ed., 1996; Hahn, 1999; de Blaauw, 2008; Bertelli, 2012; Foletti, 2018, 107–60
(English trans. 2020, 107–62), for the most recent and comprehensive appraisal of the altar.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 213

Figure 5.18 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, mural painting, c.780, Müstair,
abbey church of St. Johann.
Photo: © Stiftung Pro Kloster St. Johann in Müstair.

terrestrial life is offered as an example to the faithful. The technique of the repoussé,
with its vibrant relief enhanced by the gold of the plaques, is perfectly suited to mani-
fest the idea of the Incarnate God.40 Within the Christological cycle on the Golden
Altar, the Presentation is significantly placed above the Annunciation, showing how
the Incarnation took place before being officially revealed to the world.41 On the sides
of the scene, two deacons with veiled hands reverently hold a pair of birds and a book,
while in the centre is an altar above which Mary is about to pass the Child to Simeon.
The Child, dressed in a loosely fitting tunic and a pallium, addresses a solemn gesture
of benediction to Simeon. The physical presence of the altar, covered with a cloth
embroidered on each side with a Latin Cross, is visually magnified by showing three
of its sides in perspective. Ivan Foletti has noted that this altar on the bas-relief plaque

40 See Pentcheva, 2010, on middle and late Byzantine metal repoussé icons embodying the physicality of
heavenly creatures.
41 The cycle includes, from the bottom left, the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Presentation in the Temple,
the Miracle at Cana, Christ called by Jairus, and the Transfiguration; and on the right, the Cleansing
of the Temple, the Healing of the blind man, the Crucifixion, the Pentecost, the Resurrection, and the
Ascension.
214  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Figure 5.19 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, ink on parchment, Utrecht Psal-
ter, Reims or Hautvilliers, Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, Reims or Hautvil-
liers, ninth century, MS Bibl. Rhenotraiectinae I Nr 32, fol. 89b, detail.
Photo: © Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek.

is remarkably similar to the altar–tomb of Saint Ambrose on which it appears.42 As the

birds allude to Christ’s double nature, and the book to the Incarnation of the Logos,
the repeated cross on the altar cloth clearly prefigures the ultimate scope of the Child’s
offering on the altar for burnt offerings: his sacrifice on the Cross. While the overall
conception of the precious altar–tomb has arguably been connected to the Carolingian
reaction to the second phase of Byzantine iconoclasm,43 the prominence of the altar in
the Presentation scene has not.
Noted, but not discussed by Thunø in his study of Paschal’s staurotheca, is another
Carolingian instance of the altar in the Presentation in the Temple scene. This is found
in a figural initial in the Drogo Sacramentary, illustrated in the mid-ninth century for
Bishop Drogo of Metz, illegitimate son of Charlemagne44 (Figure 5.22, Pl. 29). The

42 Foletti, 2018, 144.

43 Bertelli, 1988, 44–5; Thunø, 2006, 70; cf. Foletti, 2018, 140, 156, who remarks on the ‘aniconic’ aspect
of the altar seen from a distance: only the cross would have been visible to the average faithful attend-
ing Mass.
44 This has been noted but not discussed by Thunø, 2002, 44. The illustration is accessible on: https://
gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b60000332/f85.item.r=lat%209428?lang=EN. On the manuscript, see
Mütherich, Koehler, 1974.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 215

Figure 5.20 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, embossed gold lamina, Golden
Altar, 840s, Basilica of S. Ambrogio in Milan.
Photo: © 2015, Foto Scala, Firenze.

sacramentary contains, among other things, the main liturgical feasts, including the
Presentation in the Temple, referred to by its Greek name as ‘Yppopanti’. On the same
page, the letter ‘O’ of omnipotens encircles the scene in which Mary is handing the
Child above an altar to Simeon.
It would be hard if not pointless to demonstrate a specific iconophile agenda in the
case of objects associated with Carolingian patronage. The Synod of Paris, which in
825 addressed the image controversy opting for a via media, declared images permis-
sible in that they can visualise the invisible, and are useful during prayer and teach-
ing.45 In the case of the Utrecht Psalter, the Golden Altar of Milan, and the Drogo

45 See Chapter  3.
216  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Figure 5.21 G olden Altar, gold, silver, cloisonné enamels, gemstones, 840s, Milan, Basilica of
S. Ambrogio.
Photo: © 2015, Foto Scala, Firenze.

Sacramentary, all commissioned by members of the Carolingian elite, the altar seems
invested with the role of bringing to mind the physicality of the Incarnate God and
his future sacrifice on the Cross prefigured by his symbolic offering on the altar of the
Temple of Jerusalem.46
In light of the evidence discussed, we have to conclude that before the ninth century,
the altar was absent in the depictions of the Presentation in the Temple, in the East and
in the West, and Paschal’s staurotheca certainly is the earliest dated object in which it
appears. However, whilst an iconographic analysis might prove useful for the purpose
of an evolutionary history of visual images, it does not per se help us to understand
what lay before, in, and beyond the mentioned objects. One must ask, instead, how
preachers, the faithful, including artists and patrons, thought of the meaning of the
Presentation in the Temple. With regard to Paschal’s staurotheca, Thunø suggested
that the altar enhances ‘the salvationary aspect’ of the Presentation in the Temple, and
that was probably inspired by the homily written by Ambrose Autpert.47 Whether this
can be proven or not, the novelty of the altar reveals a shift in the perceived meaning

46 The Bath of the Christ Child after his birth, represented in the Drogo Sacramentary (fol. 24v) and also on
the staurotheca of Paschal I, has been interpreted as stressing Christ’s full humanity; see Thunø, 2002, 30.
47 Thunø, 2002, 45, 76.
Figure 5.22 P resentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, pigments on parchment, Drogo
Sacramentary, mid-ninth century, Paris, BnF, lat. 9428, fol. 38r, detail.
Photo: © BnF.
218  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

of the feast, with an emphasis placed on the symbolic sacrifice of Christ. The depiction
of an altar made clear that the infant was the real offering Mary and Joseph brought
to the Temple. This seems particularly appropriate on a container of relics of the
Cross, such as Paschal’s staurotheca, or in a book, such as the Drogo Sacramentary,
containing instructions for the celebrant priest.
Aligning itself with a general tendency observed in Byzantine and western arts, the
iconography of the Presentation in the Temple also appears to have become standard-
ised in the period of the iconoclastic controversy. The altar acquired a focal importance
in the setting of the Presentation in post-iconoclastic works of art in Byzantium.48 This
new imagery became mainstream in the West also.49 At this point, we should ask: what
was the liturgical focus of the feast? Did it change over the centuries? How was this
reflected in the homilies for the feast of the Presentation? And finally, where did the idea
of the altar come from? This is what we shall try to pursue in the following sections.

3 T he feast of light in Jerusalem and Rome

It is not known when the event of Christ’s Presentation in the Temple was first com-
memorated. In the late fourth century the western pilgrim Egeria records its celebra-
tion in Jerusalem. She wrote that the feast was observed ‘with special magnificence’,
that everybody gathered at the rotunda of the Anastasis in the Church of the Holy Sep-
ulchre, and that things were done ‘with the same solemnity as at the feast of Easter’;
presbyters and bishops preached and interpreted the passage from the Gospel about
Joseph and Mary ‘taking the Lord to the Temple, and about Simeon and the proph-
etess Anna . . . seeing the Lord, and what they said to him, and about the sacrifice
offered by his parents’.50
At the time of Bishop Juvenal (422–58), the Jerusalem rites of the feast were enriched
by Ikelia, the wealthy and pious wife of a local governor.51 She introduced the practice
of carrying lit candles during the vigil procession, probably to remind the faithful of

48 Middle Byzantine depictions of the scene accentuate the emotions at play in the meeting with Simeon
and Anna, probably reflecting the tones of the homiletic production, starting with a homily composed
in the second half of the ninth century by George of Nicomedia, Sermo in occursum Domini, PG 28,
973A–1000D. The author, who belonged to the circle of Patriarch Photios of Constantinople, seems to
reflect contemporary concerns over the significance of sacred images and a sentimental participation on
the part of the faithful in the Gospel episodes; see Maguire, 1980–1981.
49 See Shorr, 1946, 19. Only to give an example, see the Breviary of Oderisius abbot of Montecassino
(1099–1105), Paris, Bibliothèque Mazarine, ms. 364, fols. 19r–29v. Its iconography relies on the Byz-
antine tradition according to Toubert, 1971.
50  Itinerarium Egeriae, XXVI, CC Excerpta 1, 72, ll. 1–11: ‘Sane quadragesimae de epiphania ualde cum
summo honore hic celebrantur. Nam eadem die processio est in Anastase, et omnes procedunt et ordine
suo aguntur omnia cum summa laetitia ac si per pascha. Predicant etiam omnes presbyteri et sic episco-
pus, semper de eo loco tractantes euangelii ubi quadragesima die tulerunt dominum in templo Ioseph et
Maria et uiderunt eum Symeon uel Anna prophetissa filia Fanuhel, et de uerbis eorum, quae dixerunt
uiso domino, uel de oblatione ipsa, qua optulerunt parentes. Et postmodum celebratis omnibus per
ordinem, quae consuetudinis sunt, aguntur sacramenta et sic fit missa’; trans. Wilkinson, 2002, 147–8;
Shorr, 1946, 17; Allen, 2007, 2.
51 Cyril of Scythopolis, Vita Theodosii, ed. Schwartz, 236. It has been argued whether the procession with
candles was first held at the church founded by Ikelia in honour of Mary, the Kathisma, or in town; see
Shoemaker, 2002, 83–98; Shoemaker, 2016a, 182–4; Avner, 2011.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 219

the prophetic salute addressed by Simeon to the Child: ‘a light for revelation to the
Gentiles’. The procession supposedly started from the Holy Sepulchre and went along
the cardo maximus ideally to meet the Child arriving with his parents from Bethle-
hem. The rite of the procession is vividly recalled by the Jerusalem Patriarch Sophro-
nios (634–9) in a homily he composed for the feast: he invites all the faithful to hasten
and mystically meet the eternal True Light.52 With the light of the candles recalling the
true Light of the Saviour which spring would bring at Easter, this highly participatory
feast concluded the Christmas–Epiphany cycle.53 Born in Damascus, Sophronios was
forced out of Palestine by the Persian invasions. After two decades, he went back,
but by the time he became patriarch in 634, Palestine was conquered by the Arabs.54
One wonders whether his emphasis on the True Light of salvation might have been an
invitation to seek spiritual salvation in difficult times.55 After all, besides one homily
on the Nativity of Christ, the other ones he composed are to be dated after the Islamic
conquest, and in them the patriarch urges his flock to seek purification and spiritual
salvation.56
For a few centuries the feast was celebrated unevenly in the rest of the Mediterra-
nean basin.57 In a homily delivered in 518 in Antioch, Patriarch Severos declared that
the Hypapante, or ‘meeting’ of the Holy Family with Simeon and Anna in the Temple,
was a feast respected in Jerusalem and in Constantinople but still unknown in his own
episcopal see.58 The feast was seemingly introduced in Constantinople in the year 527,
under Emperor Justin I.59 In 542, within a reform of the religious festivals, Emperor
Justinian moved the feast from 14 to 2 February, in order to let it coincide with the
fortieth day after Christmas, fixed at 25 December.60 Later, the Hypapante became
one of the main twelve feasts in the Byzantine liturgical calendar.61 At least from the
time of the emperor Maurice (582–602) if not earlier, on the feasts of the Hypapante
and of the Dormition of Mary, a procession took place from the city-centre to the
Blachernai, one of the main churches dedicated to Mary in Constantinople.62 By the
seventh century, the celebration of the feast appears characterised by both penitential
and festal elements.63
It has been argued that the feast of the Presentation was introduced in Rome by
Pope Gelasius in the late fifth century to supersede the lascivious pagan Lupercalia

52 I thank Prof. John Duffy for having shared his yet unpublished translation and edition of the text, Feb-
ruary 2016. Here I shall refer to the old edition by Usener, 1889, and to the commentary by Allen, 2007.
53 Dyer, 2013, 26.
54 Booth, 2014, 267–71, on Sophronios elevated to the patriarchate with imperial approval; on the Arab
conquest of Jerusalem, which likely occurred in 637, see Booth, 2014, 276–7.
55 Booth, 2014, 269, reminds us that too often we forget that the monoenergist and monothelete crises
happened at the same time as the Arab expansion in the Middle and Near East.
56 Booth, 2014, 280–1.
57 Allen, 2007, 5–7.
58 Severos of Antioch, Homily on the Hypapante, PO 29.1, ed. Brière, 1961, 246–7; see Allen, 2007, 2–3.
59 George Kedrenos, Synopsis historion, ed. Bekker, 1838, I, 641; see Allen, 2007, 3.
60  Theophanes continuatus, A.M. 6034, ed. de Boor, 1883, 222, ll. 23–5; see Allen, 2007, 3.
61 Allen, 2007, 1, noted that the history of the feast of the Hypapante has not been sufficiently investigated.
62 The Blachernai did not have the monopoly of the feasts of Mary in Constantinople, as S. Maria Mag-
giore had in Rome: in fact, on the Nativity of Mary and on the Annunciation a procession reached the
other important Marian shrine of the Chalkoprateia; see Krausmüller, 2011, 221–4.
63 Dyer, 2011, 2013, 28.
220  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

on 14 February. However it is not known when it was first celebrated in the city.64
Since it is not mentioned in liturgical documents such as the epistle list and Gospel
readings of the first half of the seventh century, it has been posited that it was first
introduced in Rome around the mid-seventh century, probably by Pope Theodore
I (642–9), the son of a bishop of Jerusalem.65 The Liber Pontificalis only speaks about
it under the rubric of Sergius I, who established that the feasts of the Presentation in
the Temple (2 February), the Annunciation (25 March), the Assumption (15 August),
and the Birth of Mary (8 September) should each be celebrated with a solemn vigil
procession culminating in S. Maria Maggiore, the largest Marian shrine in Rome (see
Chapter 1). The Liber Pontificalis first refers to the Presentation as the ‘Birthday of
Saint Simeon, which the Greeks call Hypapante’.66 Simeon died after finally seeing the
Light of Christ in the Temple, and according to the Christian belief, the day of death
coincided with the birth into the celestial life. He was clearly perceived as a key fig-
ure connecting the Old with the New Testament, the old promise of dispensation with
the new offered by Christ.

4 Other themes of the feast

Among the early eastern homilies on the Hypapante the one written by Patriarch
Sophronios of Jerusalem exemplifies how the holy meeting at the Temple was per-
ceived in seventh-century Palestine.67 Outstanding for its style and complexity among
early Greek homilies on the Hypapante, this one reveals that the feast celebrated a
wealth of themes. Sophronios opens the homily by stating that the focal mystery in the
celebrations is the Incarnation through which the Light came into the world to illumi-
nate its darkness. Several times he amplifies Simeon’s acknowledgement of the Child
as the ‘true light’ which has come to dispel spiritual darkness. By adopting an open
Chalcedonian phrasing, Sophronios underlines that Christ received a human body
thanks to his immaculate mother and became a unique synthesis of the divine and the
human natures. Although God is ‘ἀπερίγραπτος’, or ‘uncircumscribable’, Mary could
carry him in her arms from Bethlehem to Jerusalem.68 Also, later in the homily, the
patriarch goes back to the paradox of God, who is infinite but accepted confinement
in a human body after being ‘born in the flesh’ (for the redemption of humanity).69
Towards the end of the homily, Sophronios comments again on the natures of Christ
by talking of the birds that Mary and Joseph brought to the temple. These birds are to
be praised because they are examples of purity (both species), chastity (turtle doves),
and innocence (pigeons); but more importantly, in the two birds he sees an allusion
to the two natures of Christ – on which he insists throughout the homily. Despite
not being openly mentioned, the preoccupation to defend Chalcedonian Christology

64 Shorr, 1946, 18.

65 On the establishment of the feast in the West, see McKinnon, 2000, 168; Groen, 2001; Dyer, 2011,
2013, esp. 28ff., also for earlier bibliography; on its sermons, see Deug-Su, 1974.
66  LP, I, 376: ‘Constituit autem ut diebus Adnuntiationis Domini, Dormitionis et Nativitatis sanctae Dei
genetricis semperque virginis Mariae ac sancti Symeonis, quod Ypapanti Greci appellant, letania exeat a
sancto Hadriano et ad sanctam Mariam populus occurrat’; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.
67  On the Hypapante, PG 87, 3287–3302; ed. Usener, 1889, 8–18; Allen, 2007, 8–12.
68 10a.18–10b.24, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 9.
69 11b.34–12a.7, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 9.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 221

versus ‘deviations’ such as monoergism (the doctrine of the single operation in Christ)
and monotheletism (the doctrine of the single will in Christ) is here evident.70 Sophro-
nios’s desire for doctrinal correctness or ἀκρίβεια is well attested.71
Humility is another important theme underlined by the patriarch of Jerusalem. Just
as the infant Christ underwent ‘circumcision in the flesh’ eight days after birth in order
to demonstrate that he had not come to subvert the Law (cf. Matthew 5,17: ‘Do not
think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish
them but to fulfill them’), so his mother underwent the ritual purification after giving
birth, although she had had no sexual intercourse, nor did she give birth to a sinner.72
Sophronios brings the physicality of Mary once more into the discourse. While hold-
ing the Child in his arms, Simeon delivers to her a memorable, moving speech that
goes beyond the account of the Gospel. He prophesises that a sword will pierce Mary’s
soul, alluding to the pains she will suffer while watching her Son crucified.73 However,
Sophronios lets him reassure Mary that her physical pains will be overcome by the
fond memories of her virginal conception and birth-giving of Christ. Mary and Simeon
are the examples which Sophronios puts before his people. In the course of his homily,
he urges his flock several times to hasten to the vigil procession of the feast and take
Christ ‘reverently’ in their arms: they have to follow the example of Mary, who carried
the Christ Child from Bethlehem, and of Simeon, who embraced him unquestioningly
upon his arrival in Jerusalem.74 In the procession, the faithful need to hold lit candles
that allude to the splendour of their souls ready to encounter the Saviour. He sees, in
fact, the liturgical rite as effective in mystically bringing the initiated to perfection.75
Because it alludes to rites and liturgical practices performed in Jerusalem, where
the feast originated, the homily of Sophronios probably became an exemplar beyond
the borders of occupied Palestine. Pauline Allen believes that this homily, or a very
similar one, was exported from the Near East to Rome before the end of the seventh
century, and there informed the way the feast would be celebrated and perceived for
centuries.76 In the period in which Sophronios was away from Palestine, he also spent
some time in Rome with his master John Moschos before being appointed patriarch
of Jerusalem.77 An important stream of manuscripts, as well as of unwritten religious

70 On Sophronios’s position with regards to Chalcedonian Christology, see Booth, 2014, 223, 239–42,
passim.
71 Booth, 2014, 274.
72 12b.7–25, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 10. The ritual purification apparently implied waiting at home
for forty days (if the new-born child was a boy, otherwise a longer period if it was a girl), then presenting
the child to the Temple, and making an offer.
73 Bishop Leontios of Neapolis, in Cyprus, offered an interpretation similar to the one of Sophronios in
the first half of the seventh century; see his Sermo in Simeonem, PG 93, 1580C; on this passage, see
Maguire, 1980–1981, 267; on Leontios in Cyprus in the 640s, at the eve of the Arab invasion, see
Krueger, 1996.
74 12b.25–13a.21, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 10.
75 See Booth, 2014, 281.
76 Allen, 2007, 12, notes this despite the fact the homily is transmitted by a single Greek manuscript
although translated also in Arabic and Georgian.
77 Mango, 1973, 697–8, believes that Sophronios and Moschos did stay in Rome; Booth, 2014, 100ff.,
231–2, and 269–70, has presented conclusive evidence that Moschos died in Rome in 634 and that
Sophronios went there to collect his body. The debate about Moschos’s place and date of death is sum-
marised in Llewellyn Ihssen, 2014, 3–4.
222  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

practices, must have flowed from Palestine to Rome in the 640s with Maximos the
Confessor, a disciple of Sophronios, and his Palestinian followers. They took up
Sophronios’s firm stance against heresies and were crucial in supporting the Lateran
Synod that anathematised monoenergism and monotheletism in 649.78 This synod and
the council held in Constantinople in 680–1 outlawed these ‘heresies’ and asserted the
perfect union of the divine and human natures in the Incarnate God. By that means,
it was implicitly acknowledged that Mary, the human Mother of God, had a pivotal
role in the history of salvation.
It is hard to prove that those who conceived the murals or the mosaics depicting the
Presentation in the Temple for John VII in S. Maria Antiqua and in St Peter’s knew
Sophronios’s homily and found inspiration in it. Nonetheless, the religious tradition
represented in his homily appears the ideal ground on which their imagery flourished.
Just as the homily of the Jerusalem patriarch put the focus on the main protagonists
of the event, their poverty, humility, and their ability to recognise the Light of the Sav-
iour in the small infant, so too did the murals in S. Maria Antiqua and the mosaics in
St Peter’s. Their visual ‘close-up’ on Mary, Simeon, and the infant Christ focussed on
the humility of Mother and Son in submitting themselves to the Law of Moses, and
on the Child’s fragile human frame in which Mary and Simeon perceive his immense
divinity; it also highlighted the Child as the real offering at the Temple. Whether
specifically through Sophronios’s homily or not,79 we can agree with Allen that the
Palestinian religious culture reflected in this text might have affected the way the Pres-
entation of the Christ Child in the Temple came to be commonly perceived in Rome in
the late seventh and the early eighth century.

5 T he earliest Latin homilies on the Presentation

The feast of Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple was celebrated in the West
at least since the seventh century, when it was known as the feast of Saint Simeon. This
notwithstanding, no original Latin homily for this feast is known before Bede com-
posed one in Northumbria before 731 (when his collection of homilies was finished).80
In the early eighth century the four Marian feasts celebrated in Rome had been adopted
in Anglo-Saxon England,81 along with relevant liturgical material, likely as a direct
outcome of frequent connections with the apostolic see.82 Bede entitled his homily in

78 On the life of Maximos, see Allen, 2009, 15–23; Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014, 9–11; on his involvement
in the Lateran Synod, see Booth, 2014, 298–305, 321–59. On the synod, see Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014,
9–17, 37–58.
79 I have not taken account of a homily of John of Damascus, Oratio in occursum Domini, PTS 29,
381–95, which is considered spurious by Bonifatius Kotter, the modern editor of his work.
80 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 128–33; trans. Martin, Hurst, 1991, 179–86. On the
probable date of this homily, see Hurst in CCSL 122; Martin, Hurst, 1989, IIi.
81 This is revealed by Aldhelm’s Carmina ecclesiastica (c.690) and by the personal liturgical calendar used
by Willibrord, the Northumbrian missionary to Frisia (c.710, Paris, BnF ms. lat. 10837, fols. 35r–40r,
esp. fol. 35r), who lists under 2 February the feast of Saint Simeon; see Clayton, 1984, 217, 1990, 25,
38, 52 on Marian feasts in England.
82 Clayton, 1990, 52.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 223

purificatione,83 while in his martyrology he lists the feast of 2 February as ‘Candelaria,

Purificatio Mariae’ therefore alluding to the candle-lit procession which characterised
the feast.84 Arriving in the West with the name of Hypapante, or the Birthday of Saint
Simeon, as the Liber Pontificalis calls it in the early years of the eighth century, soon
afterwards the feast was renamed the Purification of Mary, which emphasises her role
in the Gospel event, or Candlemas, in reference to the Jerusalem candle-lit vigil pro-
cession which was introduced also in Rome in the late seventh century. The Gelasian
Sacramentary, a book used by the priest celebrant containing the words he had to
speak or sing during the Mass and other rites, produced in Gaul around 750, opted for
a name referring to the theme of the Purification of Mary. The Gregorian Sacramen-
tary, whose nucleus corresponds to the collection sent by Hadrian to Charlemagne in
the late eighth century, kept the Greek title. The linguistic variety in the name of the
feast in eastern and western sources suggests that the episode of the Presentation of
the Christ Child in the Temple was perceived as theologically rich and multifaceted.85
A few decades after Bede, around or after the mid-eighth century, Ambrose Autpert
wrote his homily for the feast that, he remarks, still ‘is ignored by some Christians’,
alluding to its limited dissemination in the West.86 The earliest extant manuscripts
that transmit Autpert’s homily, which date within the first half of the ninth century
and which are related to some of the most important monasteries in the Carolingian
domain, use the Greek title Hypapante87 (Figure 5.23). In tenth-century manuscripts
the title has the Latin term purificatio, more strictly related to Mary and following the
general trend in naming the feast.88
As could be expected, the common sources of Bede’s and Autpert’s homilies on the
Presentation have been identified in the western Church Fathers: Ambrose, Augus-
tine, and Jerome. Autpert also drew on Gregory the Great, Fulgentius of Ruspe, and
Bede,89 but did not make use of the four homilies that Alanus of Farfa collated for

83 On the name of the feast, see Bede, De temporum ratione liber, XII. De mensis Romanorum, CCSL
123B, 322–3, ll. 67–82. See Clayton, 1984, 1990, 25–38.
84 Bede, Kalendarium sive Martyrologium, CCSL 123C, 563–78; Clayton, 1990, 36.
85 In the late thirteenth century Jacobus de Voragine in his Legenda Aurea, trans. Ryan, introd. Duffy,
2012, 143, recalls for the feast the names of Purification, Hypopanti, and Candlemas. See Dyer, 2011.
86  Pu, 1, CCCM 27B, 985, 4–7: ‘Huius quippe diei sollemnitas, sicut a quibusdam Christianis ignoratur,
sic a multis prae ceteris anni sollemnitatibus honoratior habetur, maxime autem eo loco, quo primatum
Ecclesia catholica in primo pastore sortita est.’ So far it is not possible to narrow down the period in
which he composed it within his long activity (740s–80s). Leonardi, 1968, 79, proposes that Autpert
composed his homilies when he was abbot of S. Vincenzo (777–8). This is repeated by Weber, CCCM
27B, 885. Between 757–67, the same Autpert writes that he had been actively engaged in preaching and
composing sermons, see Ap 9, CCCM 27A, 718, ll. 50–69.
87 Cf. the editor’s note in Pu, CCCM 27B, 985, with the incipit of the earliest versions of Autpert’s hom-
ily dating to the first half of the ninth century: ‘Incipit sermo sancti ambrosii ad monachos monasterii
sancti uincentii in ipopanti sanctae mariae’ (Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug. Perg.
197, fols. 145–56, from Reichenau); ‘incipit sermo sancti ambrosii autperti perum (sic) et monachi
monasterii martyris christi uincentii in ipopanti sancta mariae’ (Zurich, Zentralbibliothek, ms. Rh. 41,
fols. 205–13, from Rheinau); ‘incipit sermo in ΥΠΠΩΠΑΝΤΙ sanctae mariae augustinus’ (Munich, Bay-
erische Staatsbibliothek, ms. clm. 14746, fols. 65–89v, from St. Emmeran in Regensburg).
88 On the title ‘Purificatio’, see Palazzo, Johansson, 1996, 23–4.
89 For Bede, see the editor’s notes in CCSL 122, 128–33; for Autpert, see in CCCM 27B, 983–1002; Deug-
Su, 1974, 196ff.; Bini, 2008, 21, 51–2.
Figure 5.23 
A mbrose Autpert, In ipopanti sanctae mariae Reichenau, ninth century, Karlsruhe,
Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug. Perg. 197, fol. 145r.
Source: © Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 225

the feast with excerpts from Ambrose, Leo the Great, and Pseudo-Augustine.90 From
the Church Fathers, Bede and Autpert derived a marked Christological perspective.91
This is clear from the emphasis they both place on the Christ Child, the Lamb of
God, as the real offering brought by Mary and Joseph to the Temple. Within a solid
Christocentric vision, and on the basis of a personal devotion for Mary, both authors
emphasise her role in this specific occurrence and more generally in the history of sal-
vation.92 Although their sources were western, the homilies of Bede and Autpert echo
themes belonging to the eastern understanding of the Hypapante. This confirms what
Pauline Allen suggested with regards to the establishment of this religious feast in the
West, that it might have been transmitted through liturgical material and practices
that travelled from Palestine to Rome.93 Indeed, when comparing the contents of these
two Latin homilies with the one of Sophronios, important similarities emerge.
While a complete analysis of their contents goes beyond the scope of this study, it
suffices to say that one of the main features that Sophronios, Bede, and Autpert share
in celebrating the feast is the emphasis on Christ’s and Mary’s humility. Christ and
Mary accepted the rituals prescribed by the Law of Moses although they were not
tainted with the original sin, in order to demonstrate that the Incarnate God had come
to fulfil the Law and not subvert it.94 We should remember that these three authors
were monks, and that humility was the most praised virtue in the monastic sphere.95
More specific and important for the focus of this chapter is the similar vision these
authors have of the ritual offering brought to the Temple by Mary and Joseph: besides
the allegorical interpretations they give of the birds, they all stress that the real offer-
ing the couple brought to God was the Christ Child, as we shall see later. These and
other elements make clear that the tradition encapsulated in the homily of the patri-
arch of Jerusalem, if not his actual text, came to be known in Rome, central Italy, and
in England, and permeated interpretations of the Presentation in the Temple.

6 A utpert’s novel approach

Identified as the apex of Autpert’s intellectual production, together with the commen-
tary on Revelation,96 his homily on the Hypapante is also the longest and most articu-
late doctrinal explanation of the feast produced in the early medieval West. Almost
three times longer than Bede’s, Autpert’s homily suggests innovative approaches and
images, and allows a closer comparison with the Palestinian tradition. For example,
the theme of the Incarnation of the incommensurable God in the small womb of a

90 Grégoire, 1980, 36–8; Bini, 2008, 51–2.

91 Clayton, 1990, 15.
92 Leonardi, 1996, 163.
93 My preliminary thoughts on this question are in Dell’Acqua, forthcoming a.
94 Sophronios, On the Hypapante, 12b.7–25, ed. Usener, 1889; see Allen, 2007, 10. Bede, On the Purifica-
tion of Mary, CCSL 122, 128, l. 4; 129–31, ll. 38–93; Autpert, Pu, 3, CCCM 27B, 986, ll. 10–16; 7,
CCCM 27B, 991, ll. 9–14.
95 To give just one example, while speaking of the teaching of Benedict of Nursia, Bede writes humility
is the way to spiritual perfection according to monastic mentality, see In Ezram et Neemiam, 3, CCSL
119A, 350–1, ll. 466–73.
96 Leonardi, 1973, 654–5.
226  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

woman is said to be the real ‘mystery’ celebrated by the feast of the Presentation,97 also
defined as a ‘marvel’,98 and an ‘ineffable miracle’,99 before which ‘not only humans
but also angelic creatures are stupefied’.100 Absent in Bede’s homily, the themes of the
‘mystery’ of the Incarnation, and of the unique and perfect combination (‘σύνθετος’)
of the divine and the human natures in the Incarnate God were instead crucial in
Sophronios.101 The unique combination in the person of Christ is equally remarked by
Autpert in a long, rhythmic list of antithetical elements that amplifies and reiterates
this concept while exhibiting his rhetorical bravura.102
Advancing an innovative interpretation, Autpert notes that the mystical meaning
of the feast is to be found in the figure of the glorious Mother and Virgin as Ecclesia,
that is the Church.103 The theme of Mary as Ecclesia was suggested already by the
Annunciation as described in the Gospel of Luke (1, 38 and 45): since Mary was
the first person who believed in the Incarnation, she became the Church before the
Church was established.104 Ambrose of Milan proposed the spiritual model of Mary
as Ecclesia to consecrated women.105 Augustine defined the relation between Mother
and Son in his sermons: she is the Ecclesia, bride, and body of Christ.106 Bede also saw
in Mary a perfect type of the Ecclesia: this has been underlined as one of the most
specific points of contact between his homily and the one of Autpert on the Presenta-
tion.107 However, by the Church Fathers, Mary is seen as totally dependent on Christ,
the Redeemer, who is the ‘unique mediator’.108 Instead Autpert remarks – implicitly
echoing the literal meaning of the Greek word Theotokos, the ‘God-bearer’ – that
Mary literally carries God in her womb and then in her arms to the Temple. There,
she offers her infant Son, in whom she has already recognised his divine immensity,

97  Pu, 8, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 7–8: ‘incarnati Verbi mysterium’.
98  Pu, 1, CCCM 27B, 985, ll. 6–9: ‘O quam pium spectaculum, quo nonnisi pii delectari probantur. Stat
hinc Virgo et Mater, non cuiuscumque, sed Dei. Suscipitur hinc paruulus Virginis filius, cuius diuini-
tatem non capit mundus’; 18, 1002, ll. 4–5: ‘Non sit uile illud spectaculum, in quo Filius Virginis Deus
et homo conplectitur, in quo Virgo et mater ostenditur’.
99  Pu, 3, CCCM 27B, 987, l. 52: ‘ineffabilem miraculum’.
100  Pu, 3, CCCM 27B, 987, ll. 33–57, esp. ll. 55–7: ‘O admirandum spectaculum, ad quod non solum
humana, uerum etiam angelica stupescit natura’.
101 8a.14–15.18, and 10a.18–10b.24; Allen, 2007, 8–9.
102  Pu, 10, CCCM 27B, 994–5, 3–28.
103  Pu, 4, CCCM 27B, 988, ll. 5–10; 13, CCCM 27B, 998, ll. 15–19. Philips, 1964, 387, discusses Mary
as Ecclesia in Autpert’s commentary on Revelation and in two sermons that actually are Pseudo-
Augustinian (Sermo 194, and 208), but does not consider Pu, lamenting that Autpert was ‘trop peu
connue’. This was amended by Deug-Su, 1974, 197, 211, who noted that the ecclesiological perspec-
tive that Autpert develops especially in Pu can be regarded as the strongest point of contact with Bede.
On Autpert presenting each of the main protagonists of the meeting in the Temple – Christ, the Virgin,
Simeon, and Anna – as ‘types’ of the Church, see Leonardi, 1973, 655–6. On Mary as Ecclesia, see
also Dell’Acqua, 2019c.
104 Philips, 1964, 370.
105 For example, De institutione virginis, 87-–9, PL 16, 326ff.; Philips, 1964, 381.
106 For a list of works in which Augustine speaks of Mary as Ecclesia, see Philips, 1964, 382–3. The par-
allelism between Mary and the Ecclesia would be developed in conjunction with the definition of her
bodily Assumption as dogma in 1950 because Mary is the model of spiritual receptivity of the divine
grace which imbues the mystical body of the Church; see Philips, 1964, 367ff.
107 Gambero, 2000, 29ff.; Deug-Su, 1974, 197, 211; Clayton, 1990, 15. Other Anglo-Saxon authors
praised Mary under the conventional image of the Theotokos, filtered through Rome.
108 Philips, 1964, 383.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 227

not only to thank God for his birth like any other mother would do according to the
Law of Moses, but also for the redemption of humankind.109 Hence, Autpert takes a
step forward with respect to the earlier Latin tradition: in his eyes, Mary is the main
intercessor for humankind. He invokes her directly by saying:

I implore you, o my most blessed Virgin, do offer us Christ with your pious

prayers, you who cannot deny [anything] to [your] children, and do not pay atten-
tion to the wrongdoing of [your] children, by whom you are not honoured as
you should be. Indeed, a pious mother tolerates the irreverence of [her] children,
because she is won by the love for her offspring. Support, then, with your pious
prayers even those unworthy of [your] many merits, those that you generated
through One [Son]. Intercede with [your] only Son for the aberrations of the many
[other] children.110

Mary, actually, contributes to the divine plan of salvation partaking of Christ’s suf-
fering on the cross. When, according to Gospel, Simeon warns her that a sword will
pierce her soul, alluding to the pains she will endure in watching him suffering and
dying on the Cross, Sophronios lets Simeon compassionately say to Mary that her
pains would be overcome by her fond memories of the virginal conception of Christ
and his painless birth. Bede insists on spiritual pains, using the term anima when dis-
cussing the tribulations that transfixed Mary (‘this sword will pierce Mary’s soul, for
she could not without painful sorrow see him crucified and dying’).111 Instead Autpert,
more vividly and innovatively, says that the Passion of Christ and the spiritual tribu-
lations it caused Mary pierced her pious maternal womb (‘materna viscera’) like a
sword.112 The remark about Mary’s physical involvement in the pains her Son suffered
on the Cross seems to hint at her participation in the redemption of humanity.113 Her
womb, although pierced by these pains, became the source of life for all the faithful.
Autpert, then, rhetorically asks: if Christ is the brother of the faithful, how she, who
gave birth to Christ, could not be also their mother?114 This claim needs to be under-
lined as one of the most striking novelties in this homily.

109  Pu, 3, CCCM 27B, 987, ll. 33–57.

110  Pu, 7, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 23–9: ‘Quam ob rem obsecro, mi beatissima Virgo, offer nobis Christum
piis suffragiis, quae nescis inuidere filiis, sed nec adtendas filiorum iniurias, a quibus non, ut dignum
est, honoraris. Tolerat enim pia mater inreuerentiam filiorum, quia amore uincitur generationis. Foue
ergo etsi tantis meritis indignos piis orationibus, quos in Vno genuisti. Deprecare unicum Filium pro
excessibus multorum filiorum’.
111 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 131–2, ll. 133–9: ‘Et tuam ipsius animam pertransibit
gladius. Gladium appellat effectum dominicae passionis et mortis in cruce qui Mariae animam per-
transibit gladius quia non sine acerbo dolore potuit crucifixum morientemque uidere quem licet resur-
recturum a morte procreatum mori pauida dolebat’; trans. Martin, Hurst, 1991, 184. See Bini, 2008,
78–83, on patristic sources.
112  Pu, 12, CCCM 27B, 997, ll. 10–3: ‘Sed nec aliud hoc loco per gladium intellegimus figurari. Quam-
quam autem multae tribulationes animam transfoderint beatissimae Virginis, illa tamen hic specialiter
designatur, quae, Domino in cruce moriente, materna viscera transfixit’.
113 Cf. Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 25–6.
114  Pu, 7, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 21–3: ‘Si, inquam, Christus credentium frater, cur non ipsa quae Christum
genuit sit credentium mater?’.
228  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Another important theme of the feast, Simeon’s acknowledgement of the Infant

Christ as ‘a light for revelation to the Gentiles’, is not discussed by Bede, who simply
speaks of ‘the grace of a new light’ offered to humanity.115 Instead Autpert clings to
Simeon’s declaration that suggests the possibility of recognising the face of God in his
mortal flesh. And seeing the face of God was one of Autpert’s main preoccupations,
as we have seen in Chapter Three and Four. He observes that although not anyone is
able to recognise God in his mortal flesh, the eyes of the old Simeon were opened by
faith, something that allowed him to see Christ not simply small in the human frame
of an infant, but immense in his divinity.116 The accent Autpert puts on Simeon as a
man who intersects the history of salvation between the Old and the New Testament
is novel in the Latin West.117 In fact, previously Sophronios had presented the old man
as a figure of the Law of Moses which was superseded by the new Salvific Light.118
Autpert, like Sophronios, remarks the importance of Simeon’s embrace of the Child
and urges his flock to imitate him by participating in the vigil procession whilst hold-
ing a lit candle and mystically embracing the infant Christ coming from Bethlehem.119
He explains the important spiritual and ethical meaning of this embrace: Simeon can
be imitated daily by the faithful, through the practice of good deeds in favour of the
weakest limbs of the mystical body of the Church.120 That the saints had to be looked
at as role models in the practice of good deeds and display of humility had been
remarked on earlier by Pope Gregory the Great in his Dialogues, as well by others.121
In sum, when compared to earlier Latin exegesis, it becomes clear that Autpert
takes the theological arguments involved in the feast a step further. The argumentative
character and the remarkable length of his homily when compared to Bede’s could be
a consequence of his deeper acquaintance with the feast’s eastern tradition. Autpert
may have come into contact with it while he was in Rome, where he also witnessed
its vigil procession, as we shall see in the next section. We should now look at how the
festival of Light was celebrated in Rome in order to understand how it prepared the
faithful to embrace the Incarnate God.

7 Going to embrace the Christ–Light

The feast of the Hypapante prepared the faithful to meet the new-born, Incarnate
God, as Simeon and Anna had done. The Jerusalem vigil procession re-enacting this
meeting was probably adopted in Rome at the end of the seventh century.122 The entire
Roman clergy, monks, suburban populace, and a large multitude of pilgrims from
every region assembled in the Forum at S. Adriano. There, while extolling the name
of the Lord, each of them received a blessed candle from the hands of the pope. Sing-
ing antiphons, they walked in procession with lit candles towards S. Maria Maggiore,

115 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 130, ll. 86–9: ‘gratia nouae lucis’; trans. Martin, Hurst,
1991, 182: ‘grace of a singular light’.
116  Pu, 1, CCCM 27B, 985, ll. 6–9; 3, CCCM 27B, 987, ll. 33–52; 6, CCCM 27B, 991, ll. 35–40; 8,
CCCM 27B, 993–4, ll. 38–57; 10, CCCM 27B, 994–5, ll. 3–29.
117 Bini, 2008, 73.
118 12b.15–13a.21, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 10.
119 10b.35–11a.1, 11a.9–11.a.29, ed. Usener, 1889; Allen, 2007, 9.
120  Pu, 8, CCCM 27B, 992, ll. 10–18.
121  Gregory the Great, Dialogues, 1, 12, 4, ed. de Vogüé, 2, 116; Maskarinec, 2018, 5.
122  LP, I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 229

where a celebrative mass was officiated to commemorate Mary’s Purification and the
Presentation of the Child in the Temple.123
Probably under Sergius I, or shortly thereafter in the early decades of the eighth cen-
tury, two Marian chants were introduced to be sung during the procession. They were
the Ave Gratia Plena, a translation of the Greek chant Χαῖρε κεχαριτωμένη (‘Hail, full of
Grace’, see Luke 1, 28), and the Adorna thalamum tuum (‘Adorn thy bridal chamber’)
from the Greek Κατακόσμησον τὸν νυμφῶνά σου Σιών, a chant attributed to an adoptive
brother of John of Damascus.124 These chants extolled the role of the Mother of God,
thus accentuating the ‘Marian’ character of the feast. The text of the Adorna thala-
mum tuum is worth quoting, in that it must have made popular a vivid image which
encapsulated the significance of the feast while presenting Mary as ‘gate of heaven’:125

Adorn thy bridal chamber, O Sion, and receive Christ thy king; embrace Mary,
who is the gate of heaven, for she carries the king of glory; in new light a virgin
she remains, bringing forward in her hands the Son born before the morning star,
whom Simeon, receiving in his arms, proclaims to the nations that he is the Lord
of life and death, and Saviour of the world.126

The night procession held in Rome, that called the faithful to carry the candle as
a symbol of the Christ–Light in order to embrace him mystically, and ultimately to
offer oneself on the altar of God, must have been an impressive spiritual and sensorial
experience. In his homily, Autpert appears to give an eyewitness account of this rite:
he evokes with enthusiasm the urban crowd gathered at night to join the vigil proces-
sion, lit with innumerable candles, followed by a solemn concelebration. He observes
that in holding the candle in their hands, ‘the faithful who are about offering the Lord
in the Temple, or better about receiving him, show externally the light of the faith
through which they shine internally’.127
The multitude of people participating in the procession is evoked with similar
words in the Ordo XV (c.775–80).128 The procession is also described in Ordo XX.
The Ordines Romani were rubrics for various liturgical services held in Rome, dat-
ing to the last decades of the eighth century or earlier.129 The circulation of ordines in
Britain would explain why Bede, who was never in Rome nor in Jerusalem, mentions
the procession of 2 February and explains its meaning. As we have seen in Chapter 1,

123  Ordo XV, 79, and Ordo XX, in Andrieu, 1974, 113–4, 235–6; Baldovin, 1987, 137, n. 132. See
Palazzo, Johansson, 1996, 26–8, on this procession with lit candles in the Carolingian domain.
124 Dyer, 2013, 34ff.
125 On Mary as gate of heaven, see Dell’Acqua, 2015, and Chapter 6.
126 Trans. Dyer, 2013, 34.
127  Pu, 1, CCCM 27B, 985, ll. 9–16: ‘In tanta enim reuerentia ab illis habetur, ut ea die cuncta ciuitatis
turba in unum collecta, inmensis cereorum luminibus coruscans, missarum sollemnia deuotissime con-
celebrent, nullus que aditum publicae stationis intret, qui lumen manu non tenuerit, tamquam scilicet
Dominum in templum oblaturi, immo etiam suscepturi, fidei lumen quo interius fulgent, exterius obla-
tionis suae religione demonstrent’. Iogna-Prat, 1996, 85, believes Autpert to be a privileged witness to
these rituals since he lived not far from Rome. On Autpert’s ‘eye-witness account’ to the procession,
see Dyer, 2011, 42–3.
128 Dyer, 2011, 46.
129 These ordines were either collated by a Roman cleric who went to Britain at the time of Pope Agatho
(678–81) or were compiled in Francia in the late eighth century. In any case they were copied in a
manuscript at the Carolingian monastery of St. Gall (Sangallensis 349); see Andrieu, 1974, 6–15.
230  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Bede had direct connections with Rome thanks to his fellow monks, some of whom
travelled back and forth between Northumbria and Rome and spent time in the
city studying Roman liturgical practices. In particular, as Bede recalls, Hwaetbert,
the future abbot of Jarrow (716–47), had been in Rome at the time of Pope Sergius
and there ‘learned, copied and brought home all things that he judged needful’.130 In
the De temporum ratione (c.725), which he dedicated to Hwaetbert, with a learned
approach based on etymology, Bede underlines that February, the month in which
the feast is celebrated, was in Antiquity dedicated to Februus, the god of purification,
which could be achieved through the lustratio, a complex ritual involving a proces-
sion. He adds that the Christian religion has adapted an old pagan rite in the proces-
sion that takes place in Rome on 2 February, when ‘all the people together with their
priests and ministers with devout hymns go in procession through the churches and
suitable places in the city, and all carry in their hands burning wax candles given by
the pope’.131
In the same passage, Bede offers for the first time in the Latin West an explanation
for the burning candles by making a reference to the parable of the Wise Virgins, who
welcome the bridegroom with lit lamps or candles – a metaphor for the necessity of
the faithful to be ready for the Second Coming of Christ (Matthew 25, 1–13). Bede
sees in the burning lamps carried by the faithful a metaphor for the good deeds made
during their terrestrial life, to be presented to God upon the Final Judgement.132 He
therefore invites the faithful to become ‘wise virgins’ and carry a burning candle,
in which is to be recognised the Christ–Light, eternally burning for the salvation of
humankind. In the late Middle Ages, the burning candles would be still perceived as
the most impressive feature of the feast of Light celebrated in the depth of winter.
Taken home after the procession, they would be lit in times of spiritual distress.133
Burning candles, the major visual feature of the feast of Light, are absent from early
medieval depictions of the Presentation, and appear occasionally later (Figure 5.24).
However, the divine light alluded to by the burning candles is to be seen in the salva-
tion that will be dispensed by the Christ Child: he is the eternally burning light for the
salvation of humankind.

130 Bede, Historia Abbatum, ed. King, 1930, 18, 436–7: ‘quaeque sibi necessaria iudicabat, didicit, desc-
ripsit, retulit’.
131 Bede, De temporum ratione liber, XII. De mensibus Romanorum, 12, CCSL 123B, 322–3, ll. 67–74:
‘Secundum dicauit februo, id est plutoni, qui lustrationum potens credebatur, lustrari que eo mense
ciuitatem necesse erat, quo statuit ut iusta diis manibus soluerentur. Sed hanc lustrandi consuetudinem
bene mutauit christiana religio, cum in mense eodem die sanctae Mariae plebs uniuersa cum sacerdo-
tibus ac ministris hymnis modula deuotis per ecclesias per que congrua urbis loca procedit, datas que
a pontifice cuncti cereas in manibus gestant ardentes’. See Leclercq, 1948, 1723; Deug-Su, 1974, 147;
Clayton, 1990, 37. For an English translation of the text, see Wallis, 1999, 49.
132 Bede, De temporum ratione liber, XII. De mensibus Romanorum, 12, CCSL 123B, 322–3, ll. 75–82:
‘Et augescente bona consuetudine, id ipsum in caeteris quoque eiusdem beatae matris et perpetuae
uirginis festiuitatibus agere didicit, non utique in lustrationem terrestris imperii quinquennem, sed in
perennem regni caelestis memoriam; quando, iuxta parabolam uirginum prudentium, omnes electi
lucentibus bonorum actuum lampadibus obuiam sponso ac regi suo uenientes, mox cum eo ad nuptias
supernae ciuitatis intrabunt’.
133 Dyer, 2013. The ‘dramatic beauty’ of the candle-lit procession and the multisensory and participatory
experience of this religious festival inspired a significant number of mystical visions and encounters
with God recorded between the late medieval and early modern period, see Schroeder, 2006, 35ff.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 231

Figure 5.24 L upo di Francesco, Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple, marble, from
the pulpit of San Michele in Borgo, Pisa, first half of the fourteenth century, Pisa,
Museo Nazionale di S. Matteo.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

8 T he idea of the altar

As we have seen through the notable examples of Sophronios, Bede, and Autpert, the
infant Christ as the real ritual offering brought to the Temple by Mary and Joseph
was a focal topic in the homilies on the feast, at least from the seventh century. This
topic gained further emphasis later, between the late seventh and the ninth centuries,
when the physicality of the Incarnate God was a potent argument the popes used to
firmly reject deviations from Chalcedonian Christology, and later to oppose Byzantine
iconoclasm and the iconophobia of the Carolingians. This theme must have impressed
a change of perspective with regard to the theological interpretation, and the mental,
verbal, and figurative reproductions of the Presentation in the Temple. In fact, while
Sophronios comments on the ritual offering at the end of his homily, Bede and Autpert
discuss it soon after the introduction to their respective homilies. Moreover, these Latin
authors both push the argument a step further. Bede first underlines the ‘example of
humility’ given by Mother and Son in offering birds, since God wanted to share with
humankind not only their nature but also their poverty.134 He then adds that the sym-

134 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 129–31, ll. 42–93, esp. 129, ll. 43–4; trans. Martin,
Hurst, 1991, 181: ‘This was the sacrificial offering of poor people’.
232  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

bolic offering referenced the salvific sacrifice of Christ’s body and blood.135 Also for
Autpert, the offering of the birds prefigures the Passion of Christ, that is the offering
God himself made of his Son for the salvation of humankind.136 He describes Mary,
pervaded with the Holy Spirit and following almost a sacerdotal model,137 offering in
sacrifice an immaculate victim: her Son, the Lamb of God. She does this to cooperate
in the redemption of humanity, of which she is the careful mother:

it is necessary to extoll the wisdom of the Virgin, not supported by human pur-

pose but imbued with the divine Spirit, who, coming forward to offer her Son and
retaining her natural humility, entrusted him in the hands of the prophet [Simeon]
to be offered [to God], not unaware of those to whose hands she was entrusting
the one who is God and man to be offered in sacrifice. She offers the Lord of the
prophets to the prophet, offers the One to one, indeed to all of them through one
of them – she who gave birth to him as the Saviour for all of them. She has not
ceased even to the present to offer him whom she bore in her womb, since her holy
mediations unite the Redeemer with the elect, and, in truth, she, the most merci-
ful, does this through maternal affection.138

An emphasis on the altar for burnt offerings or holocausts and on Mary bringing
the Christ Child to this altar is to be detected in the trilogy on the Dormition of Mary
by Andrew of Crete. He defines Mary ‘the spiritual altar for the divine holocaust’,139

135 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 130, ll. 86–9: ‘Et unusquisque nostrum prius aqua
baptismi a peccatis omnibus quasi uera circumcisione purgatur ac sic proficiente gratia nouae lucis ad
altare sanctum salutari hostia dominici corporis et sanguinis consecrandus ingreditur’; trans. Martin,
Hurst, 1991, 182, with revisions: ‘Each one of us is also first purged by the water of baptism from
all sins, as if by a true circumcision, and thus advancing by the grace of a new light to the holy altar,
we go in to be consecrated by the saving sacrificial offering of the Lord’s body and blood’; On the
Purification of Mary, 133, ll. 185–92: ‘Holocaustum namque totum incensum dicitur. Et holocaustum
se ipse domino facit qui spretis omnibus terrenis solo supernae beatitudinis desiderio aestuare solam
hanc per luctum ac lacrimas quaerere dulce habet’; trans. Martin, Hurst, 1991, 186: ‘A holocaust
means something that is wholly burned up, and one makes oneself a holocaust to the Lord if, having
rejected all earthly things, one takes delight in burning with the desire of heavenly blessedness alone,
and in seeking only this with lamentation and tears’.
136  Pu, CCCM 27B, 989, ll. 8–11: ‘in hac oblatione auium, illa praefigurabatur oblatio, quae pro salute
mundi oblata est uespera diei, Domini uidelicet passio, per quam sumus Deo reconciliati’ (‘in this
offering of the birds is prefigured that offering that was offered at the evening of the day for the salva-
tion of the world, that is to say the passion of the Lord, through which we are reconciled with God’).
137 Bini, 2008, 69.
138 See Pu, CCCM 27B, 991–2, ll. 10–16: ‘occurrit praedicanda Virginis prudentia, non humana indus-
tria fulta, sed Spiritu diuinitatis afflata, quae filium oblatura ueniens, suae que naturae humilitatem
seruans, prophetae tradidit manibus offerendum, non ignara utique quis esset, cuius manibus Deum
hominem que tradebat sacrificio dedicandum. Offert autem Dominum prophetarum prophetae, offert
unicum uni, immo omnibus in uno, quae omnibus eundem peperit Saluatorem. Non enim desinit nunc
usque offerre quem genuit, cum suis sanctis interuentionibus eundem Redemptorem electis uniri facit,
et ut uerum fatear, materno affectu id ipsum piissima facit’.
139 Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition II, PG 97, 1069A: ‘τὸ νοερὸν τῶν θείων ὀλοκαυτωμάτων θυμίαμα’;
trans. Daley, 1998, 133. See also Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition III, PG 97, 1105B: ‘Ἰδοὺ τὸ
ἱλαστήριον τὸ ἐπὶ τῶν ἁγίων Ἄγιον’; trans. Daley, 1998, 148: ‘the altar of expiation in the Holy of Holies
[Mary]’. See in the early ninth century Theodore of Stoudios, On the Dormition, 4, PG 99, 720–9;
trans. Daley, 1998, 254: Mary is the ‘altar of purification for all mortal creatures’.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 233

and Christ’s body ‘the altar of propitiation for us all [that] he took from her [Mary’s]
body’.140 Andrew’s homilies on the Dormition, together with those of Germanos of
Constantinople and John of Damascus, extolled Mary’s exceptional role in the Incar-
nation and thus in the salvation of humankind, and had a great bearing on the devel-
opments of the theological frame and common perception of Mary in Byzantium and
beyond. In particular, I believe, these authors had a bearing on Autpert’s image of Mary
and her ‘sacerdotal role’ while carrying her Child to the altar of burnt offerings.141
The focus on the offering of the Holy Family to the Temple must have become a
shared feature in the perception of the feast in the eastern Mediterranean, and, pos-
sibly through Bede and Autpert, also in the West. The altar is a place where the good
deeds made by the faithful can be presented to God (Bede); at the altar, the faithful
meet the small and fragile Christ Child and are inspired to practise good deeds and
take care of the weakest parts of the body of the Church (Autpert); on the altar Christ,
the Lamb, is offered to God. Both Bede and Autpert clearly exploit the Old Testa-
ment typology of Isaac–Lamb as prefiguration of Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross.142
The figure of the Lamb of God (Exodus 12) ‘was one of the most familiar of all Old
Testament types and a central focus in discussions of typological reasoning’.143 In
Greek liturgy the Lamb had been extolled, for example, through the Akathistos, the
most famous and widespread Marian hymn in Greek, that has Christ as ‘a lamb with-
out spot, pastured in Mary’s womb’, and Mary as the ‘mother of the lamb and of the
shepherd’.144 The real presence of Christ, the Lamb of God, on the altar was not only
associated with the interpretation of the Gospel episode, but was conjured up every
time the Eucharist, that is the communion with God, was celebrated. This latter aspect
was enhanced in the late seventh century, only a few decades before Bede and Autpert
wrote their homilies. As mentioned in Chapter 1, Pope Sergius I commanded that the
hymn Agnus Dei (‘Lamb of God’) should be chanted in the liturgy of the Eucharist
to emphasise the significance of the ritual offering of the body and blood of Christ–
Lamb.145 Sergius’s resolution has been seen as a response against imperial intrusion in
ecclesiastical matters, and namely against the prohibition on representing Christ as a
lamb issued by the Quinisext Council of Constantinople (692) held under the aegis
of Emperor Justinian II.146 Intoning the hymn of the Agnus Dei during the breaking

140 Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition I, PG 97, 1088A; trans. Daley, 1998, 113.
141 See Dell’Acqua, 2019b.
142 Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 128–33; Autpert, Pu, CCCM 27B, 983–1002.
143 Kessler, 2000, 44.
144  Akathistos, VII, 4–6, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 32: ‘ὡς ἀμνὸν ἄμωμον ἐν τῆ γαστρὶ Μαρίας βοσκηθέντα . . .
ἀμνοῦ καὶ ποιμένος μήτηρ’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 9. In a mural painting found in fragments in S.
Susanna in Rome and dated to the second half of the eighth century, possibly during the pontificate of
Hadrian I, the Thetotokos was framed by an arch on which the Lamb was depicted between John the
Evangelist and John the Baptist; see Nilgen, 2002; Andaloro, 2003.
145  LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84. The hymn recits: ‘Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere
nobis / Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis / Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona
nobis pacem’, that is ‘Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us / Lamb of
God, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us / Lamb of God, you take away the sins
of the world, grant us peace’. On the public resonance of Sergius’s resolution, see Noble, 1984, 17.
146 Mansi XI, 977–980; reprised at Nicaea (787), see Mansi XIII, 39E–42B; ACO II, 3.2, 344–7. See Bar-
nard, 1977, 12; Barber, 2002, 40–1; Brunet, 2011b, on how this canon of the resolutions of the Coun-
cil of Trullo marked the introduction of the Christological argument in the debate over sacred images.
234  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

of the Host on the altar before the Eucharist induced a mental vision of the mystical
Lamb–Christ Child offered on the altar for the redemption of humankind. Thus, the
hymn enhanced a multisensory apprehension of the consecrated Host, assisting in the
perception of the real presence of Christ on the altar.
As for Christ on the altar, we should also consider that between the late eighth and
the mid-ninth centuries, the real presence of the body of Christ in the Eucharist became
a major theological concern. In the Life of Gregory the Great, Paul the Deacon men-
tions a miracle that occurred to the famous pope while celebrating the Eucharist: a
little finger drenched in blood appeared on the altar thus convincing a woman of the
real presence of the body of Christ in the consecrated bread.147 However, Carolingian
clerics had diverging opinions on the Eucharistic presence. Their debate, the origins of
which remain blurred, threatened division within the Church north of the Alps, and
therefore elicited the involvement of the sovereign, Charles the Bald, who supported
the view that the Eucharist represents the physical body of Christ.148 As Celia Chazelle
noted, the debate on the presence of Christ in the Eucharist reveals a ‘new considera-
tion of the nature of Christ’s body on earth’.149 This Carolingian in-house conflict is a
further indication that more than one theological issue came into play in this period
and intersected with the controversy over sacred images.
As we have seen, eighth-century Greek and Latin homilists placed emphasis on
Mary as the God-bearer, on Simeon who recognised the Child as the Saviour, on the
Christ–Lamb, mystically offered on the altar for burnt offerings as a prefiguration of
his future sacrifice on the Cross. Evoked through liturgy, amplified by homilies, as well
as by figural devotional objects and public arts, the real presence of the Christ–Lamb
on the altar became the most prominent feature in the perception of the Gospel epi-
sode in the early ninth century. All the same, because homilies are not usually meant
to innovate, but rather to ratify and disseminate theological approaches and religious
mentality, when Paul the Deacon collated a homiliary for the Frankish Church, he pre-
ferred to draw on well-established auctoritates that included Bede, thus excluding the
more innovative (and Greek-inclined) Autpert.150 This, notwithstanding, the writings
of the latter, comprising also his homilies, circulated in the most important monaster-
ies and episcopal sees in the Carolingian domains, and exerted a long-lasting influence
on western monastic spirituality.151

147 Paul the Deacon, Life of Gregory the Great, PL 75, 41–59, esp. 52C–53B for the miracle; I could not
consult the recent edition by Tuzzo, 2002; on the manuscript tradition, see Castaldi, 2000. On the late
medieval reception of this miracle, see Bynum, 2011, 66, 105ff.
148 Both affirming the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, Paschasius Radbertus (De corpore et san-
guine Domini) and Ratramnus of Corbie had different views on the relation between the historical
body of Christ and the sacrament; on the controversy, see Chazelle, 1992, and in further detail in 2001,
209–38; Matter, 1985, 11–12; Appleby, 2005.
149 Chazelle, 2001, 238.
150 Paul the Deacon selected Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 370, 2 = Alanus, I, 18 (cento); the pericope on
Luke 2, 25, and excerpt from Ambrose, Expositio evangelii secundum Lucam, CCSL 14, 56–7 = PL
15, 1573–1575; Bede, On the Purification of Mary, CCSL 122, 128–33, with the pericope on Luke 2,
22–3; see Grégoire, 1980, 442. On Autpert’s exclusion, see Bini, 2008, 98.
151 On the circulation of his works, see Weber, 1979, CCCM 27B, 882–90; De Rubeis, 1996, 24; Braga,
2006, 522–4; Shaw, 2009, 18–27; Orofino, 2010. For example, a manuscript containing works of
Autpert was copied in ninth-century Reims (see the lists on: www.mirabileweb.it/, accessed 29 Janu-
ary 2018). There, or in its environs, the Utrecht Psalter, that illustrates the altar in the Presentation
scene, was produced. The enduring significance of Autpert’s homily on the Hypapante for the liturgy
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 235

9 On the circulation of iconophile (?) amulets

Dorothy Shorr concluded that the altar in the scene of the Presentation in the Tem-
ple was a ‘Byzantine invention’ after having remarked that Paschal’s enamelled stau-
rotheca, the earliest securely dated object showing it, ‘belongs to a period when the
tradition of Byzantine art was already established in Rome, but also because the ico-
nography of the other scenes represented on the cross is Byzantine in origin’.152 That
the altar is to be considered a ‘Byzantine innovation’ remains to be proven, since Pas-
chal’s cross cannot be judged a Byzantine object, despite revealing affinities in figural
conventions with the Byzantine arts. At the same time, it is very hard to demonstrate
that the new iconography was disseminated through this specific relic container. In
fact, it was rarely displayed in public, and even during ritual anointment and proces-
sions, it would have been visible only to those directly handling it.153 In the second
section of this chapter, we have noted the altar also in the scene of the Presentation in
the Temple depicted on various objects across the Mediterranean and the West. How
should we explain the dissemination of the figural novelty of the altar? Most probably,
there is not a straightforward answer to this question.
Let us examine the case of the enkolpia mentioned in the second section of this
chapter154 (Figures 5.13–5.16, Pls. 25–6). They deserve particular attention in that
they hint at a circulation of artefacts, and maybe craftsman, ideas, and beliefs in
favour of the ‘visual’ element in Christian devotional practices across the Mediterra-
nean. Literally meaning ‘on the chest’, enkolpia were pendants containing either relics
or excerpts from the Gospels. Usually intended for private use, they occasionally func-
tioned as ‘tokens of esteem’ exchanged between rulers and bishops.155 The previously
unattested word enkolpion (‘ἐγκόλπιον’) is found in a letter dated to 811 which the
iconophile Patriarch Nikephoros of Constantinople sent to Pope Leo III to accompany
a precious amulet, defined as a ‘symbol of the love of God’. It is described as being
made of gold, decorated on one side with a crystal, on the other with figures in niello
(‘ἐικονεσμένη ἐγκαύσεως’), and containing a second cross that encased small particles
of precious wood.156 Nikephoros’s letter seems to imply that such ‘symbols of love of
God’ were used in iconophile circles for private devotional practices.
In the early centuries of Christianity believers were already wearing amulets with
an intended apotropaic function, usually crosses containing relics, or phylacteries

and for the understanding of the feast in early medieval central Italy is attested, for example, by its
quotation in a tenth-century homiliary collated at S. Maria Maggiore in Rome that most probably
reflects an earlier compilation connected to Pope Paschal I (Rome, BAV, S. Maria Maggiore Mano-
scritti 122, fols. 124v–128r).
152 Shorr, 1946, 32.
153 See Foletti, 2018, 142, 145, 148–9, on the exclusive view of the altar–tomb of Saint Ambrose in Milan
which only a limited audience could enjoy.
154 With other relic containers, they have been considered in the study Erik Thunø dedicated to Pope
Paschal and his artistic patronage and response to Byzantine iconoclasm; see Thunø, 2002, 20, 44,
73, passim.
155 Vinson, 1995, 94; Drpić, 2018.
156 Nikephoros of Constantinople, Letter to Leo III, PG 100, 169–200, esp. 200: ‘Εἰς σύμβολον δὲ τῆς
μεσιτευοὑσης ἐν ἠμῖν ἐν Εὐρίῳ ἀγάπης, ἀπεστείλαμεν τῇ ἀδελφικῇ ὐμῶν μακαριότητι, ἐγκόλπιον χρυσοῦν, οὖ
ἡ μία ὂψις κρυστάλλου ἐγκατακεκλεισμένη, ἡ δἐ ἑτέρα εἰκονεσμένη ἐγκαύσεως. . . .’. See Vinson, 1995, 92.
236  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

containing miniature-sized versions of the Gospels.157 Since the sixth century Chris-
tological scenes were engraved on amulets, armbands, and rings worn by lay people.
Such artefacts in base metal or precious metal and niello found in various corners of
the Mediterranean reveal a synthetic iconography which has been judged typical of
pilgrimage souvenirs.158 This notwithstanding, pilgrimage sites in the Near East still
await to be considered as the possible sources of manufacture, or at least as distribu-
tion centres of souvenirs, including enkolpia. An incremented production of precious
amulets and relic containers may have been favoured by the multiplication of relics,
one of the consequences of the eighth-century Arab incursions in Asia Minor that led
to the abandonment of shrines and pilgrimage sites, and to the dispersion of their
belongings.159
In the late eighth and early ninth centuries, Christological scenes were illustrated on
precious gold or silver pectoral crosses decorated with niello, often containing relics.
These attest to a wealthy patronage, which has been connected to iconophile prac-
tices.160 As often with holy objects, so with enkolpia, the categories of relic, contact
relic, container, and image tend to collapse and be conflated.161 The combined agency
of images, words, and relics made the enkolpia very powerful amulets.162 But besides
‘providing protection against misfortune’, they also had, in the opinion of Robin Cor-
mack, ‘the double power of confessing orthodoxy’.163 It is possible that iconophile
practices continued in the private sphere even after the reinstatement of iconoclasm in
815, when iconophiles apparently enjoyed a relative degree of freedom as long as they
acknowledged the sovereignty of iconoclast emperors and patriarchs.164 At this point
we should ask: are these personal objects really conveyors of iconophile thinking?
On the Vicopisano cross, on top of the vertical arm on its obverse, the Annunciation
is the first scene of the cycle (Figure 5.14, Pl. 25). The prominent position is apposite
since it highlights the central doctrine of Christianity, namely, the Incarnation of the
Logos. Mary is standing on the left, gesturing towards Gabriel while holding a spindle
in her right hand, which symbolises the fabric of the Incarnation that she is about to
prepare.165 Draped in a classicising himation, Gabriel prominently holds a gilded staff

157 The widespread use of phylacteries among Christians was criticised and compared to the customs of
the Pharisees by Jerome, Commentariorum in Matheum, IV, 23, 26, CCSL 77, 216–17, ll. 220–7. On
the evolution of amulet making from a pagan to a Christian practice incorporating excerpts from the
Gospels, prayers, and liturgical acclamations see De Bruyn, 2015, 2017a, and his monograph, 2017b.
Two other monographs will appear on the theme of amulets: Drpić, forthcoming; Sever Georgousakis,
forthcoming.
158 On pilgrimage artifacts, see Vikan, 1982; Brubaker, 2012, 70–7; Bacci, 2004, 244, underlines how
similar is the iconography on cheap pilgrimage ‘art’ and precious enkolpia.
159 Brown, 1973, 26.
160 Cormack, 2000a, 113–14. Cross-shaped enkolpia with nielloed Christological scenes would be pro-
duced for centuries. For example, see the tenth- to eleventh-century enkolpion in the George Ortiz
Collection, Geneva; Taft, 1997a; or the eleventh-century exemplar in the Benaki Museum, Athens, inv.
no. 21991–94; Katsarelias, 1997.
161 Bynum, 2011, 29, 56, fig. 8, and 127: in holy objects ‘likeness and presence merged’.
162 On pectoral crosses and amulets in Byzantium, see Vikan, 1984; Dauterman Maguire, Maguire, Dun-
can-Flowers, 1989; Spier, 1993; Kartsonis, 1994; Pitarakis, 2006a, 2006b; Parani, 2012.
163 Cormack, 2000a, 114.
164 Brubaker, 2012, 92.
165 The image of the robe of God had been developed in the fourth century by Ephrem the Syrian, CSCO
186; see Angelova, 2015, 240–1.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 237

in his left hand while he salutes her. The Greek inscription reads ‘ΧΑΙ/ΡΕ Σ/ΧΑΡΙ/
ΤΟ[μένη]’, to be read ‘χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη’ that is ‘Hail, full of Grace’ (Luke 1, 28).
The Crucifixion, flanked by Mary and John the Evangelist, is immediately below the
Annunciation, at the crossing of the arms. It reminds the viewer that Christ’s sacrifice
on the Cross was the climax of his terrestrial trajectory, but more importantly, the pur-
pose of the Incarnation. On the minuscule tabula ansata at the top of the Cross, Christ
is identified as ‘Jesus’.166 Running vertically on the exterior of their depiction, Mary
and John the Evangelist are accompanied by an abbreviated version of the exclama-
tions Christ addressed to them from the Cross: ‘Woman, here is your son. . . . Here is
your mother’ (John 19, 26–7).167 Reminding the viewer of the humanity of the new-
born Saviour, his Nativity and the Bath are on the left of the horizontal arm, while his
Presentation in the Temple is on the right. The Baptism is at the bottom. The reverse
of the cross has, on top, the Ascension, with Christ in a mandorla witnessed by Mary
standing among the apostles on the horizontal arm, and the Anastasis, that is the
resurrection of the dead, at the bottom of the vertical arm168 (Pl. 25). The Vicopisano
cross is impressive in size, weight in silver, and fine craftsmanship, when compared to
other enkolpia.169 These are clear indications that it was commissioned by a wealthy
client, and possibly destined to an important recipient. The metal underlying the niello
has been scored to create chevron patterns that give texture to the robes, as for exam-
ple in the case of Mary in the Annunciation and below the Ascension, and of Christ
on the Cross and in the Harrowing of Hell. The gilding of important features such as
haloes, the kolobion of the crucified Christ, the cross held by an apostle witnessing
the Ascension behind Peter, is also a refined detail not normally seen on enkolpia since
their minuscule size, usually less than half of the Vicopisano cross, did not allow such
technical–aesthetic subtleties.
The remarkably small dimensions of the Pliska cross are contrasted not only with
its precious metal, pure gold, but also with its complex structure, having three crosses
enclosed in one another, the inner one functioning as reliquary of a fragment of the
True Cross. The external and internal crosses display a rich iconographic programme
focussed on the Incarnation and articulated in minuscule scenes, some of which were
accompanied by inscriptions.170 The Annunciation is incised on the top arm on the
obverse of the external cross (Figure 5.16, Pl. 26). Gabriel salutes Mary (an abbrevi-
ated inscription reads ‘Χ[αῖρ]Ε/[κεχα]Ρ[ιτωμ]/Ε[νη]’, that is ‘χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη’, ‘Hail,
full of Grace’). She stands and reacts, raising her left hand while still holding a spindle
with the other. The basket with unspun wool is at her feet. She seems to argue before
consenting to cooperate in the salvation of humankind. As in the case of Vicopisano,
the position chosen for the Annunciation on the Pliska cross makes of the Incarnation
the incipit of its visual discourse, that is indeed continued by the Nativity on the left

166 ‘ΙC’, to be read as ‘Ἰησοῦς’.

167 ‘ΙΔ/Ε Ο / ΥC / C[ου]’, and ‘ΙΔ/ΟΥ Η / ΜΗ/Τ[ηρ]’, to be read ‘ἴδε ὁ ὑιός σου’ and ‘ἰδοῦ ἡ μήτηρ’.
168 For a discussion of Mary among the apostles, see Chapter 6; on the Anastasis or Harrowing of Hell,
see Chapter 4.
169 It can still be opened thanks to a hinge at the bottom of the vertical arm, but its contents, a splinter
of wood encased in a small silver cross, seem to have been rearranged not long ago. I thank the Curia
Arcivescovile di Pisa for allowing a private view of the object, but unfortunately no instruments were
available to weigh it. The Pliska cross weighs 42 gr.
170 For example, the Crucifixion has an inscription comparable to Vicopisano: ‘ΙΔΕ Ο ΥO C[ου]’, and
‘ΙΔΟΥ Η ΜΗΤ[ηρ]’, to be read ‘ἴδε ὁ ὑιός σου’ and ‘ἰδοῦ ἡ μήτηρ’.
238  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

arm of the external cross, the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple on the
right, the Baptism at the bottom, and the Transfiguration, in a roundel, at the cross-
ing. On the reverse of the external cross, the entire horizontal arm is occupied by
Mary flanked by the apostles who look up, in the top arm, to Christ ascending into
heaven; the lower arm illustrates the Anastasis. On the inner cross, the obverse has the
crucified Christ wearing the kolobion, flanked by Mary and John the Evangelist. The
reverse shows Mary holding the Child in her arms while standing on an elaborate sup-
pedaneum, with medallion portraits of the Three Hierarchs and Ecumenical Teachers
(Basil of Caesarea, Gregory Nazianzos, John Chrysostom) and of Saint Nicholas of
Myra placed at the end of the arms and identified by tituli. Object of a localised cult
until c.800, Saint Nicholas came to be venerated in Constantinople and elsewhere
during the ninth century.171 It has been hypothesised that the Pliska enkolpion was
brought to Bulgaria from the Byzantine Empire. Two possible circumstances under
which it may have arrived are the military campaign of Emperor Nikephoros I in Bul-
garia in 811, or the erection of a palace by Emperor Leo V (813–20).172 In this phase
Byzantine emperors were responsible for christianising the Bulgars. The enkolpion
may have arrived at Pliska hanging from the neck of a member of the imperial retinue,
hidden under robes and safeguarding an innermost hope for spiritual salvation.
On the basis of material, technical, and stylistic features, scholars have hypothesised
that the Pliska and Vicopisano cross, including the famous Fieschi Morgan casket
or container of the True Cross (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv.
no. 17.190.715a, b, 10.3 × 7.1 × 2.7 cm),173 belonged to a group of objects manu-
factured in the same workshop if not by the same artist.174 The similarity of their
iconography has suggested this, although they were made in different metals in order
to satisfy the expectations of a varied clientele. It is not presently possible to confirm
this hypothesis, nor to establish whether this workshop was active in Constantinople,
Thessalonike, or in another centre in the Mediterranean area.175 In fact, the Greek
inscriptions found on the discussed enkolpia, with their phonetic spelling reflecting
spoken language but no regional accents, do not help identify their origins. A deeper
investigation into this group of objects may point towards other regions, in particular
Egypt, which has a long tradition in Christian amulet-making and in the technique of
niello applied to personal ornaments.176

171 Saint Nicholas and John Chrysostom appear one next to each other on an early ninth-century icon at
St Catherine on Sinai, inv. no. B. 33. On its dating, see Patterson Ševčenko, 1998; on the cult of Saint
Nicholas in the Mediterranean, see Bacci, ed., 2006, 2009.
172 Brubaker, Haldon, 2011, 358, 443.
173 The casket, which displays niello and enamels, arguably marks the beginnings of the Byzantine cloi-
sonné enamelling, a technique imported from the West in the early ninth century; see Wessel, 1960,
1969, 42–4; Kartsonis, 1986, 95–125; Mathews, 1997; Buckton, 1988, 2006. The technique of the
cloisonné enamel consists in fusing powdered glass into cells made of thin metal strips previously
soldered on a metal backing-plate. It is attested already in late Roman objects. Adams, 2003, 43–4,
notes that a rigid classification of the enamelling technique does not help in making sense of the often
inventive solutions of late antique, Byzantine, and medieval goldsmiths.
174 Dontčeva, 1976, 63; cf. Kartsonis, 1986, 109.
175 With regards to these objects, Cormack, 2000a, 114 noted that Rome was ‘one place in the west where
artists and others could share information and expertise’.
176 The study of De Bruyn, 2017b, on the production of amulets in Egypt between the fourth and the
eighth centuries suggests to do so.
 Christ Child as the Lamb of God 239

As for the circulation of the previously mentioned devotional objects, it has been
hypothesised that the Fieschi Morgan casket and the Vicopiano cross arrived in Rome
from Constantinople during the Latin occupation of the Byzantine capital (1204–61).177
All the same, information about their provenance is either late or entirely lacking.
Believed to have been donated by Pope Innocent IV, a member of the Fieschi family, to
a monastery in Lavagna in 1245, the Fieschi Morgan casket was purchased in Genoa
in 1887 from a descendant of the pope.178 The Vicopisano cross possibly arrived in the
province of Pisa from Rome, still an important Mediterranean hub, where between
1253–77 the archbishop of Pisa was part of the close circle of Innocent IV.179 But
rather than accepting the idea that the such objects reached Italy during the thirteenth
century, we should consider that between the eighth and the ninth centuries Rome was
an epicentre of Christianity, and a safe haven for dissenting iconophiles. Thus, we can
imagine that the city was particularly receptive to objects which were seen as ‘symbols
of the love of God’, as Patriarch Nikephoros called the previously mentioned enkol-
pion, which he sent to Pope Leo III. Especially for the faithful travelling from distant
countries across the Mediterranean, portable artefacts would not simply be profane
souvenirs of a visit, but in conveying spiritual power and protection, they would be ‘a
piece of portable, palpable sanctity’.180
Produced for centuries, possibly between the eighth and ninth centuries, enkolpia
may have been worn as a statement of iconophilia, that is a firm belief in the mediating
power of sacred images, relics, and devotional objects, although not necessarily as an
anti-iconoclastic statement. Worn under garments, they encapsulated not only relics
but, metaphorically, also the innermost wish for physical contact with the holy and,
therefore, for spiritual salvation. The Life of Empress Theodora, written after 872,
relates that Theophilos (829–42), the last of the iconoclastic emperors, while lying
on his deathbed in hope of salvation and relief grabbed an enkolpion hanging from
the neck of one of his crypto-iconophile officers. The iconophile Life maintained that
the enkolpion did ease Theophilos’s suffering once he placed it on his lips. Hence the
amulet – combining images, relics, and inscriptions, elements imbued with sacredness
in the eyes of ‘orthodox’ Christians – was presented by the post-iconoclastic hagi-
ographer as an effective remedy to spiritual and physical torments. It also served to
rehabilitate the reputation of the iconoclast Emperor Theophilos by picturing him as
repentant.181 In sum, touched, held, looked at, and kissed, instinctively or intention-
ally while praying and meditating, enkolpia offered the opportunity for a reassuring
tactile prayer to their wearer that nonetheless uplifted them towards the divine.182 It
is easy to imagine how cross-shaped enkolpia, like those examined, especially stimu-
lated a visual and tactile apprehension of God incarnate of the Virgin Mary upon the

177 Bacci, 2004, 245.

178 Williamson, 1913.
179 Bacci, 2004, 245.
180 Vikan, 1982, 13.
181  Life of Theodora, 8, 264–5, ll. 9–42, ed. Markopoulos, 1983; trans. Vinson, 1995, 91; see also Marko-
poulos, 1998, 42, 45–6.
182 On tactile piety and ‘tangible meditation’ embedded in Christian devotional practices, see Bynum,
2011, 38, 65, 104; Dyas, 2014.
240  Christ Child as the Lamb of God

Annunciation, placed on the altar for the burnt offerings as God’s Lamb, and finally
crucified for the redemption of humanity.

Conclusions
As we have seen, in the early medieval period, the Gospel episode of the Presentation
in the Temple of the new-born Christ was the object of different interpretations – in
texts, liturgy, and in the visual arts. Widening the perspective of previous studies,
I have highlighted that theological approaches and liturgical practices developed in,
and shared among, the Holy Land, Byzantium, and Rome were fundamental in shap-
ing the perception of the feast. Relevant to the timeframe of the present study is evi-
dence that in the decades between the late seventh and the early eighth centuries, the
accent of the feast shifted. It moved from the official presentation of the new-born
Child to the Israelite community and his acknowledgement as the Saviour by Simeon
and Anna, as it had been for centuries, to the mystical offering of Christ, the Lamb
of God, on the altar for burnt offerings, prefiguring his sacrifice on the Cross for the
salvation of humankind. This emphasis appears in the earliest original Latin homilies
written to celebrate the feast of the Presentation, possibly as a result of recent theo-
logical controversies about the visibility, physicality, and natures of the Incarnate God.
We have seen that a preoccupation to defend the perfect combination of human and
divine in Christ was already embedded in one of the most outstanding – and possibly
exemplary – eastern homilies on the Presentation in the Temple, composed in the 630s
in the aftermath of the Islamic conquest of Palestine and, at the same time, under the
effect of Christological polemics.
In the early decades of the ninth century, visual renderings of the Presentation in the
Temple in Rome, in the eastern Mediterranean, but also north of the Alps, had Mary
holding the Christ Child above an altar while passing him on to Simeon. The appear-
ance of the altar could be explained as the result of similar theological preoccupations
arising on both sides of the Mediterranean in the period coinciding with the image
controversy and other intellectual developments, such as the growing concern with
Christ’s real presence in the Eucharist and sacrifice on the Cross,183 possibly combined
with the circulation of portable objects which may have facilitated the dissemination
of ideas and sown the seeds of figural conventions.184 The altar was a reminder that
Christ’s mission of redemption had been already revealed during his first official public
appearance. Henceforth, the altar for the burnt offerings became the most effective
liturgical image and visual reminder of this Gospel episode.
In the early ninth-century depictions of the Presentation in the Temple, the impor-
tance attributed to Mary, who carries her Child to the Temple and symbolically offers
him as the Lamb of God on the altar for the burn offerings, seems aimed at reminding
the onlookers that she actively contributed to the redemption of humankind. In the
next chapter I shall trace how, in the period between the monothelete, adoptionist,
and iconoclastic controversies, Mary came to be considered and venerated as the main
intercessor for humankind, and hence as contributor to its deliverance.

183 See Chazelle, 2001, on the theology and depiction of the Crucifixion in the Carolingian period.
184 Vinson, 1995, 91–9; Cormack, 2000a, 114; Thunø, 2002, 120, 130.
Chapter 6

Figuring intercession
The Assumption of Mary

The case studies examined in the previous chapters had at their centre the salvific mes-
sage associated with the visualisation of the Incarnate God. They illustrated that the
popes deliberately pursued an iconophile policy before, during, and after the image
controversy. In their discourse, the vessel of the Incarnation, the Virgin Mary, was
highly important. Although not questioned by the ‘contesters of icons’, between the
seventh and the ninth centuries Mary was indirectly or directly involved in theologi-
cal controversies which debated how the human and the divine related in the Son of
God. Monotheletism, or the doctrine of the single will of Christ, was perceived by
its opponents as a denial of his human will and, therefore, as diminishing his human
side to the point that the Lateran Synod presided by Pope Martin in 649 acknowl-
edged the two births of Christ, one from God the Father ‘before the ages, bodiless
and eternal’, and one from the Virgin Mary ‘at the end of the ages and in the flesh’,
and that he is consubstantial with both the Father and the Mother.1 In the late eighth
century, adoptionism was allegedly spreading the view that Christ was the adoptive
Son of God and Mary had no role in his birth; against this view, Pope Hadrian and
his successor Leo III took action.2 To a certain extent, the holiness of Mary was also
questioned when scepticism and polemics arose, between the late eighth and the ninth
centuries, among the Carolingians about her bodily Assumption into heaven. These
various polemics may explain why in his homily on the Assumption of Mary, Ambrose
Autpert invokes her as ‘worthy image of God’, with an expression (‘formam Dei’)
previously adopted in Christological debates against heretics.3
Notwithstanding the centrality of Mary in the spiritual and liturgical landscape of
papal Rome, in the repertoire of pictorial images examined so far we have seen her
occupying a place in the apse, the visual–spiritual–liturgical focus of a church, only in
S. Maria Antiqua; there, in the years immediately following the iconoclastic Council
of Hiereia, she was depicted to one side, standing and taking up the role of intercessor

1 Acts of the Lateran Synod (649), ACO II, 1, 370; trans. Price, Booth, Cubitt, 2014, 377–8.
2 On adoptionism, see Cavadini, 1993; Chazelle, 2001, 52–74; Kramer, 2016a, 2016b.
3  Ads, 5, CCCM 27B, 1030, ll. 13–14: ‘si formam Dei appellem, digna existis’; on which see Chapter 3.
Whether iconoclasm should be defined a Christological controversy is still disputed; cf. Brock, 1977;
Gero, 1977, 41–5; Tsironis, 2000, 28; Barber, 2002, 61–2; Thunø, 2002, 134; Wickham, 2009, 268–9;
Pallis, 2015, 173ff., summarises the question, and notes that because John of Damascus ‘puts the Chris-
tological dimension at the centre of the iconological framework . . . the dispute was transformed by John
into a Christological controversy’. On the possibility that Autpert may have been informed of the rising
adoptionist controversy, see Matis, 2019, 101.
242  Figuring intercession

for Pope Paul I (757–67) in front of the Christ–Judge (Chapter 1). Although with
similar intentions, that is visualising his hope for Mary’s intercession, Pope Paschal
I (817–24) put instead the enthroned Mother of God at the centre of the apsidal
mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica. Here the Virgin holds the Christ Child on her lap and
is surrounded by scores of angels while Paschal, bowing in front of her, holds her foot.
Paschal’s mosaic has been interpreted as an iconophile manifesto against the reinstate-
ment of the iconoclastic policy in Byzantium in 815. But does it address also other
issues? While the fact that Paschal is ostensibly invoking the intercession of Mary has
been discussed, no one noted that he entrusts his hopes for salvation to her because
she is already in heaven, eternally glorified in her capacity of Mother of God. In fact,
according to Christian authors, it is only after her Assumption into heaven that she
can act as intercessor for humankind.
This prolusion is necessary to introduce this final chapter in which we will explore
how, in the period coinciding with the final stages of the monothelete controversy and
with the debate over sacred images in the Greek East and in the Latin West, Mary’s
intercessory agency came to be inextricably connected to her Assumption into heaven,
how it was variously illustrated in texts and works of art, and how it nurtured hope in
her intercession and promoted an iconophile approach in religious practices. To this
end, eastern and western, earlier and later textual, liturgical and material evidence
will be brought into the discussion of the chosen case studies, mostly from Rome.
It will make plain that there was no standardised image of Mary Adsumpta, that is
‘taken up into heaven’. In fact, conceptual, narrative, and figural renderings of the
transitus were variously articulated, aimed as they were at illustrating one or more
aspects: Mary’s passing (death was not a favoured word to describe it),4 her triumph
over death, the migration of her soul from the body, the Assumption of her body into
heaven to resume her soul, her spiritual and physical ‘re-union’ with her Son, and
finally her celestial glorification in her capacity of Mother of God.5 Recent treatments
of Mary’s transitus focussed on the textual evidence without examining the peculiari-
ties of the earliest original western homilies and the mentality behind them.6 As for
pictorial images of the Dormition or Koimesis in the East and West, the developments
of the Assumption theme and their sources have not been sufficiently clarified.7 We
shall take into account pictorial images which in some cases have been associated with
the idea of her Assumption, while in others have never been discussed as reflecting her
supernatural transition to heaven.
We will first examine a mosaic commissioned by Pope John VII (705–7) for his
burial oratory in St Peter’s, which will be reconsidered in the light of contemporary
interpretations across the Mediterranean of Mary’s intercession. Her orans position,
never explicitly discussed as a rendition of her Assumption, will be compared with
what appears on a textile from Merovingian Gaul, a region which transmitted the first
written authoritative reference to her Assumption in the Latin West, although deeply

4 Mary’s transitus was described by Greek authors as articulated between a falling asleep or dormition
(κοίμησις), a change of state (μετάστασις), a transferral into glory (μετάθεσις), and an assumption (ἀνάληψις);
see Mimouni, 1995, 7–13.
5 On the variety of the imagery of Mary’s transitus, see Schmitt, 2006, 152–5.
6 Mimouni, 1995, 258, who defines the question of the Assumption in the West in the early medieval period
‘un terrain encore trop en friche’; see Mimouni, 2011, 329–31, for a few remarks on Autpert’s Mariology.
7 De Giorgi, 2016.
 Figuring intercession 243

imbued with the eastern thinking on the subject. Between the early seventh and the
ninth centuries, Greek and Latin homilists tried to make do with the lack of scriptural
background on Mary’s transitus, emphasising the long-attested belief in her spiritual
and bodily Assumption and building up an authoritative basis to its liturgical com-
memoration. Especially, although not exclusively, authors who were staunch icono-
philes were active in this regard. The Greek and Latin traditions on Mary’s transitus
seem to merge between the eighth and the ninth centuries, namely in Rome, where
liturgical texts were circulated and then translated. Both these traditions insisted that,
once in heaven, the Mother of God, the vessel of the Incarnation, could help the
faithful climb the ladder of spiritual perfection and open the gates of salvation. In the
second half of the eighth century, Ambrose Autpert and Paul the Deacon had written
the earliest known Latin homilies on this event and feast. Despite all this, dissenting
voices about Mary’s Assumption rose among the Carolingians in the early ninth cen-
tury and persisted for decades. Polemics did not prevent Rome, central Italy, and even
centres in the Carolingian domain from producing rich and varied visual imagery of
Mary’s transitus.
A miniature in an illustrated initial of a Greek homily on the Assumption trans-
lated into Latin in a Roman homiliary dating to c.800 is arguably one of the earliest
depictions of Mary as Adsumpta to which one could address one’s hopes. Paschal’s
apsidal mosaic, dated to 818–19, should be contextualised in this period of polemics
and theological controversies specifically related to Mary’s afterlife. In its discussion,
I have introduced the tropes of the gate of heaven and ladder to heaven. Having func-
tioned on earth as a ladder for God’s descent in human form, once in heaven Mary
functioned not only as the gate of heaven, but also as the spiritual ladder for the
faithful to ascend to the Kingdom of God. The almost contemporary Virgin painted
in the apse of the Crypt of Epyphanius at S. Vincenzo al Volturno, although different
from Paschal’s mosaic in many respects, can be understood by considering this sugges-
tive metaphor. The mural in the crypt suggests an evolving understanding of Mary’s
Assumption, mirrored by homiletic texts intended for preaching monks and lay peo-
ple. Another mural, commissioned by a priest at the time of Pope Leo IV (847–55)
in S. Clemente in Rome and usually interpreted as the Ascension of Christ to heaven,
may be referred to as a more cautious position with regards to Mary’s Assumption,
which was still debated in the Carolingian Empire.
Finally, a cycle of mural paintings produced in Rome during the pontificate of
John VIII (872–82) in a church in the medieval Greek district of Rome will reveal a
preference for depicting the final moments of Mary’s terrestrial life rather than her
glorious, but questioned, bodily Assumption into heaven – a preference which reflects
the eastern figural tradition in this respect. The main case studies debated in this chap-
ter will make clear that an untrammelled belief in the bodily Assumption of Mary, in
her intercessory power, and in the power of pictorial images to mediate with the other
world was consolidated between the early eighth and the late ninth century, especially,
although not only, in Rome.

1 John VII and Mary orans as Adsumpta

A standing Virgin in the orans position was the visual and spiritual focus of a Chris-
tological mosaic cycle decorating the funerary oratory of Pope John VII (705–7)
in the north corner of Old St Peter’s. The oratory was dismantled during the early
244  Figuring intercession

seventeenth century rebuilding of the basilica, and only some mosaics were detached
and preserved (Figure 6.1). Although the oratory has been the object of intense schol-
arly attention which has brought to light important themes, no one has ever contextu-
alised the mosaic with the standing Virgin in a wider Mediterranean understanding of
the Mother of God in the early eighth century. To this end, in the next three sections
I will analyse how Mary was portrayed in earlier and contemporary sources, and
how she was celebrated in Rome and within its wide ecclesiastical jurisdiction. It will
become clear that the mosaic was intended to celebrate the intercessory agency she
acquired once in heaven and, therefore, that she appears here as Adsumpta.
Originally, the fragment with the standing Mary occupied a very high and domi-
nant position on the counterfacade of the basilica, at about eight metres above floor
level, and was framed in a niche by two black twisted columns normally hidden by
curtains. Now immured in the church of S. Marco, Florence, the mosaic depicts Mary
of ‘superhuman’ proportions (h c.2.70 m),8 with her arms open, crowned, and wear-
ing a bejewelled bridal belt immediately under her breast, possibly alluding to her
pregnancy9 (Figure 6.2, Pl. 30). To the left of the standing Mary, Pope John VII was
portrayed gently bowing and offering her a model of the chapel; now only his head is
preserved (Rome, St Peter’s, Grotte Vaticane, 78 × 57 cm).10 An inscription running at
the bottom of the panel and along its right side read: ‘John, unworthy bishop, made
this. . . [as] servant of the blessed Mother of God’ (‘indignus episcopus . . . beatae dei
genetricis servus’). Beneath Mary as orans, in correspondence to an altar and framed
by an arch, there was a mosaic with Mary and the Child, having Peter and Paul at
their sides.11 In the floor in front of the altar, aligned with the mosaics of Mary and the
Child and with Mary as orans, was the pope’s burial place. The mosaic cycle extended
onto the north wall with stories of the Apostle Peter, although it is debated whether
they were planned since the early eighth century or if they were added later.12
Studies that have dealt with this mosaic cycle have identified several themes as piv-
otal in their conception. Robert Deshman, for example, focussed on the servitude of
John VII to Mary, who was the principal servant of God, having identified this one
as the key aspect to understanding the whole programme of the oratory.13 Deshman
also remarked that the servitude to Mary had been made popular in the West by Arch-
bishop Ildefonsus of Toledo (d. 667) only a few decades before John VII decorated

8 The dimensions are noted by van Dijk, 2013, 234; Lidova, 2013, 163; the niche that originally con-
tained it, measured c.3.60 × 2.50 m, see Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 211.
9 Ballardini, 2011, 37, observes the ‘grembo arrotondato’, that is ‘round [pregnant] belly’. See also Bal-
lardini, 2012, 37; Ballardini, in Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 198; Lidova, 2013.
10 On the fragmentary mosaic with John VII’s portrait, see Pogliani, 2016b, also for earlier literature.
Ladner, 1941, 88ff., interpreted the crowned Mary and Pope John’s overt servile attitude to her as a
statement that he felt obliged to pay respect to the celestial hierarchy and not to the earthly sovereignty
of the Byzantine emperor.
11 See Deshman, 1989, 42, n. 36, for further reference on this lost part of the decoration; van Dijk, 2006,
29, n. 60, reminds that ‘while possible’, there is no certainty this mosaic was part of the original ensem-
ble as it has not survived.
12 On the significance of the Petrine cycle, see Sansterre, 1982, 382ff; Tronzo, 1987, posited that the cycle
with Peter was added in the twelfth century; on this line of thought, see also Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013,
206–8.
13 Deshman, 1989, 38–45.
 Figuring intercession 245

Figure 6.1 R ome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII, 705–7, drawing from Grimaldi,
1621, fol. 97r, detail.
Photo: © Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana/Mondadori Portfolio.

his oratory.14 However, Deshman did not explain how or why the writings of Ilde-
fonsus or the idea of the servitude to Mary should have been known to the pope.
The theme of servitude to Mary on the part of the Apostle Peter emerges in a homily
on Mary’s Dormition written early in the seventh century by Bishop John of Thes-
salonike, which seems to offer further help in understanding the choice of images and

14 Ildefonsus of Toledo, On the perpetual virginity of Saint Mary, CCSL 144A, 153, l. 1: ‘Domina mea,
dominatrix mea, dominans mihi, mater Domini mei, etc.’; 155, l. 28: ‘Ecce beata tu inter mulieres, inte-
gra inter puerperas, domina inter ancillas, regina inter sorores’. See Amata, 2006.
Figure 6.2 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, from Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII,
705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
 Figuring intercession 247

words of John VII as servant of Mary and vicar of Peter. This homily has the apostles
convened in Mary’s house on the occasion of her transitus to the afterlife. Peter and
Paul both display humility in deferring one to the other as to who should lead the
prayer. At one point, Peter says to Mary, ‘I am the least of the brethren and your
servant’,15 this sounding as an impressive exhibition of humility on the part of the one
who was to become the first vicar of Christ. In displaying humility while bowing to the
Mother of God, and in professing his servitude to her, John VII positioned himself on
a secure path to walk in the steps of Peter and gain Mary’s intercession. A few years
before his pontificate, his predecessor Agatho defined himself vicar of Peter in the let-
ter he addressed to Emperor Constantine IV on the occasion of the Sixth Ecumenical
Council (680–1).16 This is not the only theme in the mosaics of John VII which seems
related to the Assumption of Mary and her intercessory power.
While the portrait of the pope bowing to Mary alludes to his wish to seek her inter-
cession, this is openly mentioned in his epitaph. Only known through a transcription,
the epitaph defined Mary the ‘unmarried Virgin who gave birth to God’, under whose
protection the pope entrusted his soul (‘sub tegmine matris’, that is ‘under the protec-
tion of the mother’).17 This praise is redolent of the Byzantine traditional formulary
for Mary, of which an excellent example is the fifth- or sixth-century Greek hymn
Akathistos, in which, for example, she is called ‘bride unwedded’.18 The term tegmen
means not only ‘protection’ but also ‘cover’ or ‘covering’, therefore it has been read
as an allusion to the eventual presence of a relic of the Virgin’s robe, believed to be
enshrined at the Blachernai church in Constantinople.19 As a result, the standing Vir-

15 John of Thessalonike, Homily on the Dormition of the virgin, 7, PO 19.3, ed. Jugie, 1926a, 386–7: ‘ἐγὼ
γὰρ ἀδελφὸς ἐλάχιστός εἰμι καὶ δοῦλος’; trans. Daley, 1998, 55.
16 Mansi XI, 279B–280B; ACO II, 2.1, 114–15: ‘immo beati Petri apostoli, cuius, licet indigni, ministerio
fungimur et traditionis formulam praedicamus’.
17 Transcribed in Levison, 1910, 363–4: ‘Hic sibi constituit tumulum iussitque reponi / Presul Iohannes sub
pedibus Dominae, / Commitens animam sanctae sub tegmine matris / Innuba quae peperit virgo, paren-
sque Deum. / Hic decus omne loco prisco squalore remoto, / Contulit, ut stupeat prodiga posteritas.
Non pompe studio, quae defluit orbe sub ipso, / Sed fervore pio pro Genitrice Dei. / Non parcens opibus
pretiosum quicquid habebat / In tua distribuit munera, sancta parens. / Pauperibus reliquum munus
dedit; indicat hospes, / Fessus ab occeano qui tenus urbe venit. / Cum victum inveniet, quo vitae seria
sumat: / Hinc apud excelsum spes erit, alme, tibi’. See Ballardini, in Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 199,
for bibliography, and 204, for an English translation: ‘Here bishop John determined to be buried / and
ordered that he should be placed under the feet of the domina / entrusting his soul to the protection of
the Holy Mother, / the unmarried Virgin who gave birth to God. / Here, the place delivered from its
ancient squalor, / brought together every decoration in order to astonish squanderer posterity, / not for
the vainglory which shall be extinguished under the sky / but for a devout passion for the one who bore
God / O Holy Mother, everything that was precious I offered you without sparing. / I gave to the poor
all that remained, as demonstrated by the stranger who, exhausted from the ocean, reaches the city /
finding the nourishment that the vase of life [the Mother of God] dispenses; / Therefore, before the Most
High, hope is placed in you, O alma Mother’.
18  Akathistos, IX, 18, ed. Trypanis, 33: ‘χαῖρε, νύμφη ἀνύμφευτε’. On the connection between John’s epi-
taph and the Akathistos, see van Dijk, 1999, 423–9; Ballardini, in Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 203.
19 An echo of the Akathistos (XXIV, 1–2, ed. Trypanis, 39: ‘ἡ τεκοῦσα τὸν πάντων / ἁγίον ἁγιώτατον Λόγον’;
trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 19, the one ‘who gave birth to the Word, the holiest of all holies’), has been
detected also in the inscription added to John’s oratory by Pope Hadrian I in 783 in order to record
the translation of a ‘relic of the Holy of the Holies’ (now in Rome, Vatican Grottoes). The relic has
been interpreted either as the Veronica, although not otherwise recorded in St Peter’s before the tenth
century, or as another unidentified relic related to Mary; see Ballardini, 2011, 104–6, and Ballardini
248  Figuring intercession

gin orans from John VII’s oratory has been described in modern literature as a Blach-
ernitissa or Theotokos ‘without the Child’, or as a Maria Regina, which connects the
Nativity depicted above her and the Eucharist celebrated on the altar below.20 Indeed,
the Virgin from John VII’s oratory eludes conventional labels, and seems rather an
innovative combination of various motifs. In particular, it is necessary to investigate
three elements in the mosaic and in the inscriptions originally placed around it: first
is Mary’s swollen belly, marked by a bejewelled wedding belt, the ineffable container
of the uncontainable God that alludes to her exceptional motherhood. Second is her
orans position that combines a reference to funerary imagery, to her future triumph
over death, and to her post-mortem glory, as well as to her good disposition and open-
ness towards sinners.21 Of this good disposition, the pope is the first and foremost to
take advantage: he places a request for intercession by bowing to Mary as her servant
and asking that his soul be entrusted ‘to the protection of the Holy Mother’, as his
epitaph read.22 Third is her crown, which not only alludes to her epithet and image as
‘queen’,23 but summarises the trajectory of her destiny, alluding to the highest honour
she was ultimately granted in heaven for enabling the Incarnation thanks to her hum-
ble attitude (Figure 6.3). We will see how these elements as well as others, even though
paradoxically contrasting, merged in her depiction as Adsumpta between the seventh
and the eighth centuries.
The Assumption into heaven, in spirit and body, was the reward Mary received
for the service rendered to God through the Incarnation. The Annunciation and the
Assumption were, in fact, the alpha and omega of Mary’s unique contribution to the
salvation of humankind. Early exegetes maintained that because the Incarnation did
not imply sexual intercourse, she remained pure, and hence had to be spared the cor-
ruption of the flesh when her terrestrial life ended. At least since the fifth century, if
not earlier, the belief in Mary’s Assumption in body and spirit was nurtured in specific
cult sites of the Holy Land and was disseminated through liturgical and devotional
practices, apocryphal narratives, pilgrimage accounts, and liturgical texts. However,
since no mention of her transitus, or transition to the afterlife, was made in the Scrip-
tures, but only in apocryphal texts,24 it was debated for centuries. Not before 1950,

in Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 200–3. On Marian relics in Constantinople, see Wenger, 1955, 111–39;
Mimouni, 1995, 599–652; Wortley, 2005; Pentcheva, 2006a, 62–3; Shoemaker, 2008; on their reflec-
tions in medieval Italy, see Dell’Acqua, 2016c, 2019b.
20 Cf. Bertelli, 1961b, 121; Deshman, 1989, 36; van Dijk, 2006, 20, 23; Ballardini, 2012, 37; Ballardini,
Pogliani, 2013, 199; Lidova, 2013, 168–9; Pogliani, 2016a, 241.
21 On this aspect, see Kartsonis, 1986, 79–80; Deshman, 1989, 42; van Dijk, 1999, 432.
22 Trans. Ballardini, in Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 204.
23 In the visual arts, the theme of Mary’s Coronation by her Son would only appear in the tenth century;
see Verdier, 1976, 1980; Tronzo, 1989, 185–92; Wolf, 1990, 181–2, 193–4.
24 The earliest narratives of Mary’s transitus are apocryphal texts known in various languages of the early
Christian Near East. Characterised by details that gave origin to two narrative strands (the ‘palm’ and
the ‘Bethlehem’ traditions), they aimed at recalling how Mary departed from her earthly life to be lifted
up into heaven, in spirit and body. The earliest known Greek apocryphal account of the Dormition,
in Vat. Gr. 1982, was produced within the Johannite community before the First Council of Nicaea
(325), see Manns, 1989. Other early texts include: a letter of Pseudo-John known in Greek and Syriac
(late fifth–late sixth century), for which see Jugie, 1944, 117–26, who notes that it predates the feast
of the Assumption established by the Emperor Maurice (582–602), and Mimouni, 1995, 118–27, who
suggests a date between the late fifth and the early sixth centuries; the Greek account of Pseudo-Melito
(mid-sixth century) that refers to Mary’s resurrection, see Jugie, 1944, 111–16; various anonymous Latin
 Figuring intercession 249

Figure 6.3 The Virgin Mary, mosaic, detail, from Rome, Old St Peter’s, Oratory of Pope John VII,
705–7, Florence, Basilica of S. Marco.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

after a long and thorough scrutiny of textual evidence, was the dogma of the Assump-
tion finally proclaimed. It established that Mary had been ‘adsumpta’, that in Latin
is ‘taken up’ into heaven, in her spirit and body.25 The only authoritative reference
to Mary’s passing – a rather dry account of her funeral – in the Greek tradition is to
be found in the early sixth-century writings attributed to Dionysios the Areopagite.26
However, between the early seventh and the ninth centuries, Greek homilies destined
for preaching extolled Mary’s womb – a pars pro toto for her person – as ‘wider than
heaven’; they connected her exceptional motherhood to her Assumption into heaven,
ultimately promoting the belief in her Assumption.27

narratives known as Transitus Mariae (fifth to sixth centuries), see Jugie, 1944, 106–8; van Esbroeck,
1981; Mimouni, 1995, 257–99. The majority of these texts was produced after the Council of Ephesus
(431), when Mary’s title of Theotokos and her exceptional role in the divine economy were defined
through doctrinal explanations and illustrated through narratives; see Jugie, 1926b, 1926c, 1944; van
Esbroeck, 1981; Mimouni, 1995, 2011; Shoemaker, 2002, 2008, 2016a, 2016b; Booth, 2015; Panago-
poulos, 2013; on the Council of Ephesus and the question of the Theotokos, see Price, 2008.
25 See Jugie, 1926b, 5, n. 2; Jugie, 1926c, 1944; Barré, 1949; van Esbroeck, 1981; Mimouni, 1995, 13–21;
Mimouni, 1996, 2011; Shoemaker, 2008, 68, n. 86, recalls the central role of Martin Jugie in the defini-
tion of the dogma of the Assumption.
26 Pseudo-Dionysios, On the Divine Names, 3, 2, CD 1, PTS 33, 14, 1–17; the passage was interpreted as
a reference to Mary’s transitus already by the earliest commentator on the CD, see John of Scythopolis,
Scholia, PG 4, 236C; Scholia, PTS 62, 202.9–204.5; trans. Luibheid, Rorem, 1987, 70; see Mainoldi,
2018, 257–75, for the ancient and modern reception of this passage, not univocally interpreted as refer-
ence to the Dormition, cf. Jugie, 1944, 99–101; Dell’Acqua, 2020.
27 See, for example, Theoteknos of Livias, Encomium on the Assumption 2, ed. Wenger, 1955, 272:
‘ἀναλημφθῆναι ἐν τοῖς οὐρανοῖς τὴν πλατυτέραν τῶν οὐρανῶν γενομένην καὶ ἀνωτέραν τῶν χερουβίν’; trans.
250 Figuring intercession

Mary standing and praying among the apostles while witnessing Christ’s Ascension
appears on sixth- or seventh-century ampullae from pilgrimage sites of the Holy Land
that circulated in the West.28 The choice of figuring Mary as orans was presumably
suggested by the early Christian use, widely attested, of depicting a deceased person
as praying and thus reminding the beholder to pray for him/her,29 but also to express
a firm belief in the spiritual triumph over death.30 As orans surrounded by saints and
popes with Christ and the angels above, Mary had already been depicted in a Roman
mosaic in the apse of the martyrial chapel of S. Venanzio at the Lateran in the mid-
seventh century.31 But what did the Mary orans of John VII mean, placed as it was as
the climax of a cycle dedicated to the Infancy and ministry of Christ and (possibly of
Peter) in the burial chapel of a pope?

2   Mary orans as Adsumpta on a Merovingian fabric

Mary as orans combined with an inscription which speaks of her Assumption into
heaven (and that may be related to liturgical uses attested in Rome) appears on a frag-
ment of white linen brocade from Merovingian Gaul. This originally belonged either
to a liturgical vestment or furnishing, but in the Carolingian period was used to wrap
relics (Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale, 65 × 80 cm)32 (Figure 6.4). The repeated pattern is
composed by a double rota in which, flanked by two angels, Mary stands in the orans
position, floating above the apostles who raise their arms to express their acclamation
of the celestial vision, thus providing witness to its authenticity. The scene is accom-
panied by an inscription that runs on two lines between the double rota and reads,
in poor Latin: ‘When Mary mother of God passed away from the apostles’ (‘COM
TRANSIS/SET MARIA MA/TER DOMINO DE / APOSTOLIS’)33 (Figure 6.5). In the
late nineteenth century, when the fabric was published, the inscription was believed
to be the incipit of a liturgical text or of a legend about Mary.34 In truth, it can be
compared with an antiphon sung for the feast of the Assumption in the Roman as well
as in the monastic liturgy, which might have been its source. The text of the antiphon

Daley, 1998, 71: ‘she who had become wider than the heavens . . . was . . . to be taken up to heaven’.
The theme would be expanded in the early eighth century by Andrew of Crete, Germanos of Con-
stantinople, and John of Damascus in their homilies on the Dormition, and reprised a century later by
Theodore of Stoudios, see infra.
28 Semoglou, 2003, 8, speaks of a contamination between the iconography of the Ascension and the
Assumption on the ampullae.
29 For example, in the catacombs of Priscilla in Rome, second half of the third century, see Foletti, 2016a,
67–8; on fourth–fifth centuries mosaic tomb slabs from Thabraca (now Tabarka; held in Tunis, Musée
Alaoui), see Panofsky, 1964, 40, figs. 175, 177.
30 Panofsky, 1964, 46. For a revision of Panofsky’s rigid classification of funerary sculpture and imagery in
‘retrospective’, that is aimed at celebrating the memory of someone, and ‘prospective’, that is focussed
on the salvation of the deceased, see Marcoux, 2016, 50–1.
31 On the chapel, see Mackie, 1996, 2003, 215–30; however, the author does not discuss the figure of
the Virgin.
32 On the Sens brocade, see Chartraire, 1897; Leclercq, 1924, 2985–7. On the use of silk to wrap relics,
see Muthesius, 1997, 119–20.
33 The inscription can be read in the sections of the rota on the right, while on the left it is rendered as if
reflected in a mirror. The transcription here does not follow paleographic conventions.
34 Chartraire, 1897, 228.
 Figuring intercession 251

Figure 6.4   The Assumption of the Virgin, linen brocade, 65 × 80 cm, late sixth–eighth cen-
tury?, Sens, Musées de Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale.
Photo: © Musées de Sens, E. Berry.

reads: ‘When Mary the Mother of God passed away from this world, the apostles
shed tears because of joy. Now, [Mary,] intercede on our behalf before the Lord’.35
Antiphons were thematic affixes added at the beginning and end of antiphonal Psalms

35 ‘Dum transisset Maria mater domini de hoc mundo apostoli lacrimas fundebant prae gaudio: jam pergis
gloriosa ante conspectum domini intercede pro nobis ad dominum’; for this antiphon and its dissemina-
tion, see Garrido Bonaño, 1987, 52, no. 42.
252 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.5   The Assumption of the Virgin, linen brocade, 65 × 80 cm, late sixth–eighth cen-
tury?, Sens, Musées de Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale.
Drawing: From Leclercq, 1924.

in order ‘to place the monastic exercise of continuous psalmody within a thematically
explicit setting defined by the annual cycle of observances’.36 Their origins have been
traced to sometime between the late seventh and the early eighth centuries, in Rome,
where they were adopted probably in imitation of liturgical practices of local ‘Greek’

36 Nowacki, 2017, 82.

 Figuring intercession 253

monasteries.37 The echo of the antiphon on the brocade could be taken as an indicator
that Mary’s Assumption was celebrated there where the fabric was woven and that it
followed Roman patterns. It also suggests that the idea of Mary’s intercession associ-
ated with her Assumption was propounded through liturgical chants and furnishing
in the early medieval West.
The palaeographic analysis of the inscription on the brocade suggested that it was
woven in Merovingian Gaul between the late sixth and the mid-eighth century.38 In
this milieu, eastern silks circulated,39 and must have impacted on local production.
For example, the idea of encircling Mary’s triumph over death in a rota may have
derived from Persian or Byzantine silks. However, the rota had not only aesthetic or
exotic implications: in a deeply Romanised region such as Gaul still in the Meroving-
ian period the rota may have reminded viewers of the imago clipeata, a portrait bust
framed by a round shield that in the classical visual culture had commemorative,
celebrative, if not triumphalist associations.40 It is tempting to argue that Mary is cel-
ebrated here in a rota because she is triumphing over death, thus her Assumption, wit-
nessed by the apostles, appears innovatively celebrated with a ‘collective’, triumphalist
imago clipeata. The likelihood that the linen brocade was used for liturgical furnishing
suggests that it functioned as means to popularise the belief in Mary’s Assumption,
and support the believers’ hope in future salvation. It also raises the question of when
the celebration of the feast was introduced in Gaul – possibly earlier than elsewhere in
the West.41 If anything, this rare fabric attests to the fact that Mary depicted as orans
could also represent her as Adsumpta into heaven in the early medieval period and
may explain the choice of John VII.

3 A paradoxical image: Mary in the Greek tradition

The mosaic of John VII alludes to the belief that in being the Mother of God, and
as a result queen of heaven, Mary enjoys an eternal, unparalleled intimacy with her
Son, and therefore she can act as main intercessor for humankind. Mary’s ‘historical
role as the Mother of God and her resulting regal status and power to mediate’ were
emphasised by the dislocation of the scenes in John VII’s oratory, according to Ann
van Dijk.42 In one of the most recent and detailed treatments the image has received,

37 Nowacki, 2017, 89–90.

38 The quality of this brocade is comparable with precious fabrics found in the tomb of Queen Aregond
(d. c.580), wife of King Clotaire and mother of King Chilperic, excavated in the royal abbey of Saint-
Denis; see Desrosiers, Rast-Eicher, 2012, 2. In the early medieval West, the localised production of
fabrics was, with ceramics, the most important industry that satisfied the daily needs of communities.
As such it is regarded as one of the ‘essential markers of economic complexity’, but being poorly docu-
mented and tendentially conservative, cloth is the ‘great unknown out of such artisanal productions’,
see Wickham, 2009, 221.
39 A large number of fragments, refashioned in the Carolingian period as relic containers, is preserved in
at Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale.
40 The rota pattern, ispired by eastern fabrics, has been noted also in the Maiestas Domini miniature of the
Gundohinus Gospels, c.754, Autun, Bibliothèque municipale, ms. 3, fol. 12v; Nees, 1987, 149, n. 45;
Miller, 2014, 89. On the imago clipeata, see Grabar, 1957b, 212: ‘une formule iconographique souple et
commode, on s’en est servi, pour exprimer des vérités chrétiennes plus abstraites et parfois essentielles’;
on the imago clipeata in Mary’s transitus to the afterlife, see Kahsnitz, 1987, 101–6.
41 See Hen, 1995, 91–2, although with no specific evidence or references.
42 Van Dijk, 2006, 20.
254 Figuring intercession

Maria Lidova has insisted the theme of royalty exhibited through Mary’s precious out-
fit (Figure 6.3) be compared with depictions of Byzantine empresses and with the icon
of the Madonna della Clemenza in S. Maria in Trastevere, associated not univocally
with the patronage of John VII43 (Figure 6.6). As part of a book on the Assumption of
Mary, the essay by Lidova refers to the Assumption towards the end, where she notes
that the regal splendour of the Virgin suggests that she is standing ‘in glory in front of
the King’.44 Leslie Brubaker has recently remarked the presence of Mary as intercessor
in the visual imagery of Rome, especially in John’s oratory and in S. Maria Antiqua.45
Building on these observations about the Virgin’s regal status and her power of inter-
cession – acquired once she ascended to heaven – we should carefully embed the ele-
ments of the mosaic in a wider picture.
The earliest written references to Mary’s royalty and sovereignty are, without doubt,
associated with Constantinople (see Appendix 1 to this chapter). However, from Rome
comes the earliest known visual rendition of the celestial royalty of Mary. Whether the
enthroned and crowned Mary, also defined Maria Regina (literally ‘Mary as queen’),
was a Roman specialty or not is argued.46 Believed by some to be an image conveying
the papal wish for political independence from the Byzantine yoke, the trope of the
crowned Mother of God reflects a religious perception of Mary widespread across the
Christian oecumene. Without doubt, however, Rome preserves its earliest extant vis-
ual instances. It is found on the first painted layer of the palimpsest wall in S. Maria
Antiqua (c.520s–30s)47 (Figures 6.7–6.8), and in the previously recalled icon of the
Madonna della Clemenza in S. Maria in Trastevere. In both instances Mary appears
crowned and robed in bejewelled garments: this is the reward for being the Mother of
God, whom she has on her lap in the shape of the Christ Child.
While a few Latin sources extoll Mary as regina in the seventh century (see Appen-
dix 1), between the late seventh and the first half of the eighth centuries, in the Greek-
speaking Mediterranean, the theme of Mary’s exceptional motherhood and celestial
sovereignty came to be associated with her Assumption into heaven and the interces-
sory power she acquired once there. In Greek homilies on her Dormition, the Virgin
Mary was portrayed and rhapsodised by Andrew of Crete first,48 John of Damascus,49
and others, as a striking combination of elements. A striking combination of elements,
I argue, is also what is displayed in the mosaic of John VII. This mosaic cannot be

43 Cf. Bertelli, 1961b; Nilgen, 1981, 6–7; Andaloro, 1986; Wolf, 1990, 119–24; Jurkowlaniec, 2009.
44 Lidova, 2013, 179.
45 Brubaker, 2019, 1015–16.
46 Nilgen, 1981, 5: Maria Regina ‘ist eine seit dem 6. Jahrhundert eine nachweisbare römische Spezial-
ität’. Cf. Brubaker, 2019, esp. 1017–19, on the possibility that this motif may have been originated in
sixth-century Constantinople, although this cannot be proven, while it became very soon ‘appreciated
in Rome, particularly within papal circles’. On the Maria Regina, see also Bertelli, 1961b; Andaloro,
1972–1973; Nilgen, 1974; Wolf, 1990, 119–30; Stroll, 1997; Noble, 2001a, 206–7; Pentcheva, 2006a,
21–6; Osborne, 2008a; Lidova, 2010, 2015, 2016.
47 The enthroned Virgin was probably commissioned either by King Theoderic (d. 526), or by his daughter
Amalasuntha (r. 526–34); for a recent appraisal, see Andaloro, Bordi, 2016; Lidova, 2016, 112; Bordi,
2016, 39–40, on this image replacing an earlier depiction of the Virgin matching a Maiestas Domini on
the left side of a rectangular niche, like two ‘windows’ in the original marble revetment of the church.
48 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 8, PG 97, 1100A; Daley, 1998, 144; On the Dormi-
tion, III, 15, PG 97, 1108A; Daley, 1998, 149.
49 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition I, 12, PTS 29, 498; Daley, 1998, 198.
 Figuring intercession 255

Figure 6.6  Madonna della Clemenza, panel painting, 200 × 133 cm, Rome, sixth–early eighth
century?, Rome, S. Maria in Trastevere.
Photo: © Andrea Jemolo – Bibliotheca Hertziana/Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte.

explained without considering ‘Greek’ thinking on Mary’s transitus since at that time
the abiding and rich ‘Greek’ literary tradition on this question had no parallels among
the Latins. On Mary’s transitus, the homilies on the Dormition of Andrew of Crete
constituted the first important reference for her commemoration. Andrew propounded
Mary as a striking combination of paradoxes that involved virginity and childbirth,
humble servitude to God and exaltation, and exceptional mediator between heaven
256 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.7  Maria Regina, mural painting, detail, c.520s–30s, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, apsidal
wall, also known as ‘palimpsest wall’.
Photo: © Beat Brenk.

and earth.50 He also invokes her as the main intercessor for humankind after her
Assumption into heaven.51 This complex and multifaceted imagery of Mary may have
been easily grafted onto the religious culture of Rome – which had long since been in

50 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 16, PG 97, 1069C; trans. Daley, 1998, 134: ‘childbirth
and virginity . . . exaltation and submission, greatness and humility’ are combined in Mary.
51 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 14, PG 97, 1105D–1108A, Daley, 1998, 149: ‘since
compassion is your nature [συμπαθὲς ἐκ φύσεως], by your very closeness to your son and protector’; and
the final invocation to Mary, Homily on the Dormition, 15, PG 97, 1108A–1109A; Daley, 1998, 149–
50. Mary’s intercession was invoked early in the seventh century by Theoteknos of Livias, Encomium
on the Assumption 36, ed. Wenger, 1955, 290: ‘Καὶ ἐν οὐρανοῖς ἀναλημφθεῖσα, τεῖχος ἀκαταμάχητον
ὑπάρχει τῷ γένει τῶν ἀνθρώπων, πρεσβεύουσα ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν πρὸς τὸν Υἱὸν καὶ Θεὸν’; trans. Daley, 1998, 80:
‘she is an unassailable fortification for the human race, and intercedes for us’; and John of Thessalonike,
Homily on the Dormition of the Virgin, 14, PO 19.3, ed. Jugie, 1926a, 403: ‘ἐλπίδα τε καὶ καταφυγὴν
καὶ παρρησίαν τοῦ γένους ἡμῶν’; trans. Daley, 1998, 67: Mary is ‘the hope, and refuge and confidence
of our race’.
 Figuring intercession 257

Figure 6.8  Maria Regina and angels, mural painting, c.520s–30s, Rome, S. Maria Antiqua, apsidal
wall, also known as ‘palimpsest wall’.
Graphic reconstruction: From Wilpert, 1916.

dialogue with the eastern Mediterranean – although whether through these homilies
in particular, or not, cannot be demonstrated.
Van Dijk noted that the emphasis John VII placed on Mary in his oratory had no
counterpart in the celebration of the Roman Mass.52 However, only a few years before
the pontificate of John VII, his predecessor Sergius I (687–701) had solemnised Mar-
ian feasts with a vigil laetania, that is a penitential procession starting in the Forum
and ending in S. Maria Maggiore (Chapter 1)53 (Pl. 1). Whether Marian feasts were
celebrated in Rome earlier, without a procession, is not known, nor is the time when

52 Van Dijk, 2006, 23, 30, remarked instead the centrality of the celebration of the Eucharist in the ora-
tory, and in this regard noted the symbolism of the altar as the cave in which Christ was born and as
the one in which he was buried.
53 LP
 I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84. On the procession held for more than seven centuries on the vigil of
the Assumption, see Wolf, 1990, 38–44; Helas, Wolf, 2011, 13–28.
258 Figuring intercession

they were introduced in the West. In this regard, it is worth looking once more at
the previously mentioned, early seventh-century homily of Bishop John of Thessa-
lonike, which speaks of the commemoration of Mary in a way that may be relevant
to Rome. He remarks that ‘Practically every place under heaven celebrates every year
the memory of her [Mary] going to her rest, except for only a few, including the region
around . . . Thessalonike’.54 His statement has two facets to it. First, it tells that in
the early seventh century Thessalonike and its diocese, with few other places, did not
yet celebrate the Dormition. In fact, in Palestine, Syria, Egypt, and Asia Minor public
processions in honour and memory of Mary are attested as early as the fifth century.55
Second, if John, a bishop suffragan of Rome, finally promoted this feast in the diocese
of Thessalonike, he probably wished his diocese to follow the customs of Rome. If so,
he offers indirect evidence that the Dormition was already commemorated in Rome in
the early seventh century, almost a century earlier than its first attestation, found apro-
pos of Sergius I. As said, we do not know when the feast for Mary’s Dormition and
Assumption was first introduced in the West. But, since the Latin West lacked specific
liturgical material for the feast, Rome must have looked to the East. This is reflected
by extant collections of Greek readings and homilies on the theme translated into
Latin, of which the earliest extant testimonies date to the late eighth and the late ninth
centuries (the Homiliary of Agimundus, Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fols. 55r–70v; the
Mariale of Reichenau, Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug. Perg. 80, on
both of which see infra).
Being particularly devout with regard to the Virgin, we can plausibly imagine that
John VII had an interest in the feast of Mary’s transition to the celestial life that was the
climax of the annual celebrations in her honour. Son to an eminent Byzantine official,
imbued with Greek culture, and ‘a man of great learning and eloquence’ as the Liber
Pontificalis describes him,56 and moreover a strong devotee to the Virgin, John VII
might have taken personal interest in hymns, homilies, and/or practices in use in the
eastern Mediterranean, especially for the celebration of the Dormition/Assumption.
It is not improbable that the pope came to know the homily of John of Thessalonike,
which enjoyed a vast circulation and marked the origins of the homiletic tradition
on the Dormition/Assumption,57 or the ideas it reflected, and perhaps also those of
Andrew of Crete. After all, Thessalonike was the capital city of a largely Latin-speak-
ing province under the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of Rome. Its bishops were regarded
as a sort of vicar of the pope on mainland Greece, and as a matter of fact used both

54 John of Thessalonike, Homily on the Dormition of the Virgin, PO 19.3, ed. Jugie, 1926a, 360ff.
55 An Armenian lectionary dated to the first half of the fifth century records that a feast dedicated to
the glorification of Mary was celebrated on 15 August at the church of the Kathisma in Palestine; see
Renoux, 1961, 383; on the church, see Avner, 2011, 2015. The Byzantine Emperor Maurice (582–602)
fixed the date of the celebration of Mary’s Assumption on 15 August in the whole empire, see Nike-
phoros Kallistos, Historia ecclesiastica 17, 28, PG 147, 292A–B; Mimouni, 1995, 371–471; Shoemaker,
2002, 96, 115–6. On processions in Jerusalem, Constantinople, and Rome, see Baldovin, 1987; Bru-
baker, 2001, 2018; Noble, 2001b, 83–91; Wickham, 2009, 264, 2014, 323–6; Krausmüller, 2011,
221–4; Andrews, 2015; de Blaauw, 2017, 24–8.
56 LP I, 385–6; trans. Davis, 2010, 86–7.
57 Jugie, 1922, 299; De Giorgi, 2016, 49, 65, perhaps overstates the role of John of Thessalonike as initia-
tor (‘almost an icon’) of the Greek homiletic tradition in the Dormition, thus downplaying the influence
on the textual and figural tradition of the Dormition of Pseudo-Dionysios and Andrew of Crete.
 Figuring intercession 259

Greek and Latin in official communication, as seen on lead seals, one of which related
to the author of the homily or to his homonymous successor who attended the Sixth
Ecumenical Council (680–1).58 The Damascus-born metropolitan bishop of Gortyna
Andrew attended to the composition of his homilies either in the late 680s, when he
was a deacon in Constantinople, or more probably after his appointment as bishop on
Crete in c.692. Also Gortyna was a diocese under the direct ecclesiastical jurisdiction
of Rome and this might have favoured the circulation of people, and ‘cross-pollina-
tion’ of ideas, and beliefs, and possibly, texts.
We may never be able to demonstrate that Pope John VII really had these texts in
his hands, but this was not our aim. After all, the images and the inscriptions which
he left in his oratory suggest that the Greek tradition, however he got to know it,
might have inspired him to envision a new, composite, and unique image of Mary as
Mother of God, queen, and main intercessor for humankind. Being very attentive to
his own image, as the Liber Pontificalis describes him,59 John VII must have thought
long and hard about every feature in the imagery and decor of his own burial chapel
in St Peter’s.60 This was the first important act of artistic patronage he attended to
after his election, and the one which would memorialise his pontificate. He used it
as a stage to express his personal attachment to the Mother of God, but also to style
himself as the servant of Mary – the servant of God, while being the vicar of Peter –
the first vicar of Christ.61 It also remains hard to establish whether the design of the
mosaic with the Virgin orans was the impromptu invention of a brilliant mosaicist or
the brainchild of a learned concepteur, perhaps of John VII himself, or a combina-
tion of both. All the same, the mosaic from his oratory appears as a deeply meditated
statement of the pope’s belief in the incomparable intercessory agency of the Mother
of God, acquired after her Assumption into heaven.

4 The triumphant Mar y: early western arts and texts

Although taking a break from the chronologically articulated flow of the chapter, this
section needs to point to a couple of instances attesting to the seemingly long-attested
belief in Mary’s Assumption, and to the circulation of narratives about it and perhaps
also of figural depictions, in the late antique and early medieval West.
Arguably, the earliest extant western illustration of Mary’s transitus to heaven is
found on a fourth-century sarcophagus in the crypt of the church of S. Engracia in
Zaragoza (Aragon) (Figure 6.9). Carved in deep relief, it has Mary, veiled, standing
among the apostles and raising her right arm to hold God’s hand appearing from above,
ready to draw her up to heaven. On the front of the sarcophagus, the Assumption is
flanked by miracles of Christ. On its sides are scenes related to sin and punishment.62

58 On this bilingual lead seal the inscriptions read ‘Ἰωάννου ἀρχιεπισκόπου Tessalonicae’, that is ‘John arch-
bishop of Thessalonike’; Washington, DC, Dumbarton Oaks Museum and Collection, DO Seals BZS.
1958.106.72, www.doaks.org/resources/seals/byzantine-seals/BZS.1958.106.72 , accessed 18 May 2018.
59 LP
 I, 385–6; trans. Davis, 2010, 86–7.
60 Ballardini, Pogliani, 2013, 205.
61 Sansterre, 1982, 384, invites the reader to look at John’s oratory in light of his ideal relation with the
apostle.
62 On the front: Christ healing the Woman with the Issue of Blood, Mary between Peter and Paul, the
Healing of a Man Born Blind, Christ Turning Water into Wine at Cana, Christ Preaching that He has
260 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.9 Sarcophagus, marble, fourth century, Zaragoza, S. Engracia, crypt.

Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Putting at the centre of its visual discourse the image of Mary lifted from earth when
her soul and body were still united, without experiencing death, the sarcophagus not
only preserved the body of the deceased, but also gave them and their kin hope for
spiritual salvation and bodily resurrection, and elicited intercessory prayers and hopes
of heaven. When the scene on the sarcophagus was interpreted as an early image of the
Assumption,63 it raised criticism.64 Although this figural representation does not have
a following and remains isolated in the landscape of western art, this iconography is
based on Christ’s Ascension, in which Christ is lifted up into heaven by the hand of
God, as it is depicted, for example, on an ivory plaque dated to c.400 from Milan
(Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, inv. no. MA 157), and thus it may well repre-
sent Mary’s ascent to heaven. Notwithstanding the fact that the scene on the Zaragoza
sarcophagus pre-dates any known western written account of the event, one cannot
rule out that the belief in Mary’s Assumption had already reached the West from the
Holy Land, since long-distance pilgrimage already existed, as demonstrated in the case
of the late fourth-century pilgrim Egeria.
The earliest and explicit visual and written references to the Assumption of Mary in
the West hint at the circulation of objects, beliefs, and texts between East and West.
From Merovingian Gaul comes not only the previously mentioned fabric at Sens, but
also the earliest known Latin text which refers to Mary’s transitus. At the opening of
his hagiographical collection Glory of the Martyrs, Bishop Gregory of Tours (d. 594)
writes of Christ’s Ascension and of the Assumption of his mother in two following
chapters that mirror one another, underpinning Mary’s exceptional transfer to heaven
by drawing a parallel with her Son’s. Gregory thus crafts an evocative ‘textual diptych’

Come to Fulfil the Law. On the sides: the Original Sin, the Punishment, and the Labours of Adam and
Eve are carved.
63 Garrucci, 1860; Fernandez-Guerra y Orbe, 1867, 43–8; X., 1902, 81–3; Leclercq, 1924, 2990–4.
64 Jugie, 1926b, 14–5; Hecht, 1951, 7. The most recent literature on this sarcophagus maintains it as an
illustration of the reception of the soul into heaven, see Büchsenschütz, 2018, 62–3.
 Figuring intercession 261

that had an enduring importance in the medieval mentality. He also says that Christ
in person first handed Mary’s soul to the Archangel Michael, and later ordered that
her holy body should be taken in a cloud to heaven to be reunited with her soul.65 The
parallel between the Ascension and the Assumption was grounded in the common
belief that the Son of God and his Mother were bound by an indissoluble union, and
thus needed to share also the same destiny of resurrection.66 This belief had been nur-
tured by Early Church Fathers, who maintained the incorruptibility of Mary’s body as
a consequence of her perpetual virginity.67 The parallel between Christ’s and Mary’s
incorruptible bodies and exceptional migration to heaven was also maintained in a
number of Latin versions of the popular Transitus Mariae, an apocryphal narrative of
disputed dating that circulated widely in the West, probably arriving first in Rome.68
Supported by the authoritative bishop of Tours, this parallel between the Ascension
and the Assumption became a crucial element for promoting popular belief while
providing a theological underpinning to Mary’s bodily transition into heaven. It has
been posited that Gregory’s succinct but iconic version of the transitus relied either
on oral accounts transmitted by pilgrims coming back from the Holy Land,69 or on
the Latin translation of a Greek or Syriac source, or perhaps on both.70 Therefore, the
earliest explicit written and visual references to the Assumption of Mary in the West
essentially show two things: texts, ideas, and objects from the Near East were already
in circulation, and that, in the early medieval West, the focus of Mary’s transition into
heaven was her triumph over death, like in the case of her Son, and not her passing,

65 Glory of the Martyrs, 3–4, MGH, SRM 1.2, 39; trans. van Dam, 1988, 4. On Gregory of Tours and the
cult of saints in sixth-century Gaul, see Kitchen, 2016.
66 For a specific comparison between the events of the Ascension and Assumption, see Mimouni, 1996.
A fourth-century homily on the Ascension, possibly produced in Jerusalem by Eusebius of Alexandria,
and a fifth-century homily on the Dormition attributed to Bishop John II of Jerusalem, both only trans-
mitted in Georgian and Armenian translations, already presented the Assumption at the same time of
the Ascension; see van Esbroeck, 1985; Semoglou, 2003, 10–11, 24–5.
67 For example, see Gregory of Nyssa, De virginitate, 13, PG 46, 376D–381B, esp. 377C: ‘Εἰ οὖν οὐ
δύναται παρελθεῖν τὴν παρθενίαν ὁ θάνατος, ἀλλ᾽ ἐν αὐτῇ καταλήγει καὶ καταλύεται, σαφῶς ἀποδείκνυται
τὸ κρεῖττον εἶναι τοῦ θανάτου τὴν παρθενίαν’ (‘If, then, death cannot pass beyond virginity, but finds his
power checked and shattered there, it is demonstrated that virginity is a stronger thing than death’;
trans. Schaff, Wace, 1893, 359); see Jugie, 1926c, 129–30. The influential theologian Hyppolitus of
Rome compared Mary’s virginity to the incorruptible (ἄσηπτος) wood of which the Ark, that is her
Son’s body, was made; this quotation is only known through Theodoret of Cyrus, Eranistes, 1, PG 83,
85D–88C; see Jugie, 1926b, 6–7; see also trans. Ettlinger, 2003.
68 See Jugie, 1944, 106–8; van Esbroeck, 1981; Mimouni, 1995, 257–99, 2011, 157–96, on its disputed
dating, versions, and intricate transmission.
69 The anonymous Piacenza pilgrim visited the basilica of Saint Mary in the valley of Gethsemane and the
nearby ‘place at which she was taken up from this life’ in c.570, and left an Itinerary, CCSL 175, 137–8;
trans. Wilkinson, 2002, 138, see also 132, map 26 for the journey through Scythopolis; van Esbroeck,
1981, 276–82, on pilgrims’ description of the sites connected to Mary’s transitus.
70 Some believe Gregory’s possible source was a Syriac text, conventionally referred to as Obsequies of the
Holy Virgin, which offers the earliest mention of Mary’s resurrection: Wilmart, 1933, 323–62; Jugie,
1944, 108, 112; van Esbroeck, 1981, 270; Mimouni, 1995, 78–86; Mimouni, 2011, 167; Shoemaker,
2002, 33. Others believe Gregory’s source was the Transitus Mariae by Pseudo-Melito, the earliest Latin
translation of an apocryphal narrative about Mary’s terrestrial life, dated to c.400: Haibach-Reinisch,
1962, 45, 171–2; or to c.500, see Erbetta, 1992, 1.2: 492–3; or to c.550, see Mimouni, 1995, 271;
Clayton, 1999, 89. On Gregory and his likely awareness of Byzantine sources, see Cameron, 1975. On
literacy and orality in Merovingian Gaul, see Hen, 1995, 25–42.
262 Figuring intercession

as noted in the earliest eastern figural representations of the event and in written
accounts.
At this point, it is necessary to stress the importance of the term ‘Assumption’ and
the attitude to this sacred event between the eighth and the ninth centuries, and also
remark on the difference with the East. Indeed, the way things are called is indica-
tive of how they are perceived; and attitudes to, and imagining of, sacred events are
the foundations for their visual representations. Liturgical practices and related texts
mirror such attitudes and imaginings, and as a result deserve an overview. Although
Mary’s transitus was first commemorated in Rome with the name ‘Dormition’ so far
as written evidence indicates in the Liber Pontificalis,71 in the second half of the eighth
century in Rome the feast came to be called the ‘Assumption’ of Mary as it appears
for example in the Sacramentary of Pope Hadrian I. In fact, the term ‘Assumption’
emphasises Mary’s transition to heaven rather than her passing and her funeral unlike
the Greek Koimesis, which means ‘falling asleep’. Influential eighth-century Greek
authors spoke of her ‘dormition’ (κοίμησις) or of ‘change of state’ (μετάστασις).72
Instead, ‘Assumption’ became widely used in the western tradition from then on:
emphasising Mary’s glorious transition into heaven, the term ‘Assumption’ set the
tone of later western textual and figural representations of the event, as argued by
Manuela De Giorgi.73
Besides a pseudoepigraphic homily of uncertain date but included in the homiliary
of Alanus, abbot of Farfa (mid-eighth century),74 the earliest original homilies on the
Assumption of the Virgin are those written by Ambrose Autpert (before 784),75 and
Paul the Deacon (after 787).76 Their homilies offer the first western written attesta-
tion of the belief in her bodily Assumption after the one left by Gregory of Tours. The
Merovingian Bishop Arculf, who visited the Holy Land in c.670–80, had been more
sceptical: in referring to the empty rock tomb in the Valley of Jehoshaphat in which
‘for a time Mary remained entombed’, he adds that ‘how or when, or by whom, her
holy body was carried from this tomb, or where it awaits resurrection, no one . . . can

71 LP I, 376; trans. Davis, 2010, 84.

72 Daley, 1998, 27–8, 74, 77.
73 De Giorgi, 2016, 69.
74 In the summer part of his homiliary, Alanus offers three sermons for the Assumption of which only II, 64
(= Pseudo-Ildefonsus, Sermo 7, PL 96, 267C–269C), was originally intended to celebrate the Assump-
tion, as II, 65 (= Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 194, PL 39, 2104–2107) was originally composed for the
Annunciation, and II, 66 (= Pseudo-Ildefonsus, Sermo 8, PL 96, 269D–271C) in praise of Mary. There
is not yet a modern edition of the homiliary collated by Alanus, see Hosp, 1936, 1937; Grégoire, 1980,
128–221, 178–9; Hen, 2000, 217. Sermo 7 and Sermo 194 have also been attributed to Autpert, while
Sermo 8 seems a source for Autpert; see Wilmart, 1911, 230; refuted by PLS 2, 854; Barré, 1959, 151–6;
Barré, 1963a, 39–44; Barré, 1963b, 72, 77–9; Leonardi, 1968, 99–101; CPL 368, 194 is uncertain
about the authorship; see also Bini, 2015, 74–6, 337–8.
75 Ads, CCCM 27B, 1025–36; see Leonardi, 1968, 99–111; Weber, 1979, CCCM 27B, 1979; Bini, 2015,
240–69.
76 First homily on the Assumption, and Second homily on the Assumption, ed. Buono, 2017; see also
Wenger, 1955, 144; Quadrio, 1951, 78–82; on their dating, see Buono, 2017, 702–3. In the West
explicit reflections on Mary’s transitus were not formulated before the second half of the eighth century,
see Mimouni, 2011, 166.
 Figuring intercession 263

be sure’.77 Although Autpert and Paul do not mention Gregory of Tours, who certainly
was the only earlier Latin auctoritas in this regard, both must have absorbed his les-
son, directly or indirectly through the religious culture of Gaul. Autpert was born and
raised there, while Paul spent time there in the late 780s while collating a homiliary
for the Frankish Church.
Both Autpert and Paul held the same pious respect for the feast of the Assumption.78
At the start of their homilies they encourage their congregation to celebrate ‘the day
in which the Virgin Mary migrated from this world’,79 or her ‘birthday into heaven’,80
and hold it in greatest respect above the commemoration of other saints because Mary
is above all other saints having borne the ‘creator of life’ and the ‘prince of martyrs’.81
Autpert urges his audience not to look for her body on earth because she has been
‘taken up [to heaven] above the angels’, where she reigns with Christ.82 This statement
makes the question of her bodily Assumption appear ‘almost redundant’, as noted
by Mary Clayton, who concludes that ‘the extravagance of his [Autpert’s] tribute [to
Mary] is new in the West and must derive in some way from the Greeks’.83 As a matter
of fact, similarly to Greek homilists,84 Autpert accepts the mystery of Mary’s transi-
tion to the afterlife, and openly claims to believe that she was taken to heaven, in a
place above the angels, although admitting that he does not know if ‘with her body or
without it’, quoting the Apostle Paul (2 Corinthians 12, 2–3).85
As Autpert refrains from logical explanations of the Assumption, a supernatural
event, so does Paul the Deacon. Paul recalls the common belief that Mary has been
assumed into heaven, in spirit and body: ‘as she is not found on earth she may perhaps
not unsuitably be believed to have been brought up to heaven, not however, without
her soul’.86 Following in the footsteps of Gregory of Tours, Paul has recourse to the

77 Stranded on the island of Iona (Scotland) on his way back from the pilgrimage, Arculf entrusted his memo-
ries to the local Abbot Adomnán (d. 704); see Arculf (Adomnán), The Holy Places, 12.1–4, CSEL 39, 240;
trans. Wilkinson, 2002, 177. Bede depends on this account in his own De locis sanctis, 5, CSEL 39, 309.
78 A thorough discussion of the homilies of Ambrose Autpert and Paul the Deacon on the Assumption
cannot find place here. It should be noted, however, that Autpert’s homily, decidedly longer and more
articulated in its arguments than those of Paul the Deacon, has a variety of textual references that go
beyond the Latin tradition to embrace the most recent ‘Greek’ thinking on Mary’s transitus. On the
Latin sources of Autpert’s homily, see Weber, CCCM 27B, 1025–36; Bini, 2015, 68–81. Dell’Acqua,
Cerno, in progress, expand the range of Autpert’s Latin and Greek references; for a preliminary discus-
sion, see Dell’Acqua, 2019a, 2019b.
79 Ambrose Autpert, Ads, 1, CCCM 27B, 1027, ll. 1–3.
80 Paul the Deacon, First homily on the Assumption, ed. Buono, 2017, 738, ll. 1–3.
81 Ambrose Autpert, Ads, 1, CCCM 27B, 1027, l. 6.
82 Ads, 2, CCCM 27B, 1028, ll. 11–18: ‘Neque enim dignum est de corporis eius notitia sollicitum quem-
piam esse, quam non dubitat super angelos eleuatam cum Christo regnare. Sufficere debet tantum noti-
tiae humanae hanc uere fateri reginam caelorum, pro eo quod regem peperit angelorum’.
83 Clayton, 1990, 21, who, however, does not explain the reason for her assertion.
84 For example, Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 5, PG 97, 1053C, and II, 8, PG 97,
1061A–1064B; trans. Daley, 1998, 122, 126–7.
85 Ads, 3, CCCM 27B, 1028, ll. 14–17: ‘Vera autem de eius adsumptione sententia haec esse proba-
tur, ut secundum Apostolum, siue in corpore, siue extra corpus ignorantes, adsumptam super angelos
credamus’.
86 Second homily on the Assumption, 5, ed. Buono, 2017, 754, ll. 192–4: ‘Restat ergo ut cum non inveni-
tur in terris, non incongrue fortasse credatur, non tamen sine anima delatum in caelis’; trans. Clayton,
1990, 21.
264 Figuring intercession

comparison between Mary’s and Christ’s exceptional ascents into heaven.87 Already in
the sermon collection known under the name of Eusebius Gallicanus, put together in
south–eastern Gaul in the second half of the fifth century, it is suggested that the faith-
ful hold a reverent respect, defined as ‘admiratio’, towards Mary and her mysteries
of the Incarnation and transitus, and not as ‘ratio’, that is a rational attitude.88 This
idea, disseminated through preaching, may have prepared the young Autpert, who
grew up in Gaul, to embrace later the similar, but much richer lesson of the Greeks. It
might have also reached Paul the Deacon while he was in Carolingian territory, if not
even earlier in Italy, since the collection of Eusebius Gallicanus enjoyed an enduring
fortune even beyond the borders of Gaul, and its sermons were incorporated first by
Alanus of Farfa and then by Paul the Deacon in their homiliaries.89 While the homily
that Ambrose Autpert composed at the monastic community of S. Vincenzo al Vol-
turno, along with his other writings, reached the main Carolingian monasteries and
episcopal sees north of the Alps as early as the late eighth and early ninth centuries,90
the homilies that Paul the Deacon composed for Montecassino did not enjoy so wide
a circulation.91

5 A ‘cameo’ of the Adsumpta in the Homiliary

of Agimundus
In late eighth century, those revising the Roman homiliary favoured Greek authors
consecrated by tradition on the doctrinally unsettled question of the Assumption.
Collated in Rome in the early eighth century and based on the homiliary in use at
St Peter’s since the second half of the sixth century, the so-called Homiliary of Agi-
mundus was completed and illustrated around 800. At this time, readings for the feast
of the Assumption taken from Greek homilies and translated into Latin were added.92
The final compiler of the homiliary had an acquaintance with Greek books; his hand-
writing shows a strong stylistic affinity with contemporary Greek Biblical majuscule.93
His selection of homilies and readings for the Assumption reveals an interest in the
ancient eastern Marian tradition, from which the final compiler drew a rich and poetic
repertoire in which to address the focal themes of the feast: Mary’s perpetual virgin-
ity, divine maternity, and sanctity.94 Excerpts from a homily on the Virgin by Proklos
of Constantinople (attributed by the scribe to John Chrysostom, the most authori-
tative Greek preacher and predecessor of Proklos as patriarch of Constantinople)95
are followed by a homily of Bishop Antipater of Bostra only known in this Latin

87 Second homily on the Assumption, 5, ed. Buono, 2017, 754–5, ll. 194–9.
88 Eusebius Gallicanus, Collectio homiliarum, 76, 7, CCCM 101B, 812; Bailey, 2010, 70.
89 Bailey, 2010, 134.
90 Weber, 1979, CCCM 27B, 882–90; De Rubeis, 1996, 24; Braga, 2006, 522–4.
91 Buono, 2017, 703–7.
92 Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3835 and 3836. On this homiliary, whose first volume containing the period from
Christmas to Lent is lost, see Grégoire, 1980, 343–92, esp. 376–7 on the Assumption.
93 Cavallo, 1979; Petrucci, 1991.
94 Grégoire, 1968, 1970, 100.
95 The readings at fols. 55r–56v are from Proklos, Homily 5, ed. and trans. Constas, 2003, 256–65.
 Figuring intercession 265

translation,96 and finally by another homily from Proklos (Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836,
fols. 55r–70v).97 Antipater of Bostra, influential at the time of the Council of Chal-
cedon (451), had also been cited a few years earlier in the acts of the iconophile Coun-
cil of Nicaea II (787).98 The second homily of Proklos of Constantinople (fol. 70v)
was well known for having been included at the opening of the acts of the Council of
Ephesus (431), when Mary’s address as Theotokos (Mother of God) and her excep-
tional role in the divine economy were confirmed. In other words, these texts had
received a stamp of approval from ecumenical councils, and thus it is not surprising
that they appear in the Homiliary of Agimundus. It remains the case, though, that they
belonged to the Greek liturgical tradition.
Besides Greek liturgical material translated into Latin, the Homiliary of Agimun-
dus also offers an image of Mary, so far overlooked, that possibly represents her as
Adsumpta. In the initial letter of the third lectio for the Assumption (fol. 64r),99 the
bust of the Virgin, frontally depicted and wearing a purple maphorion, is encircled
in the bowl of the letter ‘P’ (Figure 6.10, frontispiece image). In a study focussed on
central-southern Italian manuscripts produced between the eighth and the ninth cen-
turies, the Greek elements observed in the script of the Homiliary of Agimundus have
been paired with a supposed ‘Greekness’ of the motif of the portrait bust of Mary in
the initial ‘P’. However, this ‘Greekness’ and the fact that it represents Mary are not
discussed.100 All the same, the decorative style of the initial is characterised by zoomor-
phic interlaced motifs that find close parallels in eighth-century central-Italian book
illumination.101 In fact, it is to the West that one should look to find the use of initial
letters as ‘image–vector of religious values’ as observed by Guglielmo Cavallo, a nota-
ble scholar of the Byzantine and Italo–Byzantine manuscript tradition.102
In the Homiliary of Agimundus, Mary’s depiction, facing the beholder and clad
in a purple veil with no other ornaments, is unlike earlier or later Roman images of
her in any media. This small initial portrait bears no resemblance to Mary as orans
in the apsidal mosaic of S. Venanzio, or as Maria Regina in the icon of S. Maria in

96 Only known in Latin, this Vat. lat. 3836, fols. 61r–70r is its earliest witness. Its incipit reads ‘Iterum
nos sancta et semper laudabilis Dei genitrix in spirituale convivium vocat’; ed. Grégoire, 1970, 102–17.
97 Proklos, Homily 1, ed. and trans. Constas, 2003, 136–47; its incipit in Latin reads ‘Virginalis hodie
sollemnitas linguam nostram’, at fol. 70v. In other Latin manuscripts, this homily is wrongly attributed
to Pope Leo I.
98 Mansi XIII, 178–179; ACO II, 3.2, 563–5.
99 The incipit reads ‘Propter hoc uero sicut equalem que in ea miraculum’. The image of the Virgin in the
initial ‘P’ has not been previously studied, as far as I am aware. Fol. 64r is reproduced in the paleo-
graphic study of Spallone, 1982; and in the study of Greek and Latin scriptoria of Carolingian Rome
by Osborne, 1990, 82, fig. 5.
100 Spallone, 1982, 46, n. 184, notes that in her view the head in the initial ‘P’ in Vat. lat. 3836 fol. 64r
is a ‘typical motif of Graeco-eastern ornamentation’ that, together with ‘elements in the script’, was
absorbed in Rome; Osborne, 1990, 81, describes the use of interlace and animal features with Merov-
ingian and other western elements of decoration, and remarks that the letter ‘P’ and the other initials
in this section are the first of their kind in Rome and had not yet appeared in Greek manuscripts.
101 Spallone, 1982, 46, compares the ornamental style of this initial in particular with two central-southern
Italian manuscripts, the so-called Codex Salmasianus, BnF, Par. lat. 10318, fol. 262, and BAV, Vat. Pal.
lat. 277 fol. 58v. On the Codex Salmasianus that included a section of the Anthologia Latina, see Hen,
2007, 76–82; Reeve, 2011, 55–6.
102 Cavallo, 1994, 56.
266 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.10   The Virgin Mary, pigments on parchment, Homiliary of Agimundus, Rome, c.800,
Rome, BAV, Vat. lat. 3836, fol. 64r, detail.
Photo: © BAV.

Trastevere; nor is she comparable with the Hodeghetria, who holds and points to her
Child in the icons of S. Francesca Romana and of the Pantheon, or as intercessor,
turned three-quarters to the side, in the icon of S. Maria del Rosario.103 Covered in a
purple maphorion, with no other royal attributes, her bust portrait in the Homiliary
of Agimundus seems more in keeping with early Byzantine images of the Virgin, as
for example in the sixth-century roundel with the bust of the Virgin on the right of

103 On Marian icons in Rome, the literature is abundant; see Wolf, 1990, 2002; Andaloro, 2002; Pace,
2004b, 2015; Leone, ed., 2012.
 Figuring intercession 267

the apsidal arch at St Catherine on Sinai (Figure 6.11), or the Theotokos in Poreč,
and it foreshadows the image of Mary that would be pictured in mosaics and enam-
els under popes Leo III and Paschal I, between c.815–24. In the Roman miniature,
what is meaningful is her direct gaze at the beholder. Set like a cameo in the collet of
the letter ‘P’ on fol. 64r, between excerpts that celebrate her Assumption, she looks
directly at those reading the homiliary for meditation or for preparing their sermons,
as if expressing her readiness to intercede in their favour because she is up in heaven:
this meeting of eyes rendered the portrait an ideal object for private devotional use.
Of the Adsumpta, the readers could ask for support in their daily efforts and quest
for eternal salvation. Embedded in final prayers in seventh- and eighth-century Greek

Figure 6.11   The Virgin Mary, mosaic, Sinai, Monastery of St Catherine, apsidal wall, sixth century.
Photo: © A. De Luca – CCA, Centro di Conservazione Archeologica, Rome.
268 Figuring intercession

homilies for the Assumption,104 and certainly part of the common thinking on Mary
in heaven by the late eighth century, the theme of her intercession is here alluded to
through her direct gaze at the beholder. Thus, the little bust portrait – engendering
the initial letter as ‘living writing’105 – introduces the theme of intercession expand-
ing the contents of the fifth-century readings chosen for the Assumption. In sum, the
combination in the Homiliary of Agimundus of translated texts from Greek, a writing
style influenced by Greek manuscripts, and this image of Mary perhaps modelled on
eastern examples, suggests that Rome was still highly permeable to Greek influences
around 800. Although this affirmation may seem obvious, it has never before been
made with regards to eastern liturgical material and thought associated with the theme
of Mary’s Assumption into heaven.

6 The Carolingian controversy on the Assumption

and Paschal I
Despite sporadic and isolated evidence in earlier centuries, pictorial images of Mary’s
transitus to the celestial life burst forth ‘almost abruptly’ in the West between the
eighth and the ninth centuries.106 The earliest known written mention of an image of
the Assumption dates to c.772–4 and is found in the Liber Pontificalis which informs
us that Pope Hadrian donated a cloth embroidered with ‘the Assumption of the
Mother of God’ to the main altar of S. Maria Maggiore.107 Notwithstanding the lack
of any description of the scene, which prevents further iconographic analysis, one can-
not but observe that the chosen theme particularly befitted the main altar of the major
Marian sanctuary in Rome, in that it recalled the heavenly reward that the Virgin
received for having been the vessel of the Incarnation. Maria Andaloro pointed to the
fact that the presence of narrative scenes on liturgical furnishings betrays a didactic,
more than cultic, preoccupation.108 Thus, the depiction of Mary’s transitus on this par-
ticular altar cloth, or on the Merovingian fabric at Sens, could betray the intention to
consolidate the belief in her Assumption into heaven. More specific is the same papal

104 See the passages on Mary’s intercession in Theoteknos of Livias, Encomium on the Assumption 9 and
10, ed. Wenger, 1955, 290–1; trans. Daley, 1998, 78, 80; and Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dor-
mition III, 14–15, PG 97, 1105D–1109A; trans. Daley, 1998, 149–50. Germanos of Constantinople,
Homily on the Dormition II, 3, PG 98, 361D; trans. Daley, 1998, 171, writes Mary is the ‘bridge for
those who are awash in the waves . . . an advocate for sinners’; Germanos of Constantinople, On
the Dormition III, 11, PG 98, 372C; trans. Daley, 1998, 179: ‘the petitions you make to God on our
behalf’. John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 5, PTS 29, 555; trans. Daley, 1998, 238,
invokes Mary: ‘grant me salvation [τὴν σωτηρίαν], freedom from my soul’s weaknesses and relief from
my body’s ills, a solution to my crises, a peaceful state of life, and the enlightenment of the spirit’.
105 Bede, De templo, II, CCSL 119A, 212–13, ll. 833: ‘Nam et pictura Graece Ζωγραφία, id est uiua
scriptura, uocatur’. Kessler, 1994, tentatively posited that this passage provided the idea for the illus-
trated initial.
106 See Leclercq, 1924, 2990: ‘un peu brusquement’.
107 LP I, 500: ‘adsumptionem sanctae Dei genetricis’; trans. Davis, 2007, 140; see Kahsnitz, 1987, 97; Bal-
lardini, 1999, 61. The donation of precious fabrics particularly intensified under Hadrian, Leo III, and
Paschal I. On the patronage and uses of silks in the West, see Muthesius, 1997, 119–44; on papal dona-
tions of precious fabrics to the churches of Rome through the lens of the LP, see Martiniani-Reber,
1999; Saxer, 1996–1997; Delogu, 1998; Andaloro, 1976, 2001–2002.
108 Andaloro, 1976, 77; but see also Sansterre, 2002, 1026.
 Figuring intercession 269

chronicle apropos of Paschal I, when it indicates that he donated vela decorated with
the Nativity and the Assumption to be hung between the arches of the presbitery of
S. Maria Maggiore, as well as cloths embroidered with various subjects, including the
Assumption and the Ascension of Christ, for the main altar. Interestingly, the chronicle
specified that the scene embroidered on the altar depicted Mary assumed into heaven
‘in her body’.109 This unusual specification on the part of the papal chronicle suggests
that the Assumption of the Virgin had somehow entered into the spotlight in the
period coinciding with the image controversy. But, which were the factors that deter-
mined this heightened attention towards the Assumption and its figural rendering?
As previously mentioned, the feast had been promoted by authoritative Latin hom-
ilists in the second half of the eighth century, Autpert first and then Paul the Deacon.
However, they hinted that the feast of the Assumption was not universally celebrated.
This is attested, for example, by the fact that homilies for the feast are absent in
the official homiliary of the Carolingian kingdom, whose composition Charlemagne
entrusted to Paul the Deacon in c.786/7 with the request that it should be exclusively
based on ‘statements of the Catholic Fathers’.110 And as said, the Assumption had no
Scriptural basis, nor an exegetical tradition, but only an array of apocryphal narra-
tives. Episcopal capitularies held in the Carolingian domain show a mixed picture
with regards to the celebration of Marian feasts, in particular, the Purification of Mary
and the Assumption. The Synod of Rispach, Freising, and Salzburg of 800 admitted
the celebration of all the four major Marian feasts.111 But in the next decade something
set Charlemagne and his theologians thinking about the Assumption of Mary.
In 810, the emperor convened his closest advisors to discuss the report of an inquest
undertaken to verify and help meet the material needs of churches and monasteries
in the Holy Land. The Frankish envoys had visited also ‘the valley of Jehoshaphat, in
the country place that is called Gethsemane, where holy Mary was buried, where her
venerable tomb is’.112 Charlemagne’s envoys were certainly made aware of the pub-
lic celebrations and private devotion surrounding the place for centuries. However,
through a capitulary issued in c.810 and listing the major liturgical feasts of the Frank-
ish domains, Charlemagne requested an investigation into the matter of the Assump-
tion, de facto withholding its celebration. Mentioning only the ‘Purification of Mary’
out of the four major Marian feasts, the entry ends with a dry statement: ‘We deferred
the question of the Assumption of the Blessed Mary’.113 In deferring the question, Char-
lemagne implicitly admits to a doctrinal uncertainty on the matter of the Assumption.

109 LP II, 61: ‘storiam qualiter beata Dei genetrix Maria corpore est assumpta’; trans. Davis, 1995, 27; see
Kahsnitz, 1987, 97; Saxer, 1996–1997, 226–7; Ballardini, 1999, 61.
110 Charlemagne, Epistola Generalis, MGH, Capit. 1, 80–1; Glatthaar, 2010 for a dating of Charle-
magne’s request to 787; Herren, 2000; McKitterick, 2013a, argue that the homiliary could have been
compiled by Paul while in Francia before 786. On Paul’s homiliary, see Grégoire, 1980, 423–86, and
recently McKitterick, 2013a.
111 Concilia Rispacense, Frisingense, Salisburgense, MGH Conc. 2.1, 24, 41, 212; cf. Statuta Rhispacen-
sia, Frisingensia, Salisburgensia, MGH, Capit. 1, 112, capit. 41, 230; Woods, 2013, 249–51, for the
reference to other episcopal capitula; Albiero, 2016, 157.
112 Breve Commemoratorium de casis Dei vel monasteriis, 13–4, ed. McCormick, 2011, 202–3, and
XVIII about the 810 meeting.
113 Capitula
 Ecclesiastica 81, 19, MGH, Capit. 1, 19, 179: ‘De adsumptione sanctae Mariae [ad] inter-
rogandum reliquimus’; see Barré, 1949, 64.
270 Figuring intercession

Possibly the inquest undertaken in the Holy Land had confirmed that the belief in
Mary’s Assumption was grounded on unwritten traditions and on intricate, at best
apocryphal, accounts and might have also gathered the impression that this belief was
not universally popular, as the Merovingian Bishop Arculf hinted after a visit to Mary’s
tomb in the late seventh century.114 The few words in the capitulary indeed suggest that
Charlemagne questioned not only the legitimacy of the celebration of the Assumption,
but even the veracity of the event itself.115 All the same, this could not have been a mat-
ter of an investigation that sought solid evidence. Seventh- and eighth-century Greek
authors remarked time and again that the Assumption was a mystery inexplicable by
human reason just like the mystery of the Incarnation. In the late eighth century Paul
the Deacon, held in high esteem by Charlemagne, remarked that ‘human intelligence is
unable to investigate’ this very topic (‘humana non potest intellegentia investigari’).116
Charlemagne’s decision to withhold the feast within his domains and investigate the
topic indirectly questioned the legitimacy of its celebration in Rome, Byzantium, and the
Holy Land. Only a few years later, dissent against the position of the emperor emerged
within the Carolingian Empire. This can be inferred from the acts of a Church council
held in Mainz in 813, which decreed that the feast of the Assumption should be celebrated
with other main feasts.117 Acts of other local synods held in the Carolingian Empire reflect
a lack of uniformity among the various dioceses with regards to the observance of the
four Marian feasts.118 This was the situation north of the Alps when Paschal I took office.
Hence, the specification of the Liber Pontificalis that the altar cloth he donated for the
main altar of S. Maria Maggiore, the most important Marian church of Rome, had Mary
assumed into heaven ‘in her body’ cannot be taken as an innocent remark, especially
when considering that, as we have seen, Paschal’s relations with the Carolingians were not
always smooth, and that he was particularly alert to defend the traditions of the Church.
Like his predecessors, he seems to stand firm on the promotion of Mary’s sanctity, and
against any controversy related to it. In the early years of his pontificate, Paschal had to
face the coda of adoptionism, which diminished Mary’s role, when Bishop Claudius of
Turin, a pupil of Felix of Urgell, the main proponent of adoptionism, implemented a strict
iconoclastic policy in his diocese, the largest in Carolingian Italy.

7   A Theotokos–Adsumpta in S. Maria in Domnica?

The Theotokos in the apsidal mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica (818–19), commissioned
by Pope Paschal, is usually understood as an iconophile manifesto and as a celebration
of Mary’s exceptional motherhood and of her celestial sovereignty to which the pope

114 Arculf (Adomnán), The Holy Places, 12.1–4, CSEL 39, 240; trans. Wilkinson, 2002, 177.
115 Barré, 1949, 64.
116 First homily on the Assumption, ed. Buono, 2017, 742, ll. 98–101: ‘Sed ad hunc tantae sublimitatis
tantaeque gloriosae ascensionis triumphum quae unquam lingua, quae valeant verba sufficere, quando
ad tam excellentia cogitanda humana aestimatio succumbit?’; Second homily on the Assumption, 5,
ed. Buono, 2017, 755, ll. 203–7: ‘Cedendum sane est divinis consiliis, quod humana non potest intel-
legentia investigari, nobis satis sit quod ita fieri potuerit rationis seriem pertulisse. Nec mirum si glori-
osae matris domini non potest vitae finis exponi, quando et illa quae ei divina in vita sua gratia contulit
nequeunt enarrari’.
117 Concilium
 Moguntinense, MGH, Conc. 2.1, 36, 269–70.
118 Woods, 2013, 249–51.
 Figuring intercession 271

wants to pay homage119 (Figures 6.12–6.13, Pl. 32). On a flowery meadow, and sur-
rounded by myriads of angels, the Virgin sits on a gilded and jewelled throne, but she
wears no crown. She is dressed in a dark blue maphorion and a stole of the same colour
ending in a golden fringe on her left arm, and she is wearing red slippers. In attire, this
closely resembles the mid-seventh century Virgin orans in S. Venanzio and is very close
to Byzantine models. She holds the Child on her lap. He, dressed in a golden garment,
blesses the beholders. While looking in front of her, with the right hand she acknowledges
the presence of Pope Paschal, who, adorned with a square halo, is kneeling on her right
and reverently holds her right foot. On top of the apsidal arch, Christ in majesty in a man-
dorla is flanked by two angels and the apostles, while in its spandrels two figures, possibly
John the Baptist and John the Evangelist, salute the figures in the apse.120 The mosaic
inscription placed below the apsidal conch, in gilt tesserae, celebrates Paschal’s restoration
of the church and directly addresses the Virgin Mary as its dedicatee.121
Albeit using a traditional pictorial composition, the reassuring iconography of the
Theotokos attested in the apses of eastern Mediterranean churches since the mid-sixth
century, Paschal seems to break the mould. He places the Mother of God in the apse,
the focal space of liturgy and devotion, and himself at her feet. In fact, although some
scholars argue that the Theotokos was already represented in the fifth-century apsidal
mosaic of S. Maria Maggiore,122 and in the sixth-century apsidal mural painting of S.
Maria Antiqua,123 she is not found in the apses of Rome before S. Maria in Domnica
according to extant evidence.124 Even if preceded by an earlier Theotokos in Rome, Pas-
chal’s choice of this subject for the apse of S. Maria in Domnica seems perfectly timed.
As a matter of fact, during the iconoclastic controversy the representation of the Theo-
tokos became a ‘stage’ from which specific messages were conveyed to a large audience
and ideally to all of Christendom, as Robin Cormack observed.125 But what was the
message Paschal intended to convey besides the apparent reality of the Incarnation?

119 Wisskirchen, 1995–1997, 1998, 309; Noble, 2001a, 206–7; Svizzeretto, 2003; Thunø, 2005, 2015a,
18–20; Ballardini, 2007, 199–200. Paschal had the Theotokos flanked with angels depicted also on the
mosaic covering the apsidal arch of S. Cecilia, later covered by stucco; Goodson, 2010, 152, n. 271.
120 Labatt, 2012, 162–3, believes that this Christ at the apex of the apsidal arch should be interpreted
as a Transfiguration or as an allusion to this event, considering the presence of the two figures in the
spandrels which she identifies as Moses and Elijah, and the inscription referring to the splendour of
the church. She believes that the Transfiguration scene may be the key to explain the entire mosaic
programme of S. Maria in Domnica. Here I shall demonstrate this is not the case.
121 Thunø, 2003a, 2005, 267ff.
122 In favour of the idea of a Theotokos in the apse of S. Maria Maggiore, are: Belting-Ihm, 1992, 55,
132–3; Andaloro, Romano, 2000, 120–1; Cormack, 2000b, 92–3; Lidova, 2015, takes into account
an inscription mentioning the Mother of God – allusive perhaps to a depiction of her – which was on
the counterfacade, attested in early medieval texts and transcribed by Panvinio, 1570, 235. In favour
of the presence of an enthroned Christ, are: Bertelli, 1961b, 49, 115; de Blaauw, 1994, 355–6; Pace,
2004a, 222; Brenk, 2010, 71–8.
123 The apse, carved in the second half of the sixth century, had a figure draped in dark red-brown, and a
figure dressed in light blue on its right and a third figure, probably the Virgin with Peter and Paul; see
Bordi, 2016, 40–3, 46, and fig. 7; Grüneisen, 1911, 4; Nordhagen, 1962, 57, 1979, 95–6; Pace, 2004b,
144–5; cf. Brenk, 2010, 106, who is against the idea this apse ever had an enthroned Virgin. Pope Paul
I (757–67) replaced this earlier mural with an enthroned Christ, see Chapter 1.
124 On the question of Mary in the apses of Roman churches, see recently Brubaker, 2019, 1014, who
states that the Theotokos becomes a standard apsidal motif in the city only starting from John VII’s
oratory in St Peter’s – but this actually did not have an apse.
125 Cormack, 2000a, 94.
272 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.12 Rome , S. Maria in Domnica, apse, mosaic, 818–19.

Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

The prostration of Paschal in the mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica has been inter-
preted as revealing an intimate devotional relation between Paschal and the Mother
of God.126 His prostration has also been interpreted as Paschal’s self-appointment
to an official role as Mary’s and Christ’s earthly representative.127 Floriana Svizzer-
etto suggested that Paschal kneeling in front of the Theotokos discloses his venera-
tion to a man-made image and therefore his iconophilia.128 But Paschal is actually
not kneeling in front of an image.129 Paschal is kneeling in front of the actual Virgin
and the Incarnate God. This is demonstrated by the physical contact he seeks with
Mary through her foot in order to participate through her in the grace of God to
find a place in heaven. One could argue the same with regard to the donor with a
square halo touching Mary’s purple slipper on the encaustic icon of S. Maria della
Clemenza in S. Maria in Trastevere.130 This icon, as well as the mosaic of John VII

126 Ballardini, 2007, 200.

127 Noble, 2001b, 59; Thunø, 2002, 37–8, 176; Osborne, 2003, 138; Goodson, 2010, 158, 264; Thunø,
2015a, 152–5. On the servitude to Mary, see Deshman, 1989.
128 Svizzeretto, 2003, 246–7; see Foletti, Giesser, 2016, 231, for a critique.
129 Russo, 1996, 208, wrote that in the ‘space of dialogue’ created by this mosaic, Paschal is shown as the
second child of Mary.
130 For the various stylistic, documentary, paleographic arguments supporting different datings, see Bertelli,
1961b (early eighth century), followed by Wolf, 1990, 121, 128; Andaloro, 1972–1973 (second half
of the sixth century); Barber, 2002, 27, who defined it ‘a problematic work. . . [which] bridges the gap
between a manufactured icon and a nonmanufactured relic’; Jurkowlaniec, 2009; and finally Lidova,
Figure 6.13   The Theotokos, Pope Paschal I (817–24), angels, S. Maria in Domnica, apse, mosaic,
detail, 818–19.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.
274 Figuring intercession

in Old St Peter’s, without doubt offered to Paschal a visual repertoire with which to
express his personal devotion to Mary. The gesture of prostration means submission,
respect, devotion: it implies duty but also feelings of total reliance. As a devotional
gesture, the proskynesis is attested by texts and visual images well before the period of
the iconoclastic controversy especially in relation to relics and rulers. The anonymous
Piacenza pilgrim in the late sixth century declares, without any emphasis, that he
‘adored’ relics of Mary and Christ as well as acheiropoieta images of Christ as if they
too were relics that had been in physical contact with him.131 The proskynesis in front
of sacred images became disputed in the late seventh century, when it was associated
with idolatry in polemical writings.132 In the apse of S. Maria in Domnica, Paschal
resorts to that well-rooted belief, and opts for sharing a vision of the Mother of God,
eternally living in heaven, with the faithful in order to open up for them a window
on heaven.133 Whether he also offered relics for public worship is disputed, as there
is no record of a translatio of relics in this church dedicated to Mary.134 All the same,
the man-made mosaic presents a vision sent from heaven, and so avoids allegations of
idolatry despite Paschal prostrating himself. In participating in the celestial vision, he
does not adore an image, but pays respect to the prototype directly.135
The main point I want to discuss, however, is that the image in the apse of S. Maria
in Domnica does not represent a Theotokos tout-court. It has wider implications that
deal with Mary’s mediatory role between heaven and earth and intercessory agency.
Rotraut Wisskirchen noted that this image bears reference to a theological frame-
work which recognised in Mary’s Assumption into heaven, the unpredictable but glo-
rious consequence of her motherhood. Wisskirchen found in Autpert’s homily on the
Assumption the most appropriate support for this apsidal mosaic: she is the Theo-
tokos, but projected in heaven as ‘queen of the angels’, ruling with her Son, the ‘king
of angels’.136 Accepting and developing on the reference to Autpert, Erik Thunø saw

2016 (sixth–seventh century) for a discussion of earlier literature. The donor has been identified by some
with Pope John VII (705–7), and its inscription has been seen as a commentary on the Incarnation.
131 Piacenza pilgrim, Itinerary, 4, CCSL 175, 130, l. 5 (basin and wicker basket of Mary); 20, CCSL 175,
139, ll. 13–14 (wood of the Cross); 44, CCSL 175, 152, l. 12 (acheiropoieton of Memphis); 46, CCSL
175, 153, l. 15 (head of Saint John the Baptist). See Brubaker, 1998, 1230.
132 Brubaker, 1998, 1249.
133 I like to recall here what Brubaker, 1998, 1216, wrote ‘By the year 800, the “icon” was a devotional
image that served as intermediary between the viewer and the person represented; from this point on,
the sacred portrait is best understood as a transparent window that the viewer looks through (to the
“prototype”, the actual person represented) rather than at: the gaze does not stop at the surface of the
panel, but goes on to the “prototype” ’.
134 Goodson, 2010, 223–4. On Marian relics in Rome, see Thunø, 2003b; in S. Maria in Domnica, see
Thunø, 2015a, 152, where he says that in the apsidal mosaic the ‘corporeal and larger than life-size
rendering of her body are visual features in S. Maria in Domnica that seem to compensate for the lack
of her bodily remains’.
135 Relying on the authority of Basil of Caesarea (On the Holy Spirit, 18, 45, PG 32, 149c; trans. Mango,
1972, 47), John of Damascus stated that ‘the honour shown to the image is transmitted to its proto-
type’, see On the Divine Images, I, 35 (= II, 31 = III, 48), PTS 17, 147: ‘διότι ἡ της εἰκόνος τιμὴ ἐπὶ τὸ
πρωτότυπον διαβαίνει’; trans. Louth, 2003, 42; see Brubaker, 1998, 1216, 1226, 1244, 1251, for the
definition of ‘transparent window’; Barber, 2002, 30, on objects donated to icons as ex-voto, trans-
forming the icons from a ‘transparent doorway between viewer and viewed into the specific site of
their mediation’.
136 Ads, 2, CCCM 27B, 1028, ll. 15–18: ‘super angelos eleuatam cum Christo regnare’, as ‘reginam caelorum’,
and her Son as ‘regem . . . angelorum’; and 5, CCCM 27B, 1030, l. 15; Wisskirchen, 1995–1997, 382–5.
 Figuring intercession 275

no link to the theme of Mary’s Assumption in this mosaic, in which he believed she is
presented as mediator between heaven and earth.137 Undoubtedly, Mary is Paschal’s
chosen mediator with the divine, because she is the one who connects heaven and
earth by means of her supernatural maternity. Having said that, Paschal leaves no
room for tautology: his gesture in holding Mary’s foot points to another role for Mary,
and, therefore, deserves analysis. The setting of the scene is a clue.
As said, the pope is part of a celestial vision. He projects himself to heaven at the
feet of the Mother of God seeking her mediation and intercession and thus showing
his flock the way to salvation. Heaven is evoked through a brightly flowered meadow
and the angels, whose overlapping haloes suggest that they are innumerable, are all
there to revere the Virgin and her Son, their queen and king. Angels were also to the
side of Maria Regina in the icon of the Madonna della Clemenza, where they allude
to a heavenly vision, and the donor participates in it. In the Latin tradition before
Autpert, the image of Mary ‘above the angels’ is found in the treatise on the per-
petual virginity of Mary of Ildefonsus of Toledo.138 A few decades later, the image of
Mary with the angels is associated with her Assumption into heaven in Greek homi-
lies. Andrew of Crete addresses her by saying: ‘you are in the place of true life, in the
kingdom of pure light, in the incomprehensible dance of the angels’,139 while John of
Damascus writes: ‘she has been taken to heaven . . . above all the ranks of angels’.140
These homilies, with those of Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople, portray Mary in
heaven ready to intercede in favour of humankind. Decidedly longer than preaching
delivered during ordinary liturgy, these Greek homilies on the Dormition were deliv-
ered during the long vigil of the feast, between the midnight office and the matins, as
John of Damascus hints.141 In being such an important part of the celebrations, it can
be understood how their vivid imagery, poetic turn of phrase, and deeply emotional
tone elicited participation on the part of the faithful, and helped shape the imagin-
ing of Mary taken up into heaven. These homilies not only testify to their authors’
devotion to Mary, but also to their intention of nurturing a visual repertoire of this
inexplicable mystery in the eyes of the faithful. These Greek authors,142 as later Aut-
pert and Paul the Deacon,143 all concluded their homilies with direct invocations to

137 Thunø, 2003a, 148–51, 2005, 272–3.

138 On the perpetual virginity of Saint Mary, CCSL 144A, 252, l. 1696, and 258, l. 1790: ‘super angelos’.
139 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 9, PG 97, 1100C: ‘ἔνθα τὸ ἀληθινῶς ζῇν · ἡ ὁλόφωτος
βασιλεία · ἡ ἀκατάληπτος τῶν ἀγγέλων χορεία’; trans. Daley, 1998, 144.
140 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 5, PTS 29, 554: ‘ὡς πρὸς οὐρανὸν ἀνείληπται, ὡς τῷ
υἱῷ πασῶν ὕπερθεν τῶν ἀγγελικῶν παρίσταται τάξεων · οὐδέν γὰρ μέσον μητρὸς καὶ υἱοῦ’; trans. Daley,
1998, 238.
141 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition II, 16, PTS 29, 534, ll. 2–3; III, 1, PTS 29, 548; trans.
Daley, 1998, 220, 231; on these trilogies, see Cunningham, 1990, 38–40.
142 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 15, PG 97, 1108A–1109A; trans. Daley, 1998, 149–
50. Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition III, 11, PG 98, 372C; trans. Daley, 1998,
178–9. John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 5, PTS 29, 555; trans. Daley, 1998, 238.
143 Ambrose Autpert, Ads, 11–12, CCCM 27B, 1034–6: ‘culpas nostra orando excusa . . . admitte nostras
preces intra sacrarium exauditionis . . . Accipe quod offerimus, inpetra quod rogamus, excusa quod
timemus, quia nec potiorem meritis inuenimus ad placandam iram Iudicis quam te, quae meruisti
mater existere eiusdem Redemptoris et Iudicis’ (‘excuse our faults through her prayers, admit our
requests into the sanctuary of forgiveness . . . receive what we offer, procure what we ask for, hold
back what we fear, since we cannot find anyone more entitled through merit than you to placate the
wrath of the Judge – you who earned the right to become mother of the Redeemer and Judge’); Paul the
276 Figuring intercession

the Virgin who, in heaven, receives the prayers of the faithful and intercedes on their
behalf before God.
Once more in this study, I have brought homilies into the discussion on the grounds
that they are precious indicators of religious attitudes that were quite widely shared.
This is to say that by the late eighth and the early ninth centuries, when Paschal com-
missioned his mosaic, the idea of Mary’s intercession was firmly embedded in the litur-
gical discourse on her Assumption. Only after having been lifted up to heaven, where
she enjoys an eternal proximity to her Son and Bridegroom, can she act as intercessor.
In the mosaic, Paschal implores the mediation of the Mother of God and clings to her
red slipper so as to be guided by her on the ladder to heaven to achieve spiritual per-
fection; he also implores her intercession to enter the gate of heaven and thus achieve
the final deliverance. At the same time, as spiritual pastor of the whole community of
Christians, he shows believers the way to salvation. They should follow Mary’s moral
example in her humble servitude to God that gained her eternal glory,144 and appeal
to her intercession to gain eternal salvation. In this light, the mosaic of S. Maria in
Domnica goes well beyond the traditional image of the Theotokos. The Theotokos
indeed offered to Paschal a reassuring, familiar, and ‘orthodox’ frame within which to
convey his message of salvation through visual imagery.145
Described in Greek liturgical texts for centuries as the ‘throne’ of God, and as the
solid foundation of faith,146 familiar to the faithful as a reassuring image since Late

Deacon, Second homily on the Assumption, 5, ed. Buono, 2017, 755–6, ll. 208–37, but esp. 208–13:
‘Hoc tamen est omnibus absque dubitatione credendum, quod sicut nihil ea est in humano genere
sanctius, ita quoque nihil est in retributione beatius. Sed et hoc nihilominus nulli debet esse ambiguum,
quod nemo ea sanctorum sit in miserando mitior, vel in compassione clementior, vel ad praeces acco-
modatior, vel ad quae libuerit obtinenda potentior’ (‘Everybody should believe this without doubting:
that since nothing in human nature is holier than Mary, nothing may be more blessed than her in
reward. This should not be misunderstood by anyone, that none of the saints is more gentle than her
in having pity, none more clement in compassion, none more appropriate to receive prayers, nor more
powerful in obtaining something if she should so please’). This is radically different from earlier Latin
authors. For example, once Bede appeals to the intercession of Mary, in the hymn In natali sanctae Dei
genetricis, CCSL 122, 433–4; Clayton, 1990, 92–3. In the homiliary collated for Charlemagne, Paul
the Deacon does not mention Mary’s intercession, and later Frankish homilists similarly refrained from
it. In the 820s, Hrabanus Maurus of Fulda cautiously says that Mary provides ‘useful comfort and in
the present and eternal life’, see Sermo 29, PL 110, 56D; see Woods, 2013, 247.
144 In the mid-eighth century Autpert noted that the practice of servitude will allow the servants of God to
ceaselessly behold his face, at the end of time, see Ap, 10, 22, 4a, CCCM27A, 840, ll. 1–2.
145 A mural painting representing the Theotokos, an angel and a donor, originally lit with lamps, unearthed
in an Alexandrian home–workshop of the sixth century is an early attestation of private devotion to
sacred images; see Bowes, 2011, 176–8.
146 Hesychios of Jerusalem, In honour of Mary, Mother of God, 1, 7–8, SH 59, 158: ‘θρόνος . . . καθέδρα’.
Akathistos, I, 12, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 30: ‘χαῖρε, ὅτι ὑπάρχεις βασιλέως καθέδρα’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001,
5: ‘Hail, since you are the chair of the king’; Akathistos, VII, 14, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 32: ‘χαῖρε,
στερρὸν τῆς πίστεως ἔρεισμα’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 9: ‘Hail, firm foundation of the faith’. John of
Thessalonike, Homily on the Dormition of the Virgin, 14, PO 19.3, ed. Jugie, 1926a, 402: ‘θρόνον
χερουβικὸν’; trans. Daley, 1998, 67: ‘cherubic throne’. Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II,
PG 97, 1069Α: ‘ἅυτη ἐστίν ὁ θρόνος ὁ ὑψηλὸς καὶ ἐπηρμένος, ἐν ᾧ Κύριος Σαβαὼθ καθήμενος’; trans.
Daley, 1998, 133: ‘She is the throne exalted on high, on which the Lord of Hosts is seated’. Andrew
of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 8, PG 97, 1100A: ‘ὁ θρόνος ὁ ὑψηλὸς’; trans. Daley, 1998, 144:
‘throne on high’ (quoting Isaiah 6,1).
 Figuring intercession 277

Antiquity,147 by the eighth and the ninth centuries the enthroned Mother of God was
perceived as an emblem of orthodoxy.148 As such she was appropriated by iconophiles
and eikonomachoi alike, although the latter deemed as unnecessary her pictorial rep-
resentations.149 Thus, the throne in Paschal’s mosaic can be taken as a reference not
only to Mary’s sovereignty but also to her doctrinal authority. Moreover, when Pas-
chal commissioned the mosaic, and the Carolingian polemics on the Assumption were
ongoing, Theodore of Stoudios in Constantinople managed to turn the image of Mary
taken up in heaven into a sort of theological ‘icon of orthodoxy’. One of the most
vocal opponents to iconoclasm, which had been officially reinstated in 815, Theodore
was in contact with Paschal on this matter. Relying on the solid foundations offered by
early eighth-century iconophile authors on the Dormition, but concise and less florid
than them, Theodore’s homily recapitulates their main arguments: first, the mystery of
her passing, which cannot be grasped, nor explained, by human understanding; sec-
ond, the fact that Mother and Son share an exceptional destiny in the afterlife before
the resurrection of the dead; third, Mary’s intercessory role.150
Theodore also promotes Mary’s figural depiction as intercessor. In fact, soon after
the beginning of the homily, he reveals his iconophilia when he insists that the light of
Mary ‘radiant with the dignity of immortality . . . shines through her painted image,
and [that] she offers it to the people for the life-giving kiss of relative veneration,
even if the heretics are unwilling’.151 He maintains that a ‘painted’ representation,
offered to the devotional kiss (that he implicitly distinguishes from idolatrous adora-
tion) can aid the faithful in visualising Mary taken up into heaven. To her, the faith-
ful should directly appeal: ‘By your intercession temper the air . . . give peace to the
Church, strengthen orthodox faith, defend the Empire . . . protect the whole Chris-
tian people’.152 By distilling the teaching of earlier homilists, Theodore of Stoudios
removed the commemoration of the mysterious transition to heaven of the Mother of
God from the sphere of apocryphal narratives on which it was originally based and

147 Spieser, 2011, 103–4.

148 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 15, PG 97, 1108B: ‘Ὧ τῆς Χριστιανῶν προπύργιον
πίστεως’; trans. Daley, 1998, 150: ‘O outer bulwark of Christian faith’.
149 Cotsonis, 2009, with regards to Byzantine seals, says that the Theotokos was ‘the iconophile emblem
par excellence’. The iconoclastic emperors Leo III and Constantine V had Mary portrayed on some
of their seals, but the image was replaced by the Cross, see Barber, 2002, 84. Although the staunchly
iconophile Chronicle of Theophanes (post 813), 415.24–30 accuses Emperor Constantine V of chal-
lenging the role of Mary as Mother of God and as intercessor, only the production and veneration
of her images was an issue for the eikonomachoi. In fact, the iconoclastic council of Hiereia (754)
confirmed Mary’s title as Mother of God; see Mansi XIII, 277D–280A; ACO II, 3.3, 688–92; trans.
Sahas, 1986, 105–6; cf. Gero, 1977, 79. Since the horos of Hiereia was transmitted, to be refuted, only
in the acts of Nicaea II, it is likely that it was interpolated by iconophiles aiming at re-writing history,
but to what extent is hard to tell.
150 On Mary’s intercessory role in Greek texts of the period of the iconoclastic controversy, see Cunning-
ham, 2015.
151 Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 2, PG 99, 721A–B; trans. Daley, 1998, 250. On
Mary as intercessor, see also Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 6, PG 99, 727D–729B;
trans. Daley, 1998, 256.
152 Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 6, PG 99, 729A: ‘πρεσβείας σου τοὺς ἀέρας
εὐκρατοῦσα . . . τὴν Ἐκκλησίαν εἰρηνεύουσα, τὴν ὀρτθοδοξίαν κρατύνουσα, τὴν βασιλείαν φυλάττουσα . . .
ἄπαν τὸ Χριστιανῶν φῦλον περιέπουσα’.
278 Figuring intercession

embedded it in mainstream ‘orthodox’ theology.153 The mosaic in S. Maria in Domnica

illustrates exactly the same concept: because she became the Mother of God, Mary
deserved to be taken up into heaven, where she intercedes for the believers. Paschal’s
mosaic and Theodore’s homily both represent precious witnesses to a religious mental-
ity that placed much importance on Mary’s incomparable mediation with heaven and
intercession before God. From this perspective, the S. Maria in Domnica mosaic can
indeed be seen as an iconophile, proactive manifesto that visually expounds the papal
stance at the same time as Paschal addressed the letter to Leo V to rebuke the second
outbreak of iconoclasm.154 Although eikonomachoi did not refuse to pay respect to
the Virgin, they certainly would not have promoted her images, let alone in focal
points such as apses.155 In sum, the traditional image of the Theotokos functions in
this case as the container and the vector for Paschal’s ‘orthodoxy’.156

8 Mar y as threshold and gate of heaven

In the mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica, Mary is the figure that helps Pope Paschal
I climb to heaven, but also marks the threshold of heaven.157 Because she had given
birth to the Saviour, who was the door of salvation (John 14, 6: ‘I am the way and
the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me’), Mary came
to be associated with the type of the ‘salvific gate’ among the early Greek and Latin
Fathers. While in the Latin tradition the image of the ‘closed door’ for Mary prevailed,
in the Greek tradition the image of Mary as ‘threshold of heaven’ and ‘open door’ to
salvation became prevalent (for the sources, see Appendix 2). But in the decades pre-
ceding Paschal’s mosaic, this idea gained momentum. The architectural typologies of
Mary as the open gate of heaven as well as of the heavenly ladder had been expanded
in the homilies of Andrew of Crete and John of Damascus.158 In their attempt to
defend incarnational theology, these authors built on the Marian imagery transmitted

153 Daley, 1998, 26–7.

154 Svizzeretto, 2003, 246–7; on the letter, see Mercati, 1901, 227–35; Ferrari, 1957, 3–10; Englen, 2003.
155 Cormack, 2000a, 95–6; Brubaker, 2011, xix–xxi.
156 As emblem of ‘orthodoxy’, the Theotokos was depicted in mosaic in the apse of the Hagia Sophia and
celebrated in an homily written for its inauguration by Photios in 867, who exclaimed: ‘If one called
this day the beginning and day of orthodoxy . . . one would not be far wrong’; see Photios, Homiliai,
XVII, ed. Laourdas, 1959, 168; trans. Mango, 1958, 291; Mango, 1977, 140. On the mosaic, see
Mango, Hawkins, 1965, esp. 115, n. 3; Cormack, 2000c; Teteriatnikov, 2004–2005; Bernabò, 2007;
Daskas, 2011. Probably in the 840s, similarly as emblem of ‘orthodoxy’, the Theotokos was painted
in the apse of the church of S. Ambrogio alla Rienna (Montecorvino Rovella) in the countryside of
Salerno, the capital of southern Langobardia; for an updated discussion on the site and earlier bibli-
ography, see Dell’Acqua et al., 2018; on the paintings, see Orabona, 2006; Dell’Acqua et al., 2017.
157 Gotia, 2013, analyses the theme of the Annunciation as ‘gate of salvation’ in the Scriptures, in their
exegesis, and in late antique and early medieval art, but fails to effectively explain how the concept of
the gate was visualised. For the visual arts, see Papastavrou, 2007, 233–8.
158 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, PG 97, 1105A: ‘Ἰδοὺ ἡ κλίμαξ, ἣν τὰ θεῖα μυούμενος
ὁ Ἰακὼβ ἐθεάσατο, περὶ ἣν ἑώρα τοὺς ἀγγέλους τοῦ Θεοῦ ἀναβαίνο τας καὶ καταβαίνοντας, ἥτις ποτὲ ἦν ἡ
τοιάδε κατάβασις ἢ ἀνάβασις. Αὕτη τῶν οὐρανῶν ἡ πύλη’; trans. Daley, 1998, 147–8: ‘Behold, the lad-
der that Jacob saw in a moment of divine revelation, on which he saw God’s angels moving up and
down – whatever that ascent and descent signified. This is the gate of heaven’. John of Damascus, On
the Nativity of the Holy Theotokos Mary, 3, PTS 29, 172; trans. Cunningham, 2008, 57: ‘The spiritual
ladder’. On Mary as the ladder, see Dell’Acqua, 2019b.
 Figuring intercession 279

by Greek liturgical texts, and adopted a ‘symbolic’ language and imagery to create a
common ground with their audience.159
In the Latin tradition, ‘architectural’ metaphors to help visualise Mary’s connective
role are in homilies attributed to Augustine and Venantius Fortunatus. This said, the
images of Mary as ladder to, and door of, heaven associated with the Assumption of
Mary are found in Autpert and not before him. He visualises Mary’s role in the history
of Salvation by exclaiming: ‘O truly glorious humility of Mary, that is made a gate of
heaven, is set up as ladder to heaven!’.160 It has been hypothesised that Autpert devel-
oped the metaphor of the gate of heaven elaborating on a Pseudo-Augustinian sermon
on Christ’s Nativity that was included in Alanus’s homiliary that Autpert most prob-
ably knew.161 This hypothesis, however, does not take into account how established
and pervasive was the Greek homiletic and hymnographic tradition on Mary as ‘gate
of heaven’, and what bearing this tradition actually had in shaping Autpert’s ‘textual
icons’ of Mary (see Chapter 2). He remarks that what led to Mary’s Assumption into
heaven and made her the ladder to, and the gate of, heaven for humankind, was her
humility:

Also because of this, the glorious Virgin reveals that she is called blessed by all
generations, for God has regard for her humility. Indeed, she adds: “From now
on all generations will call me blessed”. O truly blessed humility, that gave birth
to God for humankind, brought forth life to mortals, innovated heavens, purified
the world, opened paradise, and freed the souls of men from hell! O truly glori-
ous humility of Mary, that is made a gate of heaven, is set up as ladder to heaven!
Certainly, the humility of Mary is made a ladder to heaven, through which God
descended on earth.162

In the same decades, a devotional anthology collated by Alcuin in York before he

moved to Francia in 782, and reflecting not only liturgical customs from northern
England but also from Rome, Gaul, Mozarabic Spain, and Milan, has the metaphor of
‘gate of heaven’ for Mary.163 By the ninth century the metaphor of the ‘gate of heaven’
had become common language in liturgical hymns and antiphons (see Appendix 2).
However, the strong emphasis on Mary’s humility is the novelty which Autpert intro-
duces in images of her as heavenly ‘gate’ and ‘ladder’. He forcefully supports the idea
that, thanks to her humility, the Incarnation took place in her body making her the

159 Cunningham, 2004, 59; Tsironis, 2011, 184–5.

160 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033, ll. 7–8.
161 Bini, 2015, 74, 79, 344, 351–2. Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 123, 2, PL 39, 1991; see Barré, 1955, 76,
92, 1963b, 57, n. 102. In Alanus’s homiliary, it corresponds to Homiliae, I, 7.
162 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 1–27, but esp. 1–9: ‘Hinc etiam haec Virgo gloriosa beatam se dici ab
omnibus generationibus manifestat, eo quod eius humilitatem Deus respexit. Nam subdit: Ecce enim
ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes. O uere beata humilitas, quae Deum hominibus peperit,
uitam mortalibus edidit, caelos innouauit, mundum purificauit, paradisum aperuit, et hominum ani-
mas ab inferis liberauit! O uere, inquam, gloriosa Mariae humilitas, quae porta paradisi efficitur, scala
caeli constituitur! Facta est certe humilitas Mariae scala caelestis, per quam descendit Deus ad terras’.
See Leonardi, 1968, 109; Bini, 2015, 344, 352.
163 On the De laude Dei, which still is unedited, cf. Bullough, 1991, 198; Clayton, 1990, 55–9; Ganz,
2004, 390; Billett, 2011, 97–100.
280 Figuring intercession

most effective mediator between earth and heaven; having been taken up into heaven
close to her Son and Bridegroom, she gained an exceptional intercessory role.164 Since
Autpert wrote that only through her ‘God redeemed humankind’, it may be inferred
that he saw Mary as actively cooperating to the redemption of humankind – as the
co-Redeemer.165 We can thus conclude that when Paschal commissioned the apsidal
mosaic of S. Maria in Domnica, the Virgin was commonly cast as physical and spir-
itual limen between birth and re-birth, earth and heaven.

9 A humble queen in the Crypt of Epyphanius

At this point, it seems useful to look at an image of the Virgin Mary found at S. Vin-
cenzo al Volturno, the monastery where Autpert had lived, and defined as Adsumpta
by various scholars.166 In the so-called Crypt of Abbot Epyphanius (824–42), where
his portrait in proskynesis at the feet of the crucified Christ is the terminus ante quem
for dating the cycle, Mary is aligned with the enthroned Christ in the apex of the vault
and dominates the conch of the apse, facing the Annunciation on the opposite wall.
As in the mosaic of John VII a century earlier, also here Mary has superhuman propor-
tions, which contrast with the small size and height of the crypt (Figures 6.14–6.15,
Pl. 20). Defined by a painted titulus as ‘Saint Mary’ (S[an]C[t]A MARIA), she has a
large gold-yellow halo which overlaps with a halo in blue and purple that encircles her
body and produces the optical illusion of enlarging the already imposing figure. Every
detail in the apse recalls the royal status she acquired in heaven: the dado is painted in
imitation of a velum with imperial eagles, and above it, are five imposing archangels
paraded in military attire as celestial guardians of the Virgin.167 (The painting on her
face appears fading once compared to images taken when the crypt was first uncov-
ered in the nineteenth century.) Mary wears a crown, long pearl earrings, and purple
robes with a roundel hanging at the bottom of the loros, an item of high-status attire.
The hem of her robe, now appearing yellow, was originally lapis lazuli blue.168 Of
the three red, oval gemstones that decorated her collar, those at the side are painted,
but the central one was probably a real cabochon in red garnet, or a glass substitute169

164 Ads, 12, CCCM 27B, 1036, l. 6: ‘plus sanctibus omnibus’. On Mary’s intercession connected to her
exceptional maternity in Autpert, see Leonardi, 1968, 99. On Mary as intercessor in the medieval
devotion and arts, see Oakes, 2008, 22.
165 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1034, l. 26: ‘Puto enim, immo ueraciter credo, ut creatura ederes Creatorem,
famula Dominum generares, ut per te Deus mundum redimeret, per te inluminaret, per te ad uitam
reuocaret’ (‘I think then – or, rather, truly do I believe – that, as a creature you took into yourself the
Creator, a servant you begot the Lord, so God redeems, enlightens, calls back to life, the world through
you’). It has been argued that the concept of co-Redemptrix for Mary first appeared in the writings of
the tenth-century Greek author John Geometres; see Galot, 1957, 2005, for a wider approach.
166 Toesca, 1904, 37; Belting, 1968, 218–19; De’ Maffei, 1985, 296–312.
167 The archangels have been seen as a reference to the Book of Revelation (7, 1–3), which says that four
of them shall stay at the four corners of earth protecting it, and a fifth will mark the foreheads of the
servants of God, see Mitchell, 2011, 125.
168 Its altered colour now looks yellow. I thank Vincenzo Gheroldi and Sara Marazzani for sharing this
and other technical observations they made in the Crypt of Epyphanius in 2014 and 2017. A thorough
description of the Virgin’s garments is in De’ Maffei, 1985, 274.
169 In the place of the central gemstone, white plaster is now visible as a result of the fact that the hole
produced by the loss of an object was filled during the twentieth-century restoration; see Gheroldi,
2017, 301, fig. 2; Gheroldi, Marazzani, 2017, 208, fig. 1, in UV light.
 Figuring intercession 281

Figure 6.14 The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, five archangels, dado with eagles, mural painting,
Crypt of Epyphanius, San Vincenzo al Volturno apse, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

(Figure 6.16). This was no mere ornament: a red stone on her collar would have
reminded the faithful of blood, and hence of the physicality of the Incarnation. In
other words, like Mary’s swollen belly in the mosaic of John VII, the red stone here
would have reminded the faithful that she bore in her womb the perfectly combined
282 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.15   The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, mural painting, Crypt of Epyphanius, vault of
the apse, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

divine–human God.170 In the mural, her purple slippers are studded with simulated
pearls. She sits on a precious throne, with a cushion originally coloured with two dif-
ferent shades of red to imitate the shimmer of silk. Mary looks directly at the beholder.
She holds her right hand in front of her chest, while with her left hand she holds an
open book that displays a quotation, now barely visible, from the Magnificat hymn
(Luke 1, 48): ‘For behold, from now [on all generations] will call me blessed’ (‘ECCE
ENIM EX HOC/BEATAM ME DICENT [omnes generationes]’) (Figure 6.17). This is

170 On the symbolism of the red garnet, see Dell’Acqua, 2017. On the significance and evocative power of
materials in medieval holy objects, see Bynum, 2011, 58ff.
 Figuring intercession 283

Figure 6.16   The Virgin Adsumpta into heaven, detail (right: in UV light), Crypt of Epyphanius,
mural painting, early ninth century.
Photo: © Vincenzo Gheroldi and Sara Marazzani.

what the Virgin said to her cousin Elizabeth during her Visitation to inform her that
she would become the Mother of God:

My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for he has been
mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call
me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me – holy is his name. . . .
He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble.
(Luke 1, 46–9, and 52)

Clearly, the text on her open book is meant to remind the viewer that since she par-
ticipated with humility in God’s scheme of deliverance through the Incarnation, this
very virtue earned her the highest honour, that is to be taken up into heaven, made
queen, and to sit eternally at the side of her Son. This message also has moral and
eschatological implications for believers. The unusual feature of the book makes this
image a unique visual rendering of Mary as Adsumpta.171 Belting stressed the unique

171 Toesca, 1904, 37; Belting, 1968, 218–19; De’ Maffei, 1985, 296–312. Papastavrou, 1990, 154, 166,
noted that the Virgin holding a book first appears in the Crypt of Epyphanius and that it has western
origins, but actually she discusses the book in Annunciation scenes.
284 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.17   The Virgin’s book with a quotation from the Magnif icat hymn (Luke 1, 48): ‘ECCE
ENIM EX HOC/BEATAM ME DICENT [omnes generationes]’ (‘For behold, from
now on [all generations] will call me blessed’), mural painting, Crypt of Epypha-
nius, vault of the apse, detail, early ninth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

and paradoxical combination of humility with majesty, as well as the presence of the
book.172 The loss of potential comparanda, and the fact that the iconography of the
Assumption was still experimental and erratic, may account for such uniqueness. In
fact, only from around 1100 Mary would be represented enthroned in heaven and
encircled in a halo of glory,173 and, moreover, only in the late medieval period would
Mary be illustrated with a book of prayer in psalters, books of hours, and panel paint-
ings, although this image would never become mainstream in monumental arts.174

172 Belting, 1968, 218–19.

173 See Schmitt, 2006, 156–60.
174 With her book on which the Magnificat can be read, Mary appears in the Madonna del Magnificat, a
devotional panel painting executed by Sandro Botticelli in Florence in 1481 (Florence, Galleria degli
 Figuring intercession 285

Thus, the book seems to be the key element in understanding the mural at S. Vincenzo,
and on closer inspection it unfolds as a polysemous element. Therefore, we shall first
analyse how humility made Mary the ladder connecting heaven and earth, then the
type of the ladder related to her mediatory and intercessory agency, and then her
praise through the Magnificat hymn. These elements, aptly combined in the book
depicted in the hands of the Virgin, made this mural an edifying image for the believer.
Hans Belting and Fernanda De’ Maffei defined the image in the vault of the crypt as
Maria Regina.175 As material and textual evidence suggests, the idea of Mary as queen
of heaven gained further prominence between the eighth and the ninth centuries (see
the section on John VII in this chapter and Appendix 1). However, Belting, noting
Mary’s royal attributes, focussed on her humility. In his opinion, this virtue is alluded
to not only by the text inscribed in the book but also by her composed gesture.176
He also confirmed, as De’ Maffei did later, the suggestion made previously by Pietro
Toesca in 1904 regarding the impact of Autpert’s homily on the Assumption on those
who conceived the imagery of the crypt, and specifically on this image with its quota-
tion from the Magnificat.177 As noted several times in this study, pictorial images are
only one facet of the prism of a culture. Long praised by Christian exegetes, first by
Andrew of Crete among the Greeks,178 and then by Ambrose Autpert among the Lat-
ins, Mary’s humility was specifically associated with her Assumption into heaven and
with the intercessory agency she acquired there. Autpert declares that Mary’s humility,
her main virtue, made her worthy of being taken up into heaven and becoming queen.
In Autpert’s eyes, Mary embodies humility, thus he invokes the Adsumpta as ‘beata
humilitas’, that literally is ‘blessed humility’ in his homily and in his commentary on
Revelation.179 This is how she appears in the crypt, a humble queen.

Uffizi, 118 × 119 cm). On praying Mary in the late medieval period through the book of hours, that
derived from the adaptation of the monastic psalter to the breviary, see Fulton Brown, 2017.
175 Belting, 1968, 216; De’ Maffei, 1985, 275, 306–7, see her as a Maria Regina without the Child. Nil-
gen, 1974, 22–3, believed instead that the three images of Mary in the Crypt of Epyphanius – in the
vault, at the right side of the entrance as Platytéra, as Annunciate to the right of the fenestella confes-
sionis, all crowned – represent the Ecclesia, that is the Church. On Mary as Ecclesia in visual arts, see
also Thérel, 1964.
176 Belting, 1968, 218–19, briefly introduced the theme of humility and the Magnificat; De’ Maffei, 1985,
308–10, aptly expanded it by appealing to further passages in Autpert’s Ads.
177 Toesca, 1904; but also Exner, 2000, 324–5. Despite general consensus about Autpert being the source
of inspiration for the crypt’s pictorial imagery, and therefore also for the image of Mary ‘taken up into
heaven’, in one of the most comprehensive appraisals of the medieval depiction of the Assumption, he
is only mentioned in a footnote, see Schmitt, 2006, 181, n. 15.
178 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 16, PG 97, 1069C; trans. Daley, 1998, 134.
179 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 4–7: ‘O uere beata humilitas, quae Deum hominibus peperit, uitam
mortalibus edidit, caelos innouauit, mundum purificauit, paradisum aperuit, et hominum animas ab
inferis liberauit!’ (‘O truly blessed humility, that gave birth to God for humakind, brought forth life for
mortals, renewed the heavens, purified the world, opened paradise, and freed the souls of men from
hell!’; cf. Ap, 2, 2, 8, CCCM 27, ll. 132–54, but esp. 143–6: ‘O quantum meruisti, o quantum beata
humilitas in sacra Virgine ualuisti! Quid enim in sacra Virgine meruisti, nisi ut Deum homini coniun-
geres, ut Verbum carni unires?’ (‘O, blessed humility, how much you obtained, how much power you
showed in the sacred Virgin! What did you obtain through this holy Virgin, other than that you might
join God to man, that you might unite the Word to flesh?’). Mary’s humility was an important aspect
also in the homiliary that Paul the Deacon composed for Charlemagne in c.786/7 – in which, however,
he did not include any homily for the Assumption, as recalled; see Woods, 2013, 238–9.
286 Figuring intercession

In the Crypt of Epyphanius Mary engages the beholder with her direct and earnest
gaze and with a gesture that expresses her testimony about what is written in the
book: she is now blessed and glorified in heaven because God has not only ‘been mind-
ful of the humble state of his servant [Mary]’, but because he shall also ‘lift up the
humble’ (Luke 1, 48, and 52). She is therefore recommending that the viewer follow
her example of humility, and hinting that with her guidance and intercession, anyone
can climb the ladder to heaven. In other words, she seems to be offering advice, not
simply forgiveness, and to be eliciting cooperation. We should then ask what brought
the theme of Mary’s intercession, related to her Assumption, to prominence in the
early ninth century. There is no hint of doubt that the idea of Mary’s intercession was
long established. During the theological disputes that took shape between the seventh
and the ninth centuries, a sharpened focus on Mary led to a more solid doctrinal
framing of her role, and her intercession came to be seen as directly associated with
the privileged place she occupies in the Kingdom of God. The remark of Theoteknos
of Livias on Mary lifted up into heaven and acting from there as ‘intercessor’ and
as ‘an unassailable fortification for the human race’180 appeared isolated in the early
seventh century. But the theme was greatly amplified by later homilies for the feast of
the Dormition and Assumption of Mary. Andrew of Crete chose the metaphor of the
ladder to visualise Mary’s connective role between heaven and earth, especially after
her Assumption when she acts as intercessor.181 Soon after Andrew, so did Germanos
of Constantinople,182 John of Damascus,183 and then Theodore of Stoudios in the early
decades of the ninth century184 (for the sources, see Appendix 2). In the West, the
celestial ladder applied to Mary appears for the first time in a pseudepigraphic homily
on Christ’s Nativity included in the homiliary of Alanus in the mid-eighth century.185
But this homily, of uncertain date, simply mentions the typology of the ladder without
expounding on it. Following in the footsteps of Greek homilists, Autpert chose and
then amplified this metaphor. He maintains that because of her humility in accept-
ing God’s will, Mary is made a gate of heaven, is set up as ladder to heaven, hence
becoming a living ladder through which God descended to earth, and through which
the faithful can climb up to heaven. He seems to echo the words of John of Damascus
apropos of Mary taken up into heaven: ‘spiritual, living ladder, by which the Most
High has appeared on earth’.186
What Autpert also introduces anew in the Latin celebration of Mary taken up
into heaven is the declaration that she can be fittingly celebrated only through her
own words, recorded in the Magnificat hymn.187 In truth, the Magnificat was used to

180 Theoteknos of Livias, Encomium on the Assumption 9 and 10, ed. Wenger, 1955, 290–1; trans. Daley,
1998, 78, 80.
181 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 13, PG 97, 1105A; trans. Daley, 1998, 144, 147–8:
‘ladder [to heaven]’.
182 Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition II, 3, PG 98, 361D; trans. Daley, 1998, 171.
183 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition I, 8, PTS 29, 493; trans. Daley, 1998, 192; Homily on
the Dormition III, 2, PTS 29, 549, ll. 1–3; trans. Daley, 1998, 232.
184 Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 4, PG 99, 725B; trans. Daley, 1998, 253.
185 Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 123, 2, PL 39, 1991; cf. Autpert, Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 8–9. See
Barré, 1955, 76, 92; Barré, 1963b, 57, n. 102; Bini, 2015, 74, 344, 352.
186 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition III, 2, PTS 29, 549, ll. 1–3; trans. Daley, 1998, 232.
187 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 1–11: ‘Hinc etiam haec Virgo gloriosa beatam se dici ab omnibus
generationibus manifestat, eo quod eius humilitatem Deus respexit. Nam subdit: Ecce enim ex hoc
 Figuring intercession 287

extoll the Virgin in a number of Latin sources. The commentary of Saint Ambrose on
Luke,188 and a sermon attributed to Saint Augustine and transmitted in the homiliary
of Alanus of Farfa have been indicated as possible sources for Autpert.189 Also Ilde-
fonsus of Toledo’s treatise on Mary’s virginity quotes two lines of the Magnificat.190
However, in none of these Latin texts is the hymn connected to Mary’s Assumption
into heaven, which is instead, and prominently, once found in eighth- and ninth-cen-
tury Greek homilies on the Dormition.191 After rhetorically admitting a lack of words
for appropriately praising Mary, Andrew of Crete,192 Germanos of Constantinople,193
John of Damascus,194 and later Theodore of Stoudios195 introduce the Magnificat as
the most fitting encomium for her. The verses of the Magnificat resound in the homi-
lies of Andrew, Germanos, and John like a musical refrain aimed at impressing on the
faithful that the blessed Mary was received in heaven without undergoing the corrup-
tion of the flesh because she humbly served God through the Incarnation. The same
pattern recurs in Autpert, who uses the Magnificat as a refrain throughout his homily
on the Assumption. But like the Greek homilists of the eighth century, he expands on
the hymn, and declares that Mary taken up into heaven can be appropriately praised
only with her own words, that is with the Magnificat hymn. As in the case of the lad-
der, his insistence on the hymn connects Autpert to the ‘Greek’ religious thinking on
Mary’s transitus, and makes his homily stand out in the West.196
A line from the hymn, ‘Beata me dicent omnes generationes. Quia ancillam . . .
humilem respexit Dominus’, was sung as an antiphon to Psalms in the Roman tradi-
tion from the late seventh century onwards.197 The Magnificat as a whole was sung
every day at Vespers and thus was familiar to monks, clerics, and lay people alike.
It was one of the nine odes appended to the collection of Psalms that were not only

beatam me dicent omnes generationes. O uere beata humilitas, quae Deum hominibus peperit, uitam
mortalibus edidit, caelos innouauit, mundum purificauit, paradisum aperuit, et hominum animas ab
inferis liberauit! O uere, inquam, gloriosa Mariae humilitas, quae porta paradisi efficitur, scala caeli
constituitur! Facta est certe humilitas Mariae scala caelestis, per quam descendit Deus ad terras. Quia
respexit, inquit, humilitatem ancillae suae. Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes’.
188 Ambrose of Milan, Expositio Evangelii secundum Lucam, II, 26–27, CCSL 14, 42, ll. 368–79.
189 Sermo 194, PL 39, 2105; see Leonardi, 1968, 101; Bini, 2015, 135, 343–4.
190 Ildefonsus of Toledo, On the perpetual virginity of Saint Mary, CCSL 114A, 213, ll. 1034–7.
191 For a discussion, see Dell’Acqua, 2019a.
192 Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition II, 6, PG 97, 1053D–1056C (twice); trans. Daley, 1998,
123–4; Andrew of Crete, Homily on the Dormition III, 8 and 12, PG 97, 1100B and 1104C; trans.
Daley, 1998, 144, 147.
193 Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition I, 1, and 9--–10, PG 98, 340B, 352B–353B
(three times); trans. Daley, 1998, 153, 161, 163; Homily on the Dormition II, 11, PG 98, 372C; trans.
Daley, 1998, 179.
194 John of Damascus, Homily on the Dormition I, 8 and 12, PTS 29, 492, 498; trans. Daley, 1998, 192,
197.
195 Theodore of Stoudios, Homily on the Dormition, 6, PG 99, 728D–729B; trans. Daley, 1998, 255–6.
196 Neither of the two is shared, for example, by his contemporary Paul the Deacon. The suggestive
textual image of the celestial ladder, that Autpert grafted onto the Latin tradition of the Assumption,
found echo in later homilies for the feast, and enjoyed an enduring importance in the Middle Ages; see
for example two sermons of Pseudo-Alcuin on the Assumption dated to the second half of the tenth
century, Alcuin, CSLMA Auctores Galliae 2, eds. Jullien, Perelman, 1999, 532–4; Pseudo-Ildefonsus,
Sermo 9, PL 96, 271D–272C, dated between the late ninth and the eleventh centuries. In Chapter 3
we saw that Autpert declared that he could not find ‘apud Latinos’ anything on the matter of Mary’s
mysterious Assumption, see Ads, 3, CCCM 27B, 1028, l. 1.
197 Nowacki, 2017, 92.
288 Figuring intercession

chanted every day by monks and nuns and quoted in the readings from the Gospels
during liturgical ceremonies, but also recited aloud during private prayer and medita-
tion (ruminatio), ‘nearly always in a manner resembling singing’.198 The Psalter was the
staple of daily spiritual exercises and worship, thus many knew it by heart: it offered
spiritual guidance, it constituted a gateway to the Bible, nurtured the imagination of
the faithful and stimulated them to a private exegesis of the Scriptures.199 Between
the eighth and ninth centuries the way in which Psalms were sung was theorised and
regulated.200 Against this background we should now look again at the image in the
Crypt of Epyphanius. It is easy to imagine that the representation of the Adsumpta
with the quotation of the Magnificat elicited the recitation of the ode and stimulated
a sort of private visual exegesis. The limited size of the oratory allowed for only small
congregations or private prayer, and a private dimension to prayer and meditation is
suggested by means of the book, painted into the hands of Mary. The book might well
represent a psalter since it bears a verse from one of its odes. Through the devotional
experience of those entrusting their prayers and thoughts to Mary, her painted image
in the apse daily became the living ladder to heaven. Lifting their gaze from the dado
upward to the archangels in the conch, then to Mary in its vault, and finally to Christ
in the apex of the vault, visually and mentally going through a celestial hierarchy,
the beholders were invited to contemplate Mary as the ladder connecting earth and
heaven, and as the perfect example of the possibility of spiritual and physical ascent.
By looking at Mary, who enjoyed the re-union of her body with her soul immediately
after her death, they also could hope to achieve future resurrection in spirit and body.
Hence, the Adsumpta in the Crypt of Epyphanius materialised their desire to see a
spiritual guide and powerful intercessor.
A final remark is due in order to unveil a subtle polemical accent in the depiction
of the book. In the late eighth century, the laudatory intention of the Magnificat was
polemically reversed by the Spanish Bishop Felix of Urgell. A chief proponent of adop-
tionism, he held that since in the Magnificat Mary features as ancilla, that is ‘servant’,
she could only give birth to a servant and not to God (‘Quid potuit de ancilla nasci nisi
seruus’). This infelicitous uttering was polemically reported and rebuked by Alcuin in
a treatise written in c.800,201 soon after Felix had been anathematised by Pope Leo III.
As earlier recalled, echoes of the Spanish heresy still resounded in c.816–20, when
Bishop Claudius of Turin, a pupil of Felix, implemented a strict iconoclastic policy in
his diocese. One wonders if Felix’s heretical use of the Magnificat had any impact on
those who conceived the design of Mary with the book quoting the hymn. Evoking the
Gospel-based praise of the Magnificat and resuming the outstanding use the former
Abbot Autpert made of it, the painted book ultimately stated that Mary’s terrestrial
humility was the precondition to her celestial glory and intercessory agency.

198 Dyer, 1989, 538.

199 On the liturgical and devotional use of the Psalter in the early medieval period, see McKinnon, 2000,
118–22; Rankin, 2017; especially in the early monastic milieu, see Dyer, 1989; in Carolingian monas-
teries, see Mayr-Harting, 2014.
200 These attempts constituted ‘a body of music’ which would later be known as Gregorian chant; see
Dyer, 1989, 539ff., who also notes that this was related to the fact that choral singing of Psalms
became more common in the monastic office in the ninth century, and thus rules needed to be set.
201 Alcuin, Adversus Felicem, PL 101, 164A.
 Figuring intercession 289

As noted by Toesca and confirmed by later scholars, the Adsumpta in the crypt
appears as the unique brainchild of a community that cultivated the legacy of their
former abbot, and imaginatively elaborated it. But other elements I have discussed –
especially the metaphor of the ladder and the function of the book – suggest that this
painted image was a strong statement of belief in Mary as the most powerful and sym-
pathetic intercessor in the celestial hierarchy, as well as a statement about the efficacy
of pictorial images as mediators with the divine.

10 Prefiguring her own Assumption

In the years following the final Triumph of Orthodoxy (843) in Constantinople, visual
imagery still played a very important role in the public communication of the popes.
Asserting their belief in Mary’s exceptional transition to heaven and intercessory agency
was also part of their visual discourse. However, the experimental imagery devised
to visualise Mary lifted up into heaven seen in the mosaics of John VII in St Peter’s
and of Paschal I in S. Maria in Domnica was set aside in favour of designs endorsed
by tradition. This can be suggested apropos of a mural painted on the entrance wall
of the lower church of S. Clemente in Rome, a church restored under Pope Leo IV
(847–55)202 (Figure 6.18). The mural was commissioned by a priest called Leo, as its
inscription tells us. Its style seems related to the mosaics of Paschal I.203 Pope Leo IV,
clearly identified by an inscription, is portrayed with a square halo, a feature normally
used to authenticate an accurate reproduction of one’s likeness204 (Figure 6.19). He is
a privileged witness to a complex scene usually described as the Ascension of Christ.
In telling the event, the Acts of the Apostles (1, 1–10) do not mention Mary, who only
appears later, when the apostles gather with her and other women ‘all joined together
constantly in prayer’ (1, 14). In the mural in S. Clemente, Mary, in the orans posi-
tion, looks at Christ in awe and is flanked by the apostles.205 She stands on what now
appears as an oval cavity in the wall. This was probably filled with a stone block, itself
a relic or a cover for relics from the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, where it is believed
the Ascension took place.206
Similar in design to the one in S. Clemente is another mural painting discovered in
a niche in the south-east wall of S. Adriano in the Roman Forum, with Mary in the
orans position standing among the apostles while looking upward to her Son encircled
in a mandorla lifted up to heaven by four angels.207 Again, Pope Leo IV is mentioned
and portrayed. The iconography of both these murals seems to anticipate Mary’s

202 On the excavations and the discovery of murals in the lower church of S. Clemente in the mid-nine-
teenth century, see Osborne, 2001, 694–5.
203 Osborne, 2011, 229. On how style should be used with caution when studying early medieval paint-
ing, see Osborne, 2001, 705.
204 Osborne, 1979, 1984, 24–54.
205 Belting-Ihm, 1992, 95–112, describes this iconography as the Ascension combined with Mary–Ecclesia;
Osborne, 1984, 43–53, on the controversial subject matter of the mural. In a passing reference, De’
Maffei, 1985, 306, says it represents the Assumption; see also Semoglou, 2003, 39.
206 Garrucci, 1876, 84–7, esp. 85, n. 1; Osborne, 1984, 51–3. Frankish monks had established a monas-
tery on the Mount of Olives, for which see McCormick, 2011, 207.
207 Bordi, 2011, 428, for the new reading of the inscription which identifies Leo IV, and figs. 17–8.
290 Figuring intercession

Figure 6.18 Ascension with Mary, the apostles, and Pope Leo IV (847–55), mural painting,
Rome, S. Clemente, lower church, entrance wall, 847–55.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Assumption into heaven, and as a result has been described by modern scholars as a
‘contamination’ between the Assumption and the Ascension.208
Athanasios Semoglou has seen the conceptual and visual juxtaposition of the Ascen-
sion and the Assumption in the light of Christological controversies that stimulated
the reprise of an ancient parallel between these two events which had been traced by
the Church Fathers.209 As mentioned earlier, the idea that Mary and Christ were bound
in an indissoluble union and that in being pure their bodies should be incorruptible led
Gregory of Tours to present the Assumption as parallel to the Ascension. I am inclined
to see the juxtaposition of these two scenes in the Roman mural paintings as a prefigu-
ration of Mary’s Assumption: here Mary, the apostles, and the pope are the chosen
witnesses to the Ascension that prefigures their future ascent into heaven. In this case
also, like in the fabric from Sens, the idea of triumph over death prevails. But when
recalling the experimentalism in depicting the Adsumpta of the mosaics of John VII

208 Andaloro, 2001–2002, 52; Semoglou, 2003, 8. This ‘contamination’ is found also in earlier eastern
depictions of the Ascension of Christ, as in the sixth-century Rabbula Gospels (Florence, Biblioteca
Medicea Laurenziana, cod. plut. 1.56, fol. 13v).
209 Semoglou, 2003, 3–4, 7–8.
 Figuring intercession 291

Figure 6.19 Pope Leo IV (847–55), Ascension, mural painting, detail, Rome, lower church of
S. Clemente, entrance wall, 847–55.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

and Paschal I, one cannot fail to notice how the iconographic and conceptual choice of
Pope Leo IV and his entourage appears ‘traditionalist’, if not cautious. These murals,
in fact, reflect a traditional frame of thought and visual imagery for dealing with the
matter of the bodily Assumption of Mary, which was still doctrinally unsettled. That
this was the case can be glimpsed in documents related to the Carolingian Empire.
After Charlemagne’s ban on the feast of the Assumption in the 810s, his son, Louis
the Pious, listed it among those to be celebrated across the whole empire in 826.210
This notwithstanding, the polemics on the Assumption did not end with some of the

210 Capitula e conciliis excerpta 3, 36, MGH, Capit. 1, 312.

292 Figuring intercession

Franks. Ecclesiastical capitularies issued in the Carolingian domain north of the Alps
later in the ninth century do not always mention the celebration of the Assumption.211
From this perspective, one wonders whether the addition of another feast day to the
octave of the Assumption on the part of Pope Leo IV in 847 was intended as a response
to the belated and timid adoption of the feast of Mary’s transitus in the Carolingian
domain and to their polemics, that would continue between the mid- and the late
ninth century, as we shall see in the next section.212 Clearly with the propagandistic
aim of projecting Leo IV as a defender of orthodox faith and devotee of the Virgin, the
Liber Pontificalis reports that during the first vigil procession of the Assumption he
led after having been elected, he performed a miracle expelling a ‘savage basilisk’ – the
embodiment of heresy and evil, in the aftermath of the Saracen sack of Rome of the
previous year – by frightening it with a painted image of Christ.213 The enthusiastic
embrace by the pope of the celebration of Mary Adsumpta rules out the idea that
the design of the murals that he and his circle commissioned reflected a tepid belief
in the Assumption. The iconographic choice in the murals seems rather dictated by a
well-measured blend of a traditional belief in Mary’s Assumption that paralleled her
Son’s Ascension, a persisting doctrinal uncertainty on the modalities through which
the Assumption occurred, and possibly also the influence of eastern pictorial imagery.
In the West, portable objects introduced the iconography of Mary standing among
the apostles.214 This is found already in early representations of the Ascension, for
example on a sixth–seventh century pilgrimage ampulla from the Holy Land (Monza,
Museo e Tesoro del Duomo, inv. no. 10).215 Between the late eighth and ninth centuries,
devotional objects associated with iconophile practices, such as enkolpia, resumed this
iconography.216 Some of them reached Rome, a city that still functioned as a ‘primary
point of contact between the Latin and Greek cultures’ and remained, in the words
of John Osborne, ‘an important site for the transmission of ideas, including develop-
ments in the realm of material culture’.217 The Ascension witnessed by Mary standing
among the apostles appeared on the now-lost Działyński enkolpion, where inscrip-
tions in Latin transliterated in Greek have led some to hypothesise that it was pro-
duced in Rome or destined for a bilingual environment (6.9 × 5.3 × 1.2 cm, formerly
Gołuchów Castle Museum)218 (Figure 6.20). On the upper part of the vertical arm of
the small cross in gold lamina which is contained in the enkolpion, Christ is encircled
in a halo. He blesses ten apostles paraded on the horizontal arm. Mary, apparently
floating above a suppedaneum and three times the size of the apostles, occupies the
entire bottom part of the vertical arm with her head projected above it among the

211 Woods, 2013, 251.

212 LP II, 112; trans. Davis, 1995, 121. Warner, 1976, 88, argued that Leo IV’s decision might have come
in reaction against Iconoclasm; see also Palazzo, Johansson, 1996, 33.
213 LP II, 110; trans Davis, 1995, 118–9; on the miracle, see Wolf, 1990, 65.
214 Osborne, 1984, 46.
215 Cf. with the Rabbula Gospels (Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, cod. plut. 1.56, fol. 13b),
or the pre-iconoclastic painted vault of a Cappadocian church designated as no. 1 at Balkan Dere,
Ortahisar; see Thierry, 1968; Semoglou, 2003, 21, 23, Pl. 1.
216 Vinson, 1995, 91–9.
217 Osborne, 2011, 223. On such objects in Rome, see Thunø, 2002, 120.
218 Froehner, 1897; Kondakov, 1914–1915, 1: 265–6; It. trans. Foletti, 2014, 262; Leclercq, 1924, 2994;
Lipinsky, 1957; Frolow, 1961, 247–8; Lucchesi Palli, 1962, 257–8; Mizera, 2000; Semoglou, 2003, 32.
 Figuring intercession 293

Figure 6.20  Enkolpion Działyński, gold and niello, 6.9 × 5.3 × 1.2 cm, ninth century, Gołuchów
Castle Museum, stolen during the Second World War.
Drawing: © Matilde Grimaldi 2018, after Froehner, 1897.

dwarfed apostles. When Nikodim Kondakov described this object, he firmly ruled out
that it represented an Assumption, as had been proposed by Wilhelm Froehner, who
had catalogued the object.219 Pace Kondakov, the body of Mary is visually magnified
to emphasise its importance as the vessel of the Incarnation, and hints at her future
glorification into heaven. This interpretation is comfirmed by what appears on the
enkolpia from Vicopisano and Pliska, introduced in Chapter 5. They both display on
one side of the outer cross the enthroned Christ in a mandorla on top of the vertical
arm, Mary standing among ten apostles across the horizontal arm, and the Anastasis
in the lower part of the vertical arm. On the Pliska cross, Mary is slightly taller than
the apostles, while she is decidedly taller on the Vicopisano cross (Figures 6.21–6.22).
In both, palm trees appear flanking the Virgin, in Pliska almost forming a canopy.
Usually symbolising martyrdom, the palm was associated in the earliest apocryphal
account of Mary’s migration to heaven with her celestial reward and future resurrec-
tion. Without looking further back in time, in the early eighth century in one of his
homilies for the Dormition, Patriarch Germanos of Constantinople wrote that the
palm is ‘the symbol of victory over death and the token of unfading life’, and that it
was given to Mary ‘to assure her, at her moment of departure, that she would utterly
overcome decay, just as Christ, whom she had brought forth into the world, had tri-
umphed over the realm of death’.220 As said, the homilies of Germanos, Andrew of
Crete, and John of Damascus were copied, translated, assimilated, and formed the
essential basis for the liturgical developments on the Dormition and Assumption in
the Near East as well as in the West. One can imagine that, through preaching, these

219 Kondakov, 1914–1915, 1: 265–6; It. trans. Foletti, 2014, 262: ‘In questa raffigurazione, non c’è in
realtà nessuna immagine dell’Assunzione della Madre di Dio’; contra Froehner, 1897, 79.
220 Germanos of Constantinople, Homily on the Dormition II, 4, PG 98 364C; trans. Daley, 1998, 173.
Figure 6.21   Ascension and Assumption, enkolpion, silver, gold, niello, 10.9 × 6.5 × 1.4 cm,
from Vicopisano (Pisa), Pieve di S. Maria e S. Giovanni, verso, ninth century, Pisa,
Curia Arcivescovile, Ufficio Beni Culturali Ecclesiastici.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

Figure 6.22   Ascension and Assumption, enkolpion, gold, niello, 4.2 × 3.2 × 0.5 cm, outer
cross, verso, from Pliska, ninth century, Sofia, Representative Collection,
National Archaeological Institute with Museum at the Bulgarian Academy of
Sciences, inv. no. 4822.
Photo: © Krassimir Georgiev.
 Figuring intercession 295

homilies had a bearing on the common perception of Mary’s transitus, thus affecting
also its visual rendering. In the period of the iconoclastic controversy, the long-attested
image of Mary looking in awe at Christ’s ascent into heaven became a means to put
the accent on the mediatory role of visual images: as Mary anticipated her transfer to
heaven, she offered hope to the believers about their afterlife. The private dimension
of enkolpia and other devotional objects contributed during the iconoclastic contro-
versy to advance and maintain the idea that Mary – and her pictorial image – could
function as mediator between heaven and earth.

11 The Assumption in the late Carolingian period

Despite the fact that the feast of the Assumption was institutionalised in the Carolin-
gian Empire in 826, the lack of a scriptural basis and doctrinal definition of Mary’s
migration to heaven still caused anxiety among the Franks. They were obsessed with
the concept of correctness, not only in the exercise of power, administration, legisla-
tion, but also in liturgy and theology, as they believed that correct prayer and worship
were the foundations for the well-being of the sovereign and his people.221 In order
to provide an authoritative source for Mary’s Assumption, Paschasius Radbertus (d.
865), a learned monk and then abbot of the important monasteries of Corbie and
St Riquier, forged a long letter on the theme, known as the Cogitis me, in the name of
the eminent Church Father Jerome. Having spent many years in Palestine, Saint Jerome
was evidently seen able to provide an authentic account of the facts. As a matter of
fact, for centuries the Cogitis me was considered a genuine work by Jerome.222 The
letter–treatise intended to offer reflections on the Assumption in the Latin language,223
while warning that the corporeal migration of Mary had been transmitted only by
unreliable sources.224 Henry Mayr-Harting argued that Paschasius wrote the Cogitis
me ‘under the shadow of the iconoclastic controversy and the continuing and intense
Carolingian discussion about the role of images in worship’, and thus he may have
been driven to caution about the corporeal Assumption of Mary whom he imagined
only spiritually present above the angels. In this persisting climate of doctrinal uncer-
tainty on Mary’s transitus, someone in the papal circle in the second half of the ninth
century felt compelled to collate a dossier of evidence.225 Homilies on the Dormi-
tion written by Andrew of Crete, Germanos of Constantinople, John of Damascus,
and Kosmas Vestitor, evidently considered among the most notable authorities on the

221 On the Frankish obsession with correctness in the exercise of power, especially at the time of Louis the
Pious, see De Jong, 2009, 112ff.; in liturgy and prayer, see Rose, 2016.
222 Pseudo-Jerome, Cogitis me, CCCM 56C. Wenger, 1955, 147–8, attributed the Cogitis me to Autpert.
In favour of Paschasius’s authorship, see Mimouni, 1995, 259–60. Notwithstanding a basic differ-
ence with Autpert, who accepted the mystery of Mary’s body, the fake letter of Jerome contributed
to promote Autpert’s vision of Mary as queen of heaven (cf. Jeremiah 7, 18) since it enjoyed a wide
appreciation in the Middle Ages; see Schmitt, 2006, 153–4; Leyser, 2011, 33.
223 Cogitis me, I, 1, CCCM 56C, 109, l. 4: ‘latino . . . eloquio’; I, 2, CCCM 56C, 110, l. 13: ‘sermone
latino’; II, 7, CCCM 56C, 111, ll. 49–50: ‘latini sermonis’.
224 Cogitis me, II, 7, CCCM 56C, 111–12, ll. 46–57, esp. 53–6: ‘si uenerit uestris in manibus illud apoc-
ryphum de transitu eiusdem urginis, dubia pro certis recipiatis, quod multi latinorum pietatis amore,
studio legendi, carius amplectuntur, praesertim ex his cum nihil aliud experiri potest pro certo, nisi
quod hodierna die gloriosa migrauit a corpore’.
225 Cupiccia, 2003, 53.
296 Figuring intercession

matter, were translated from Greek into Latin and brought together in a collection
transmitted in a late ninth-century manuscript known as the Mariale of Reichenau
(Karslruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug. Perg. 80)226 (Figure 6.23). Their
translation was apparently promoted by the powerful Bishop John of Arezzo, a cleric
very close to Pope Hadrian II (867–72) and his successor John VIII (872–82). Born in
Sabina, the future bishop of Arezzo was probably educated at the monastery of Farfa,
which might explain his special concern with Marian themes.227 Arguably, he is the
author of the final homily in the collection,228 in which he distills the teaching of his
Greek predecessors, similarly to what Theodore of Stoudios had done earlier in the
ninth century. Acknowledging the eastern preeminence on the question of the Dormi-
tion and Assumption, the homiletic collection recorded in the Mariale filled the homi-
letic and theological gap in the Latin tradition, thus providing western liturgy with a
large set of suitable reference material. The homiletic collection eventually made its
way to Reichenau, one of the main Carolingian monasteries, and an epicentre for the
Marian cult north of the Alps.
Within Carolingian monasticism, the belief in Mary’s Assumption had a stronghold
also in the nearby monastery of St Gall. There, in c.895, the monk Tuotilo carved
an ivory diptych for the book cover of the Evangelium Longum where Mary’s bod-
ily Assumption is clearly illustrated (St Gall, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 53, 39.5 ×
23.2 cm)229 (Figures 6.24–6.25). The recto panel shows Christ upon his Second Com-
ing: in a halo, flanked by the letters Α Ω, he is surrounded by complex imagery: two
seraphim, the evangelists and their symbols, and the personifications of the sun, the
moon, the earth, and the sea (32 × 15.5 × 1.2 cm).230 The back panel has a haloed
Mary standing as orans, triumphant over death, flanked by four angels that make
ample gestures to show her that her place is in heaven (32 × 15.4 × 1 cm). She is
accompanied by the inscription ‘Ascension of Saint Mary’ (‘ASCENSIO S[AN]C[TA]
E MARI[A]E’).231 Below her are scenes from the life of Saint Gall. In adopting the
expression ‘ascension’ rather than ‘assumption’, Tuotilo clings to the conceptual par-
allel traced in early Christianity between Christ’s Ascension and Mary’s Assumption,
and fixed in a ‘textual diptych’ by the influential Gregory of Tours.232 On this solid
ground, the conceptual and visual choice of Tuotilo elegantly by-passed the Carolin-
gian embarrassment on the destiny of Mary’s body after her death.233

226 Sermones in Dormitionem Mariae, CCCM 154. On the basis of codicological and linguistic analyses,
it seems that the Mariale pulls together for the first time these Greek texts; see Cupiccia, 2003, also for
a critical appraisal of earlier literature on this collection.
227 Cupiccia, 2003, 54.
228 See the manuscripts Rome, BAV, Vat. Gr. 455, Vat. Gr. 1671, Vat. Gr. 1633, dated between the ninth
and the eleventh centuries; Cupiccia, 2003, 48, 50; Mimouni, 2011, 200–3.
229 Von Euw, 2008, for a description of the manuscript and an updated bibliography; on the ivories, see
Goldschmidt, 1914, entry no. 163 a, b; De Wald, 1933, on the ivory coming from a late antique (?)
diptych re-carved by Tuotilo; Menz-von der Mühll, 1981, 392–418; Duft, Schnyder, 1984, 62–75.
230 The scene is framed by two lines of text: ‘HIC RESIDET XPC VIRTV/TVM STEMMATE SEPTVS’.
231 Kahsnitz, 1987, 97; Semoglou, 2003, 28–9; Schmitt, 2006, 159.
232 Glory of the Martyrs, 3–4, MGH, SRM 1.2, 39; trans. van Dam, 1988, 4.
233 Kahsnitz, 1987, 97, sees Tuotilo’s ivory as the first figural representation of the bodily Assumption of
Mary (ignoring the evidence of the sarcophagus from Zaragoza); for a critique, see Schmitt, 2006, 159.
Figure 6.23   Incipit, Adsumptio Sanctae Mariae, Reichenau, late ninth century, Karlsruhe, Cod.
Aug. Perg. 229, fol. 184v.
Photo: © Karslruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek.
Figure 6.24   Tuotilo, Assumption,  ivory carving, Evangelium Longum, St.Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek,
Cod. Sang. 53, back cover, c.895.
Photo: © St. Gall, Stiftsbibliothek.
Figure 6.25   Tuotilo, Ascension,  ivory carving, Evangelium Longum, St.Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek,
Cod. Sang. 53, front cover, c.895.
Photo: © St. Gall, Stiftsbibliothek.
300 Figuring intercession

Overtly in favour of Mary’s bodily Assumption was also Notkerus Balbulus,

another monk of St Gall and friend of Tuotilo. In his martirology, in the entry on
Mary, he extensively quotes Gregory of Tours and defends the belief in Mary’s cor-
poreal Assumption. He also maintains it in a sequence (that is a hymn sung during
the celebration of the Eucharist) for the feast of the Assumption. In a sort of belated
answer to the pseudo-patristic Cogitis me that warned those who believe in doubtful
accounts of Mary’s transitus (‘dubia pro certis’),234 Notkerus says that ‘without doubt’
(‘procul dubio’) she had been taken up into heaven also with her body (‘et corpus’).235

12 The Dormition in Rome

Until the late ninth century, the image of Mary triumphant over death prevailed in
western homilies as well as in visual imagery, evidently, this being mainstream in the
common perception and understanding of her transitus. (It also prevailed in the late
medieval West.) A rare cycle of the Dormition, dated to the second half of the ninth
century, is preserved in a fragmentary state in the church of S. Maria de Secundicerio,
also known as the Temple of Fortuna Virilis or of Portunus, in Rome. The church
lay opposite the Schola Graeca, the medieval Greek district around S. Maria in Cos-
medin which had been restored by Pope Hadrian I around 781–2.236 Exactly a cen-
tury later, in the early years of the pontificate of John VIII (872–82), the Infancy
and Dormition of Mary were painted on two registers, along with hagiographical
cycles of eastern saints, in S. Maria de Secundicerio. Of the Dormition cycle, which
occupies the second register from the top, only three scenes survive (Figure 6.26).
In the earliest scene, three apostles, one of which is identified by an inscription as
Bartholomew, are held by the wrist and lifted by three angels to be transported to
the house of Mary. In the next scene, John the Evangelist welcomes the apostles at
the door of the house. In the last scene, Christ appears to Mary, lying on her death-
bed, to announce her imminent transition to heaven. This cycle seems based on texts
of eastern origin which were concerned with descriptions of Mary’s final moments,

234 Pseudo-Jerome, Cogitis me, II, 7, CCCM 56 C, 111–12, ll. 46–57: ‘De assumptione tamen eius, qual-
iter assumpta est, quia uestra id deposcit intentio, praesentia absens scribere uobis curaui, quae absen-
tia praesens deuotus obtuli, ut habeat sanctum collegium uestrum in die tantae sollemnitatis munus
latini sermonis, in quo discat tenera infantia lactis experiri dulcedinem, et de exiguis eximia cogitare,
qualiter fauente Deo per singulos annos tota haec dies expendatur in laudem et cum gaudio celebretur,
ne forte si uenerit uestris in manibus illud apocryphum de transitu eiusdem uirginis, dubia pro certis
recipiatis, quod multi latinorum pietatis amore, studio legendi, carius amplectuntur, praesertim ex his
cum nihil aliud experiri potest pro certo, nisi quod hodierna die gloriosa migrauit a corpore’.
235 Notkerus Balbulus, Martyrologium, PL 131, 1141B–1142B, esp. 1142A–B: ‘Quoniam et corpus illud,
de quo Deus incorporari voluit, citius in coelum sublevari decuit, et illos verae resurrectionis et ascen-
sionis nostrae testes praeisse, procul dubio constat’; Notkerus Balbulus, Liber sequentiarum, 19, In
Assumptione sanctae Mariae, PL, 131, 1015D–1016C, esp. 1016A: ‘Qua gloria in coelis ista Virgo
colitur / Quae Domino coeli praebuit hospitium / Sui sanctissimi corporis’. One wonders if Notkerus
was influenced by the Greek tradition on the matter, since he was acquainted with Greek texts that
circulated in ninth-century St Gall, see Kaczynski, 1988, 15–19.
236 LP I, 507–8; trans. Davis, 2007, 156–7. On this area and its relevance to the ‘Greek’ community
in bearing a reference to the Constantinopolitan Cosmidion, a monastery dedicated to Cosmas and
Damian not far from the Marian shrine of the Blachernai and renowned for healing miracles, see
Maskarinec, 2018, 77–9.
Figure 6.26 Cycle of the Dormition, mural painting, Rome, S. Maria de Secundicerio, c.870s.
Photo: © ICCD.
302 Figuring intercession

although the exact sources have not been identified.237 Since it follows the eastern tra-
dition, it is likely that the cycle culminated with the scene of her funeral.
Art historians hold to the view that there is no extant pictorial image of Mary’s Koi-
mesis (in Greek literally ‘falling asleep’) or Dormition in the West before the late tenth
century because no such image exists in the East, where it supposedly originated.238
While a clay token from Scythopolis dated to the sixth century contradicts the late
appearance of the iconography,239 a careful review of western textual and material
evidence contradicts the supposed late arrival of this image in the West.240 As a matter
of fact, the lid of an Anglo-Saxon sarcophagus, carved in sandstone and found in the
churchyard at St. Mary’s at Wirksworth (Derbyshire, England) in the early nineteenth
century, displays scenes of the life of Christ and the Virgin Mary, including her funer-
al.241 A stucco fragment with the face of the Virgin having her eyes closed has been
interpreted as part of a monumental stucco Koimesis scene installed in the eighth-
century church of the Alpine monastery of Disentis (Graubünden, Switzerland).242
Finally, the Liber Pontificalis mentions an altar cloth donated by Leo III to S. Maria
Maggiore with the ‘transitus’ of the Virgin, with this term possibly alluding to Mary
lying on her deathbed.243
It has been noted that the mural paintings in S. Maria de Secundicerio are stylisti-
cally connected to the pictorial arts of Pope Paschal I’s time, at the same time dis-
playing ‘Byzantine’ subjects and conventions.244 The rest of the murals in the church
illustrate eastern saints, whose hagiographical traditions had been recently introduced

237 Lafontaine, 1959, 29, believes for example in the dependence of the cycle of the Dormition from an
early ninth-century manuscript from Reichenau (Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Cod. Aug.
Perg. 229, fols. 184v–190v); Trimarchi, 1978, 666–7, believes that more than one source was used
by those who conceived the cycle, and mentions, besides the manuscript from Reichenau, also the
Pseudo-John and the Pseudo-Joseph. On the translation into Latin of Greek hagiographical texts, see
Del Buono, 2010, 561–2.
238 The illustration of the Koimesis seems to have originated in Palestine and Cappadocia rather than in
the capital Constantinople. Even in the East, however, it is scarcely attested before the Cappadocian
murals in the Açıkel Ağa Kilisesi of Belisırma (late seventh–early tenth centuries), see Jolivet-Lévy,
1991, 37, 327–8; the Ağaçaltı Kilisesi in the Ihlara Valley (period of the iconoclastic controversy?), see
Thierry, 1998, 894–6; Jolivet-Lévy, 2001, 306; St John or Ayvalı Kilisesi in the Güllü Dere, Çavuşin
(years 913–20), see Thierry, 1994, vol. 2, 399; Jolivet-Lévy, 1991, 37; the Tokalı Kilisesi, Göreme
(mid-tenth century), see Wharton Epstein, 1986, 25–6; Jolivet-Lévy, 1991, 96, 102, 108. For an over-
view on the question and its literature, see De Giorgi, 2016, 109–10.
239 This is an eulogia, that is a blessing or blessed object, 6 cm in diameter, that represents Mary’s funeral.
Eulogiai were produced between the fifth and the early seventh centuries, and after the Byzantine reoc-
cupation of Antioch in the late tenth century, see Vikan, 1982, 39–40. This one likely was a pilgrimage
souvenir acquired at one of the cult places in Jerusalem where Mary’s Assumption was celebrated, such
as the Kathisma church or her tomb at the Gethsemane, especially as Scythopolis, the capital city of
Galilee, was on the inland route connecting Jerusalem to the main ports of the Levant. Excavations
undertaken at the Kathisma have revealed a ceramic pipe leading water to the holy rock where Mary
rested at the centre of the former octagonal building. The water, sanctified by the contact with Mary’s
seat, might have been used to model the clay into eulogia, see Avner, 2011, 15, 28.
240 This is clearly illustrated by De Giorgi, 2016, 70, 93–4, 113–15, in her recent appraisal of the
Dormition/Koimesis between the East and the West.
241 Hawkes, 1995 and 2018.
242 Studer, 2011, 202–3.
243 LP II, 14; trans. Davis, 2007, 200; Andaloro, 2001–2002, 51–2; De Giorgi, 2016, 70–1.
244 Osborne, 2011, 229–30.
 Figuring intercession 303

in Rome.245 The patron of the decoration has been identified with an aristocrat called
Stefanus having the important administrative role of secundicerius, that is the notary
second in rank among those serving the pope, and who was also patron of translations
of hagiographical texts from Greek into Latin.246 At the papal court, under Nicholas
I (858–67), and his successors Hadrian II and John VIII, Anastasius Bibliothecarius
coordinated the translation from Greek into Latin of important treatises as well as
Greek hagiographical writings with the collaboration of translators active in the Byz-
antine Duchy of Naples. This vast cultural transfer was aimed at getting a firm grip
on Greek theology on the papacy’s part, and incorporating eastern saints into the
western sanctoral cycle in order to consolidate Rome’s doctrinal and spiritual primacy
for the whole of Mediterranean Christianity.247 Likewise, the murals in S. Maria de
Secundicerio enlarged the spectrum of saints venerated in Rome, and projected the city
as the spiritual basis for the entire Christian oecumene. This Roman cycle of Mary’s
Dormition antedates the wide dissemination of the pictorial theme of her Dormition
in the West by a century.248 Although the eastern and western traditions on Mary’s
transition to heaven both supported the idea of her Assumption and insisted that she
could help the faithful climb the ladder of spiritual perfection that would ultimately
lead to heaven, they developed different figural renditions of the event: in the eastern
Mediterranean the Dormition of Mary on her death bed surrounded by the apostles
became the standard representation of her transition to the afterlife, instead in the
medieval West, after a number of experiments coinciding with the period of the image
controversy, she came to be depicted as already enthroned in heaven, next to her Son
and Bridegroom, eventually crowned by him. Indeed, this would be the prevalent
imagery in late medieval West, her funeral being only occasionally represented, and
only in contexts that had some connection with the Byzantine East.

Conclusions
By bringing new textual and visual evidence into the discussion, and re-examining well-
known evidence, this chapter has shed light on how the idea and the visual rendering
of Mary’s transition to heaven evolved between c.680–880 in relation to theological
controversies between Byzantium, the West, and the Carolingians. In this period, the
intention of manifesting the Assumption of the Mother of God in body and spirit was
intertwined with the desire to cast her as the main mediator with heaven and main
intercessor for humankind, but there was no specific pictorial tradition to appeal to
in order to express these related concepts. In fact, the relative scarcity of figural depic-
tions of Mary’s transitus both in the East and in the West could be explained either as
a result of accidental loss, an unlikely systematic destruction, or by admitting that an

245 Saint Mary of Egypt, Pantaleon of Nicomedia, Basil of Caesarea, the three martyrs of Edessa Gurya,
Habib, and Shamuna.
246 Del Buono, 2010, 537–48; cf. Osborne, 1988.
247 Le Bourdellès, 1977; Arnaldi, 1980; Sansterre, 1983, 147–62, 175, on the collaboration of Greek
monks and sciptoria; Leonardi, 1988; Chiesa, 1989, 181–8; Sansterre, 2004, 301; Del Buono, 2010,
549–63; Maskarinec, 2018.
248 De Giorgi, 2016, 8, 113–15; her study has filled the research gap on the period between S. Maria de
Secundicerio and later depictions of the subject in central-southern Italy. Her analysis of the Dormition
rests on the idea that literary images precede and offer a basis to pictorial images, see esp. 12.
304 Figuring intercession

interest in visualising the event intensified from the eighth and the ninth centuries. It
is likely that, coincident with the major theological disputes that involved the natures,
wills and depictability of God, an enhanced focus on his Mother led churchmen to
think also about her transition to the afterlife and her role in heaven.
Having mentioned the lack of a scriptural basis and the related lack of a codified
pictorial tradition for Mary’s transitus, I have emphasised the effort on the part of
Greek and Latin homilists of the eighth and ninth centuries to reinforce the belief
in her spiritual and bodily Assumption and emphasised, too, the accumulation of
written reference for its celebration. In this context, I have also demonstrated that
Autpert, the earliest original western author on the Assumption, apparently relied
on Greek thought concerning the transitus – his use of the Magnificat hymn is one of
a series of textual–conceptual spolia of this thought. Greek and Latin homilies, that
reflected contemporary and sometimes localised perceptions of Mary’s transitus, were
useful when contextualising for the first time well-known pictorial images; they helped
retrace the developments of the image of Mary’s triumph in heaven in a number of
places, including Gaul, Rome, S. Vincenzo al Volturno, and the Carolingian territory
north of the Alps.
Probably reflecting the recent liturgical emphasis on the feast of the Assumption,
solemnised with a procession by Sergius I, and developments in the Greek liturgical
imagery of the Dormition, the mosaic in the oratory of John VII innovatively renders
the idea that because Mary is the Mother of God, she is lifted up into heaven, where
she is crowned, and glorified. From there, as the accompanying inscription stated,
she embraces the fears and hopes of those on earth. Never before has this mosaic
been interpreted as an experimental Adsumpta. Similarly reflecting the idea of Mary’s
supernatural maternity glorified in heaven, where she acts as intercessor, is the Theo-
tokos of Paschal I in S. Maria in Domnica. In this mosaic, Mary’s mediation between
heaven and earth and intercession for humankind she can offer by being in heaven
are visualised in the gesture of the pope holding the foot of Mary, his chosen advocate.
In more or less the same years, in the monastic Crypt of Epyphanius, a book inscribed
with a verse from the Magnificat hymn made explicit what was implicit in the previous
two images: Mary’s humility took her to eternal glory in heaven, and this virtue – that
she embodies – represents the ladder to heaven for the believer, thus reprising the
paradoxical combination of elements extolled in her figure by the Greek tradition on
her Assumption into heaven. Better than any other pictorial image discussed in this
chapter, the mosaics of John VII, of Paschal I, and the mural in the Crypt of Epypha-
nius encapsulate not only the belief in Mary’s unparalleled intercessory agency – that
make of her the co-Redeemer – but also the belief in the efficacy of pictorial images
to mediate with the divine and lift hearts to heaven. In this sense, these depictions of
the Adsumpta reflect an unshakeable iconophile mentality – a mentality that even in
the absence of a scriptural and figural tradition manages to find ways to assert itself.
Appendix 1

Mary as queen of heaven

The earliest written reference to Mary’s royalty and sovereignty is in the kontakia
of Romanos the Melode (d. 560), where he calls her ‘empress’, and the same Mary
is made to say ‘I rule the world’.1 An anonymous hymn, probably composed in the
fifth–sixth century, addressed Mary with: ‘I see you as a queen, the mother of a king’.2
Again, it is as ‘queen’ that the Constantinopolitan court poet Corippus, who wrote in
Latin, referred to Mary in a panegyric poem in praise of Emperor Justin II (r. 565–74).3
In the seventh century, two Latin hymns extoll Mary as regina. It has been argued
that the author depended on Corippus. These hymns circulated under the name of
the Italian poet Venantius Fortunatus, active in Merovingian Gaul.4 As a result, he is
usually held responsible for introducing the idea of the royalty of Mary in the West.
This idea is also found in a treatise on the eternal virginity of Mary by Ildefonsus of

1 Romanos the Melode, Hymn 36. On the Annunciation I, 1, 3, eds. Maas, Trypanis, 1963, 281: ‘οὔτε
γὰρ μόνῳ πρέτον τῷ στρατηγῷ τὴν βασιλίδα ἀσπάσασθαι’ (‘it is fitting not only for the general [Gabriel] to
greet the Empress [Mary]’); Hymn 2. On the Nativity of Christ II, 2, 1–4, eds. Maas, Trypanis, 1963,
10: ‘Οὐκ ἀθετῶ σου τὴν χάριν, ἧς ἔσχον πεῖραν, δέσποτα· / οὐκ ἀμαυρῶ τὴν ἀξίαν, ἧς ἔτυχον τεκοῦσα σε· / τοῦ
γὰρ κόσμου βασιλεύω· / ἐπειδὴ κράτος τὸ σὸν ἐβάστασα γαστρί, πάντων κρατῶ’ (‘I do not obscure the dignity
which I received giving birth to you, for I rule the world; since I carried your might in my womb, I prevail
over all’); trans. and comm. Arentzen, 2017, 40–1, 56–7, 130–1, 162–3.
2 Kontakion on the Virgin Mary, 1, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 161: ‘Βασιλίδα σε ὁρῶ, βασιλέως μητέρα’. I thank
Thomas Arentzen for the suggestion.
3 Corippus, In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris, ed. and trans. Cameron, II.52–3; Osborne, 2003, 139;
Kalavrezou, 1990, 166, says that from the art-historical point of view in the fifth century ‘Mary is still
the Theotokos defined at the council [of Ephesus, 431], a concept’, and not yet ‘a personality’. This is
reflected by contemporary homilies, as noted by Peltomaa, 2001, 73–4; Angelova, 2015, 234ff., stresses
that in sixth-century Byzantium ‘Christian theology and the pagan and Christian phases of the discourse
of imperial founding’ transformed Mary ‘into a resplendent queen of heaven’ in which characteristics of
goddesses and empresses were conflated. See Pentcheva, 2006a, 12–6, on the epithets that in the hymn
Akathistos extoll the association of Mary with imperial power.
4 Pseudo-Venantius Fortunatus, First hymn in praise of the Virgin Mary, MGH, Auct. An. 4.1, 377, v.
261: ‘conderis in solio felix regina superno’; 378, v. 265: ‘six iuxta genitum regem regina perennem’.
This hymn is not an autograph, just like the Eighth hymn in praise of the Virgin Mary, MGH, Auct.
An. 4.1, 385. Nevertheless, they are important for stating that Mary’s exceptional motherhood was
rewarded with celestial glory. Quadrio, 1951, 73–4, believes that the First hymn alludes to her Assump-
tion into heaven. Cameron, 1976, 153, observed that the first hymn, whoever its author was, was writ-
ten ‘with Corippus as a model’, thereby grafting the vision of Mary as queen in western imagery; see
also Cameron, 1978, 84–5.
306 Appendix 1: Mary as queen of heaven

Toledo; in it he addressed her as ‘my lady, my female ruler’, and ‘lady among servants,
queen among sisters’.5
These witnesses notwithstanding, only between the late seventh and the first half
of the eighth centuries in the Greek-speaking Mediterranean was the theme of Mary’s
sovereignty combined with her Assumption into heaven and with the intercessory
power she acquired once there. In their homilies on the Dormition, first Andrew of
Crete,6 and then John of Damascus,7 extolled Mary as Mother of God and queen
adorned like the bride of the king (Psalm 44, 13 Vulg.: ‘All glorious is the princess
in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold’). She is ‘really and truly praised as
Queen, Lady, Mother of God’ in a homily for the feast of the Annunciation that cir-
culated under the authoritative name of the Archbishop Athanasios of Alexandria (d.
373),8 likely to have been composed between the Sixth Ecumenical Council of 680–1
and the early eighth century.9 Critical of monotheletism, this homily cunningly made
use of the name of Athanasios, an undisputable auctoritas of the past, to gain general
approval in extolling the figure of Mary by combining the themes of the Annuncia-
tion, her royalty, her mediating role between heaven and earth, and her intercessory
agency, and by rhapsodising about them through the Magnificat hymn (Luke 1, 48).10
Just as the earliest visual evidence of Maria Regina comes from Rome, so do the
earliest extant epigraphic instances of the title regina for the Virgin. One is in an
inscription immured in the narthex of S. Maria in Cosmedin (Figure 7.1). The inscrip-
tion was offered by the former dux Eustathius, who had been a papal representative
in Ravenna under Pope Stephen II (752–7). He was the dispensator of the diaconia of
S. Maria in Cosmedin, to which he donated properties to support the poor. Eustathius
directly invokes Mary as ‘honourable virgin, queen of heaven . . . my lady, Mother of
God’ (‘praeclara virgo, caelestis regina . . . domina mea, domini genetrix’), declaring

5 Ildefonsus of Toledo, On the perpetual virginity of Saint Mary, CCSL 144A, 153, l. 1: ‘Domina mea,
dominatrix mea, dominans mihi, mater Domini mei, etc.’; 155, l. 28: ‘Ecce beata tu inter mulieres, inte-
gra inter puerperas, domina inter ancillas, regina inter sorores’.
6 Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition II, 8, PG 97, 1100A; Daley, 1998, 144; On the Dormition, III, 15,
PG 97, 1108A; Daley, 1998, 149.
7 John of Damascus, On the Dormition I, 12, PTS 29, 498; Daley, 1998, 198.
8 Pseudo-Athanasios of Alexandria, Sermo in Annuntiationem Deiparae, PG 28, 13, 937A: ‘Βασίλισσα,
καὶ Κυρία καὶ Θεοτόκος, κυρίως καὶ ἀληθῶς δογματίζεται’; again in 14, 937B.
9 PG 28, 5, 924B; 6, 925B; 9, 929C. If its idea that the Incarnation had taken place through the sense
of hearing (PG 28, 8, 928A) echoes fourth-century Fathers, its reference to the heavenly hierarchies,
particularly developed by Pseudo-Dionysios in the late fifth century, offers a first terminus post quem.
Its mention of the feast of the Annunciation (PG 28, 15, 939A–B), which was established only in the
sixth century, is another terminus post quem. However, a repeated reference to the doctrine of the two
wills (θελήματα) and two energies (ἐνεργείας) of Christ against ‘αἱρετικοί’, that is ‘heretics’, suggested that
this homily should be dated to the period following the condemnation of monotheletism. For its dating,
see Jugie, 1941–1942, 283–4. The homily is mentioned in a study on the visual developments of the
Annunciation, see van Dijk, 1999, 429.
10 PG 28, 15, 940A. Like Andrew’s homilies, this one also sees Mary assumed into heaven in spirit and
body, see 14, 937A–Β, and it also promotes the idea she is an intercessor for humankind, see 14, 937C:
‘Καὶ δὴ ἄκουσον, θύγατερ Δαβὶδ καὶ Ἀβραὰμ, καὶ κλῖνον τὸ οὖς σου εἰς τὴν δέησιν ἠμῶν’, that is ‘And now
hear, daugther of David and Abraham, and incline your ear to our supplications’; 15, 940C: ‘Πρέσβευε,
κυρία, καὶ δέσποινα, βασίλισσά τε καὶ Μήτηρ Θεοῦ, ὑπὲρ ἠμῶν’, ‘Intercede for us, o Lady, Mistress, Queen,
and Mother of God’. On the Magnificat, see Dell’Acqua, 2019a.
 Appendix 1: Mary as queen of heaven 307

himself her ‘humble servant’ (‘servulus’).11 As noted by Maya Maskarinec there is

nothing markedly ‘Byzantine’ about the donation and the inscription of Eustathius.
But he had once held the Byzantine post of dux and was attached to S. Maria in Cos-
medin which bore a name reminiscent of a Constantinopolitan site, the monastery of
Cosmidion dedicated to saints Cosmas and Damian not far from the Marian shrine of
the Blachernai. S. Maria in Cosmedin was probably the seat of the schola Grecorum,
or it was nearby. The schola was an association of ‘Greeks’ established to guarantee
mutual support among its members just like other foreign scholae.12 These elements
suggest that Eustathius probably wanted to be remembered as part of a community
that ‘at least to a certain extent, identified with – and strove to maintain a connection
with – its “Greek” past’.13 Also, the fact that Pope Hadrian I (772–95) energetically
restored the church is described in the Liber Pontificalis in terms that revive the asso-
ciation of this church with the ‘Greek’ culture.14 Another well-known instance of the
title Maria Regina is in the mural paintings of the atrium of S. Maria Antiqua com-
missioned by Hadrian I. Painted vertically to the right of Mary’s head, the title regina
is here used for the first time to identify her pictorial representation.15
Overlooked by scholarship is the recurrence of the literary image of Mary as queen
in the Akoluthia – the appendix to the Latin translation of the Greek hymn Akathis-
tos, probably written in Rome between 754–775, sometime between the pontificates
of Stephen II and Hadrian I, which I discussed in Chapter 1. In the Akoluthia the inter-
cession of Mary is openly invoked: ‘queen of heaven, pray for us’ (‘celorum regina,
o[ra] p[ro] n[obis]’).16 Undertaken in the eighth century, if not earlier, hypothetically at
the abbey of Saint-Denis, in Venice, or Rome,17 the Latin translation of the Akathistos
may have played a great role in consolidating the image of Mary as queen in Latin
Christianity.
In central Italy, in the second half of the eighth century, Mary as queen of heaven
was celebrated also by Ambrose Autpert.18 Being of Gallic origins,19 his probable
acquaintance with liturgical poetry attributed to Venantius Fortunatus may have
played a part in forming his notion of Mary’s status.20 At the same time, Autpert’s
reception of themes from Mediterranean Marian imagery and theology contributed
to the image he developed of Mary, as I have demonstrated in Chapter 3. He justi-
fied Mary’s acquisition of the royal status in heaven on the grounds that she accepted
God’s will with humility. Having given birth to the ‘King of angels’, she deserved an

11 The long inscription is transcribed by Gray, 1948, 55; see also Osborne, 2003, 138.
12 Dey, 2008.
13 Maskarinec, 2018, 94.
14 LP I, 507; trans. Davis, 2007, 156–7; Maskarinec, 2018, 96.
15 Osborne, 1987, 195. Pope Hadrian I has been considered responsible for commissioning a mural paint-
ing with Maria Regina flanked by two female saints found in a fragmentary state in a sarcophagus in
S. Susanna, Rome; see Andaloro, 2003, for the discovery; Nilgen, 2002, for a contextualisation of this
Maria Regina in the early medieval arts of Rome. On the basis of iconographical details, Nilgen dis-
misses Andaloro’s idea (presented verbally in 1991, then published in Andaloro, 2003, 380) that this
mural painting is a ‘copy’ of the Madonna della Clemenza in S. Maria in Trastevere.
16 Akolouthia, fifth strophe; ed. Meersseman, 1958, 1: 100–32, esp. 131.
17 Cf. Huglo, 1951; Meersseman, 1958; Daskas, forthcoming.
18 Leonardi, 1968, 40, on Autpert’s articulation of the royalty of Mary as fulfilment of her maternity.
19 Ap, X, 22, 21, CCCM 27A, 872, l. 124: ‘Ambrosius qui et Autpertus, ex Galliarum Prouincia ortus’.
20 Thunø, 2002, 28–9.
308 Appendix 1: Mary as queen of heaven

Figure 7.1   Inscription of dux Eustathius, Rome, S. Maria in Cosmedin, main entrance, mid-
eighth century.
Photo: Francesca Dell’Acqua.

exceptional reward, that is her Assumption into heaven at the end of her terrestrial
life.21 He directly addresses Mary by saying: ‘a throne has been prepared for you
in the hall of the eternal King, and the King of Kings associates you to him in an
embrace of love as true mother and beautiful bride which he favours above all’.22 It
has been argued that the vision of Mary framed by Autpert had a bearing on Paschal
I, especially in the conception of his enamelled staurotheca.23 The definition of ‘regina
mundi’ found in the inscription of the staurotheca appeared again in a treatise on the
Assumption by Paschasius Radbertus (d. 860/5), monk and abbot of Corbie, which
was written under the name of Saint Jerome to give it authority.24
Autpert’s influence has been recognised also in the pictorial programme of the Crypt
of Abbot Epyphanius at S. Vincenzo al Volturno, where, in the Annunciation scene,
Mary, interrupting her spinning to salute the Archangel Gabriel, is unexpectedly
crowned. This is the first and only example of the Virgin crowned at the Annunciation

21 Ads, 2, CCCM 27B, 1028, ll. 16–8: ‘reginam caelorum, pro eo quod regem peperit angelorum’.
22 Ads, 11, CCCM 27B, 1035, ll. 35–8: ‘Tibi thronus regius ab angelis conlocatur in aula aeterni Regis,
teque ipsa Rex regum ut matrem ueram et decoram sponsam prae omnibus diligens amoris amplexu
sibi adsociat’.
23 Thunø, 2002, 28, 31, 38, passim.
24 Pseudo-Jerome, Cogitis me = Paschasius Radbertus, De Assumptione Sanctae Mariae Virginis, 23,
CCCM 56C, 119, ll. 189–90: ‘Regina mundi hodie de terris et de praesenti saeculo nequam eripitur’.
 Appendix 1: Mary as queen of heaven 309

in early western or eastern visual arts.25 Although the traditional view held that she
became queen after her Assumption into heaven, at S. Vincenzo she is given the crown
while occupied with a domestic chore.26 As a matter of fact, in the mural, the con-
cepts of her humility and royalty are combined in an ingenious and original way: her
humility is alluded to through the distaff and a spindle, and her future royal status
alluded through a crown.27 The former abbot Autpert, having extolled Mary’s humil-
ity and royalty, offered to those who depicted the Crypt of Epyphanius the most read-
ily available theological underpinning to the idea that she should be adorned as queen
upon the Annunciation–Incarnation. Therefore, far from being an eccentric borrow-
ing from the Maria Regina imagery, the crown conflates visually and metaphorically
the life trajectory of Mary, from the Annunciation–Incarnation to her Assumption
into heaven, where she is the main intercessor for humankind for the purpose of the
divine economy.28 Thus, in the Crypt of Epyphanius the visual exaltation of Mary as
mediator between heaven and earth takes a step further when compared with what is
seen on Leo III’s mosaics and on Paschal I’s staurotheca.
Notwithstanding the fact that the image of Mary as queen became the stock-in-
trade of liturgical chants and sermons, it was only in 1954 with a papal bulla that she
was officially acclaimed ‘queen of heaven’.29

25 Papastavrou, 2007, 52, notes that this is the earliest known example. Brubaker, 1989, 43–4, noted that
innovative aspects introduced by ninth-century figural artists in post-iconoclastic Byzantium would not
be replicated later, although no clear explanation for this has yet been found.
26 De’ Maffei, 1985, 311, believes that the crown prefigures Mary’s Assumption into heaven. Papastav-
rou, 2007, 151 and 231–2, connects the image of Mary in the vault, which she does not openly call
Adsumpta, with the one in the Annunciation, whose crown seems to her of pivotal importance in the
programme.
27 In her insightful analysis of the iconographic programme of the Crypt of Epyphanius, De’ Maffei, 1985,
308–9, recognised the salvific role of Mary’s humility as the focus of the programme.
28 In her book on Mary, Warner, 1976, dedicated one chapter to each of the roles the Virgin had taken
upon in her life. The structure of her book has been judged appropriate to the ‘extraordinary capacious-
ness of the model of the Virgin’ by one of the most eminent scholars on Mary in Byzantium, Cameron,
2004, 20. The scene in the Crypt of Epyphanius reveals that from the moment of the Annunciation she
took on all these roles at once.
29 Pope Pius XII, Ad Caeli Reginam (To Mary queen of heaven), 11 October 1954.
Appendix 2

Mary as gate of heaven and

ladder to heaven

In giving birth to the Saviour, who opened the doors of salvation, Mary came to
be associated with the trope of the gate or door.1 Among the early Greek and Latin
Fathers the ‘salvific gate’ is a Biblical type associated first with Christ and then with
his Mother. Ambrose of Milan used the entrance of the Temple, whose opening is
exclusively reserved for the prince (Ezechiel 44, 2–3), as a type for Mary’s ever-virginal
womb which remains undefiled after Christ’s birth. He proposed her as a model of
virginity
­ – the ‘porta clausa’ (‘the closed door’) to consecrated women.2 Commenting
on Ezechiel, Jerome took a step further: the shut door of the Old Testament opens in
the New Testament narrative in order to allow the Incarnation and the salvation of
humanity.3 Jerome used the expression ‘porta paradisi’ not as allusion to Mary but
to the salvation that can be achieved through the Ecclesia (the Church) established
by Christ and his disciples.4 His argument led in any case to Mary, because the early
Fathers identified her with the Ecclesia.5
The Ambrosian trope of the ‘closed door’ for Mary’s womb was lyrically expanded
in a Latin responsory transmitted under the name of Pope Gregory the Great and sung
in Rome during the week preceding Christmas: the king has entered through the ear of
the Virgin (‘aurem Virginis’) to visit the palace of her womb (‘palatium uteri’), and then
he is gone out through the ‘golden gate of the Virgin’ (‘per auream virginis portam’).6

1 Gotia, 2013, analyses the theme of the Annunciation as ‘gate of salvation’ in the Scriptures, in their
exegesis, and in late antique and early medieval art, but fails to effectively explain how the concept of the
gate was visualised. For the visual arts, see Papastavrou, 2007, 233–8. On Mary as the ladder in the early
medieval period, see the appraisal in Dell’Acqua, 2019b.
2 Ambrose of Milan, De institutione virginis, VIII, 51–7, PL 16, 319B–320D, esp. VIII, 52, 320A: ‘Quae
est haec porta, nisi Maria; ideo clausa, quia virgo? Porta igitur Maria, per quam Christus intravit in hunc
mundum, quando virginali fusus est partu, et genitalia virginitatis claustra non solvit’.
3 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem, XIII, CCSL 75, ll. 1191–6 (=PL 25, 429D): ‘Ipse [Christ] per
eamdem vestibuli portam ingreditur et egreditur: quia et intus et foris, hoc est, infusus et circumfusus
omnibus; ingrediensque per portam, ut secum introducat eos, qui absque doctrina et ejus auxilio intrare
non possunt; et egrediens, ut rursum alios introducat; et loquatur eis qui difficiliora non capiunt’; see
Piano, 2009, 138.
4 Jerome, In die dominica Paschae I, CCSL 78, 545–7, ll. 71–3: ‘duae portae sunt: porta paradisi et porta
ecclesiae. Per portam ecclesiae intramus portam paradisi’.
5 On the many sources, see Müller, 1955; Philips, 1964.
6 Responsoria infra eamdem hebdomadam, in Liber responsalis sive antiphonarius, PL 78, 731C: ‘Annun-
tiatum est per Gabriel archangelum ad Mariam virginem: de introitum regis. Et ingressus est per splen-
didam regionem, aurem Virginis, visitare palatium uteri; et regressus est per auream virginis portam’;
Piano, 2009, 140.
 Appendix 2: Mary as gate of heaven 311

Latin authors of the period AD 300–800 adopted the metaphor of the ‘gate of
heaven’ when commenting on Jacob’s dream of the ladder that took him from earth
to the gate of heaven (Genesis 28, 17; cf. Psalm 117, 20 Vulg.: ‘This is the gate of the
Lord through which the righteous may enter’). An exception is a hymn of uncertain
date attributed to Venantius Fortunatus that applied it to Mary. The hymn reflects
how she was portrayed in early medieval Roman and Greek liturgy through a multi-
faceted architectural imagery. In having conceived the Son of God, Mary is ‘elevated
above the stars’ and is made ‘the window of heaven . . . the door of the noble King,
and the radiant door of light’.7 By the ninth century, if not earlier, two parts of this
hymn, with different titles (Quem terra, pontus, aethera and O gloriosa domina),
were sung in Rome respectively during the matins and lauds of Marian feasts.8
The vision of the closed door found its way into a Roman antiphon attested in the
liturgy for the Annunciation,9 in a sermon attributed to Ildefonsus of Toledo (included
in the homiliary composed by Alanus of Farfa in the mid-eighth century),10 and in a
sermon attributed to Augustine, probably written in eighth-century Rome.11
In contrast, the Greek liturgical tradition employed the image of Mary as the open
door to salvation. In a homily that Proklos, future patriarch of Constantinople, delivered
in the Hagia Sophia on 26 December 430, he opposed Eve to Mary, and remarked that
through the birth of God ‘what was once the door of sin [the womb of a woman] was
made the gate of salvation’.12 Quickly included in the acts of the Council of Ephesus of
431, this homily became the most famous one on the Mother of God in the Christian
oecumene. From then on, the combination of Mary as threshold/door of paradise and
ladder to paradise often featured in Greek liturgical texts, some of which circulated
also in the Latin-speaking world. They include the Akathistos,13 a hymn on the Nativity

7 Pseudo-Venantius Fortunatus, Eighth hymn in praise of the Virgin Mary, MGH, Auct. An. 4.1, 385: ‘O
gloriosa domina / Excelsa super sidera . . . Coeli fenestra facta est / Tu Regis alti janua, et porta lucis
fulgida’.
8 Hesbert, 1963–1979, 4: 516–7; Piano, 2009, 143–4.
9 Hesbert, 1963–1979, 3: 537: ‘Vidi portam in domo Domini clausam … solus Dominus veniet, ingredi-
ens et egrediens, et erit semper clausa’.
10 Alanus of Farfa, Homiliae, II, 64 = Pseudo-Ildefonsus, Sermo 7, PL 96, 267C–269C, esp. 267D: ‘porta
Dei clausa’; 269A: ‘quomodo porta, per quam ingressus est Dominus, semper fuit clausa, quam Eze-
chiel propheta in visione divina respexit. . . . Ecce ubi evidenter ostendit nobis quia sancta Maria sem-
per virgo fuit’. Cf. Ads, 4, CCCM 27B, 1029, l. 18: ‘porta in domo Domini clausa’; Bini, 2015, 338.
11 Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 195, PL 39, 2107: ‘Maria, porta in domo Domini clausa. Castissimum Mar-
iae virginis uterum, sponsae virginis clausum ventris cubiculum. . . . Porta facta sum coeli; janua facta
sum Filio Dei. Illa porta facta sum clausa, quam in visione divina Ezechiel vidit prophet’. See Piano,
2009, 144–6; Engl. trans. of excerpts, see Clayton, 1990, 200, n. 82: ‘I have been made the gate of
heaven, I have been made the door of the son of God etc.’.
12 Proklos, Homily 1, II, 26–30, ed. and trans. Constas, 2003, 138–9: ‘πύλην σωτηρίας ὁ τεχθεὶς τὴν πὰλαι
τῆς ἁμαρτίας ἔδειξεν θύραν’.
13 Akathistos, III, 10–1, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 31: ‘χαῖρε, κλῖμαξ ἐπουράνιε, δι᾽ἧς κατέβη [ὁ] θεός’; trans.
Peltomaa, 2001, 5: ‘Hail, celestial ladder by which God descended’; VII, 9, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 32:
‘παραδείσου θυρῶν ἀνοικτήριον’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 9: ‘opener of the doors of Paradise’; XV, 7,
ed. Trypanis, 1968, 36: ‘σεπτοῦ μυστηρίου θύρα’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 13: ‘door of hallowed mys-
tery’; XV, 15, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 36: ‘δι᾽ ἧς ἠνοίχθη παράδεισος’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 17: the one
‘through whom Paradise was opened’; XIX, 7, ed. Trypanis, 1968, 37: ‘ἡ πύλη τῆς σωτηρίας’; trans.
Peltomaa, 2001: ‘gate of salvation’. See Peltomaa, 2001, 128–34, 158, 182–5; Krueger, 2011, 37; also
Manca, 1991.
312 Appendix 2: Mary as gate of heaven

possibly composed by Romanos the Melode in the first half of the sixth century,14 a
late sixth-century homily on the Annunciation by Anastasios of Antioch,15 the edify-
ing text Pratum Spirituale by John Moschos (d. 634), and the Life of Mary of Egypt
attributed to his companion Sophronios, the future patriarch of Jerusalem (d. 638).16
Derek Krueger noted that in these narratives the Virgin figures ‘as the threshold of
space’.17
The architectural typologies of the open gate of heaven and of the heavenly lad-
der used for Mary were reiterated and expanded in the homilies on the Dormition of
Andrew of Crete and John of Damascus.18 These homilies visualise Mary’s mediatory
and intercessory role through the biblical typology of the ladder to heaven (Genesis
28, 12–7). In the eastern and western Christian exegetical tradition, the image of the
celestial ladder was not uncommon, but was applied to Christ, the Cross, the concord-
ance of Old and New Testament and to Jacob’s dream. In the western monastic milieu,
as in the East, the ladder visualised a difficult ascent to heaven on successive rungs
of spiritual perfection.19 Andrew of Crete’s choice of the ladder metaphor to visualise
Mary’s connective role between heaven and earth, especially after her Assumption,20
may have been suggested by a combination of factors including his early monastic
life in Palestine, and the rich imagery of the Akathistos hymn, which celebrated Mary
as a ‘celestial ladder by which God descended’.21 Andrew’s is an innovation, because
the metaphor of the ladder is not found in fifth-century Greek Marian homilies. After
Andrew, Germanos of Constantinople wrote that in heaven ‘eternally, she [Mary]
would act as . . . an advocate for sinners, a ladder to heaven strong enough to bear the
weight of all humankind as it climbs’.22 John of Damascus addressed her as the ‘ladder

14 Hymn 1. On the Nativity, 9, 5–7; eds. Maas, Trypanis, 1963, 276–80; Hymn 36. On the Annunciation
I, 16, 3–4, eds. Maas, Trypanis, 287–8; see Krueger, 2011, 38; Arentzen, 2013, 131.
15 Anastasios of Antioch, Third sermon on the Annunciation, PG 89, 1389: ‘ἡ πρὸς οὐρανὸν ἐκτεταμένη
κλίμαξ, ἡ πύλη τοῦ παραδείσου’; Allen, 2011, 74.
16 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale, PG 87, 2851–3112; trans. Wortley, 1992; Life of Mary of Egypt, PG
87, 3697–3726; trans. Talbot, Kouli, 1996, 65–93. On Moschos and Sophronios in Rome, see Mango,
1973, 697–8; Booth, 2014, 100ff., 231–2; Llewellyn Ihssen, 2014, 3–4. On Marian typology in Greek
liturgical texts, where it often overlapped with allegory since these were not clearly distinguished in the
eyes of exegetes, see Cunningham, 2004.
17 Krueger, 2011, 32.
18 Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition, III, PG 97, 1105A: ‘Ἰδοὺ ἡ κλίμαξ, ἣν τὰ θεῖα μυούμενος ὁ Ἰακὼβ
ἐθεάσατο, περὶ ἣν ἑώρα τοὺς ἀγγέλους τοῦ Θεοῦ ἀναβαίνο τας καὶ καταβαίνοντας, ἥτις ποτὲ ἦν ἡ τοιάδε
κατάβασις ἢ ἀνάβασις. Αὕτη τῶν οὐρανῶν ἡ πύλη’; trans. Daley, 1998, 147–8: ‘Behold, the ladder that Jacob
saw in a moment of divine revelation, on which he saw God’s angels moving up and down – whatever that
ascent and descent signified. This is the gate of heaven’. John of Damascus, Homily on the Nativity of the
Holy Theotokos Mary, 3, PTS 29, 172; trans. Cunningham, 2008, 57: ‘The spiritual ladder’.
19 Some monastic sources are listed and discussed by Dell’Acqua, 2019b, 248–9. Here it should suffice to
recall for the East the treatise Ladder of Divine Ascent, written by John Klimakos, an abbot of Sinai in
the first half of the seventh century, PG 88, 632–66; trans. Moore, 2012; see Duffy, 1999. In the West,
in the same century, Benedict of Nursia wrote that the ladder represents our terrestrial life, and only by
having a humble heart one can ascend the ladder to heaven: Regula, 7, 5–10, SC 181, 472–4; cf. Regula
Magistri, 10.5–10, SC 105, 418-–20; Eugippius, Regula, 28, 5–82, CSEL 87, 51–9.
20 Andrew of Crete, On the Dormition III, 13, PG 97, 1105A; trans. Daley, 1998, 144, 147–8: ‘ladder [to
heaven]’.
21 Akathistos, III, 10–11; ed. Trypanis, 31: ‘κλῖμαξ ἐπουράνιε, δι᾽ ἧς κατέβη [ὁ] θεός’; trans. Peltomaa, 2001, 5.
22 Germanos of Constantinople, On the Dormition II, 3, PG 98, 361D; trans. Daley, 1998, 171.
 Appendix 2: Mary as gate of heaven 313

joining heaven and earth . . . an intermediary’,23 and again as the ‘spiritual, living lad-
der, by which the Most High has appeared on earth’.24 In the early decades of the ninth
century, Theodore of Stoudios also portrayed Mary as a ladder from earth to heaven.25
In the Latin tradition, the images of the window and the door open to heaven as
well as of the celestial ladder appear in the Pseudo-Augustinian Sermo 123 on Christ’s
Nativity, a north-African Latin text that cannot be dated with certainty, but which
attests to the circulation of liturgical themes and traditions in the Mediterranean.26
However, this homily simply mentions the typologies of the gate and the ladder. Aut-
pert, instead, amplifies them. He visualises Mary’s role in the history of salvation by
combining the two images and noting that because of her humility in accepting God’s
will, she became a living ladder through which God descended to earth, and through
which the faithful can climb up to heaven. He concludes by saying that she can only
be celebrated in her own words, that is with the Magnificat hymn.27
Like Andrew of Crete and John of Damascus, Autpert connects these metaphors to
Mary’s Assumption. He adds that Mary’s humility in accepting God’s will in the mys-
terious Incarnation, ultimately made her worthy of being taken up into heaven, where
she functions as the ladder to heaven and the gate of heaven for humankind, as seen
in the passage quoted in Chapter 6.28 It has been hypothesised that Autpert developed
the metaphors of the gate of heaven on the basis of the previously mentioned Pseudo-
Augustinian sermon.29 But the Greek homiletic and hymnographic tradition on Mary
as ‘gate of heaven’ or ‘ladder to heaven’ was already firmly established, and may have
inspired also the hymn attributed to Venantius Fortunatus, mentioned earlier, which
reflects this Marian typology.30
In an insightful repertoire on western sources on the theme of Mary as the heavenly
door, Autpert’s innovative contribution to this theme has not been considered; instead

23 John of Damascus, On the Dormition I, 8, PTS 29, 493; trans. Daley, 1998, 192.
24 John of Damascus, On the Dormition III, 2, PTS 29, 549, ll. 1–3; trans. Daley, 1998, 232.
25 Theodore of Stoudios, On the Dormition, 4, PG 99, 725B; trans. Daley, 1998, 253: ‘this is what the
blessed apostles answered to her. Either speaking on their own or quoting the words of the prophets:
“Hail,” one said, “ladder set up from earth to heaven. . . .” ’.
26 Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 123, 2, PL 39, 1991: ‘Facta est Maria fenestra coeli, quia per ipsam Deus
verum fudit saeculis lumen. Facta est Maria scala coelestis; quia per ipsam Deus descendit ad terras,
ut per ipsam homines ascendere mererentur ad coelos: ipsis enim licebit ascendere illuc, qui Deum cre-
diderint ad terras per virginem Mariam descendisse’ (=Pseudo-Fulgentius, Sermo 36, PL 65, 898–900,
esp. 899B); see Barré, 1955, 76, 92; Barré, 1963b, 57, n. 102; Bini, 2015, 74, 344, 352.
27 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 1–11: ‘Hinc etiam haec Virgo gloriosa beatam se dici ab omnibus
generationibus manifestat, eo quod eius humilitatem Deus respexit. Nam subdit: Ecce enim ex hoc
beatam me dicent omnes generationes. O uere beata humilitas, quae Deum hominibus peperit, uitam
mortalibus edidit, caelos innouauit, mundum purificauit, paradisum aperuit, et hominum animas ab
inferis liberauit! O uere, inquam, gloriosa Mariae humilitas, quae porta paradisi efficitur, scala caeli
constituitur! Facta est certe humilitas Mariae scala caelestis, per quam descendit Deus ad terras. Quia
respexit, inquit, humilitatem ancillae suae. Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes’.
28 Ads, 10, CCCM 27B, 1033–4, ll. 1–27. See Leonardi, 1968, 109; Bini, 2015, 344, 352.
29 Bini, 2015, 74, 79, 344, 351–2. Pseudo-Augustine, Sermo 123, 2, PL 39, 1991; see Barré, 1955, 76, 92;
Barré, 1963b, 57, n. 102. This sermon was included in Alanus’s homiliary, Homiliae, I, 7, that Autpert
most probably knew.
30 See Cameron, 1978, 84–5, on the possibility that Pseudo-Venantius knew Corippus’s address to Mary
as ‘queen’.
314 Appendix 2: Mary as gate of heaven

the focus has been on a ninth-century hymn composed by Milo of Saint-Amand.31 In

contrast, Autpert’s strong emphasis on the humility of Mary is the new element which
he introduces in her image as heavenly ‘ladder’ and ‘gate’. He forcefully supports the
idea that, thanks to her humility, the Incarnation took place in her body enabling her
to become the most effective mediator between earth and heaven. Moreover, having
been taken up into heaven, close to her Son and Bridegroom, she gained an excep-
tional intercessory role ‘above all saints’.32
In the same decades, the metaphor of Mary as ‘gate of heaven’ is found in the De
laude Dei, a devotional anthology collated by Alcuin in York before he joined Char-
lemagne’s court in 782. The anthology reflects the liturgical customs of Northumbria,
but also incorporates elements from Rome, Gaul, Mozarabic Spain, and Milan.33 By
the ninth century the metaphor of the ‘gate of heaven’ for Mary was commonly used
in liturgical hymns and antiphons. For example, see the antiphon ‘Paradisi portae per
te nobis apertae sunt’, attested in an antiphonary of the Roman Office from Com-
piègne dated to the ninth century, but obviously reflecting older customs.34

31 Piano, 2009, 144–6. Milo of Saint-Amand, De sobrietate, II, 1, 12–13, MGH, PLAK 3, 645.
32 Ads, 12, CCCM 27B, 1036, l. 6: ‘plus sanctibus omnibus’. On Mary’s intercession connected to her
exceptional maternity in Autpert, see Leonardi, 1968, 99.
33 On the origins of the De laude Dei, which still awaits an edition, cf. Bullough, 1991, 198; Clayton,
1990, 55–9; Ganz, 2004, 390; Billett, 2011, 97–100.
34 See Garrido Bonaño, 1987, 68, no. 137.
Epilogue

The proliferation of religious images and the heightened attention they gained in
Christian written sources from the seventh century onwards, can, in the opinion of
Averil Cameron, ‘be read . . . as part of the replacement for the lost horizons of classi-
cal Antiquity, and indeed as part of an urge to assert a new authority’.1 In other words,
in the long period in which Byzantium – but also the West – was trying to find a new
cultural identity, religious images gained importance in a new ‘sign-system’ through
which knowledge and truth could be assessed and transmitted. Again, it is Cameron’s
opinion that in this process, in which Byzantium [was] reorienting itself,2 is to be
acknowledged a huge effort to re-formulate the Christian visual discourse and bring to
the foreground particular themes in public art as well as in private devotional objects.
This process eventually led to the assessment of themes and to stabilised formulae
both in Byzantium and in the West. Previous scholars noted that certain iconographic
schemes appear to crystallise after the period of Byzantine iconoclasm. This process
coincided with the expansion of Islam, the analysis of which was beyond the scope of
the present study.
Through the lens of chosen themes related to the Incarnate God and his Mother,
I have illustrated how a re-definition of the visual discourse of Catholic ‘orthodoxy’
unfolded in Rome between the late seventh and the late ninth centuries. One can
almost say that iconoclasm, or better, the discussion that preceded and accompanied
the controversy on sacred images and the reactions to it, had a ‘generative power’ in
that it set minds thinking. The imagery it produced on both sides of the Mediterranean
was meant to assert ancient (or alleged ancient) traditions of the Church, but at the
same time to respond to recent theological controversies, including monotheletism.
Often the imagery that resulted was not simple or straightforward. It needed to con-
vey concepts which were sometimes highly abstract (as in the case of the Annuncia-
tion–Incarnation, or the manifestation of the human–divine God on Mount Tabor or
at the end of times), sometimes disturbing in their graphic evidence (a child offered
on the altar for burnt offerings instead of a lamb), or not yet doctrinally settled (as in
the case of the bodily Assumption of Mary). In order to trace this process of cultural
‘reorientation’, particularly in Rome and central Italy, I have focussed on the evolution
of ‘dynamic’ images/themes. My selection of themes, as well as of case studies, was

1 Cameron, 1992, 4.
2 Cameron, 1992, 4.
316 Epilogue

not meant to be comprehensive. But through them, I have illustrated how, by picking
the threads of the controversies over the two operations, wills, and thus two natures
of Christ, ‘iconophiles’ in Italy and on the other side of the Mediterranean were think-
ing imaginatively about how the reality of the Incarnate God, his Mother, and his
saints could be depicted and asserted as a means to reach out to the divine. Previ-
ous scholars have demonstrated that figural images can contribute to the interpreta-
tion of Scriptures and even expand their narrative.3 The examples of figural imagery
brought into the discussion here – mosaics, mural paintings, reliquaries, and personal
amulets – did, actually, expand the narrative of the Scripture, but they also promoted
an ‘iconophile’ discourse, by visually demonstrating that figural imagery can uplift the
mind and mediate salvation.
Between the seventh and the ninth centuries, in the circles of those who firmly
believed in the mediatory agency of figural imagery, be that in Rome, Asia Minor,
Greece, Palestine, or Egypt, sacred images were the object of an intellectual and mate-
rial elaboration. ‘Old’ figural images were imbued with new significance, as in the case
of Theotokos, used to illustrate the enthroned Mary in heaven after her Assumption,
or in the case of the epiphany on Mount Tabor to project the Second Coming of the
Redeemer, and thus visually stimulate belief in salvation and the practice of good
deeds to achieve it. In other cases, ‘old’ images seem to have been re-interpreted, as
in the case of the Virgin witnessing Christ’s Ascension, and likely prefiguring her own
Assumption into heaven – her Assumption being a question highly debated in the
West between the eighth and the ninth centuries. Finally, ‘new’ images were produced,
including Mary as ‘blessed humility’ in heaven, or the Child Christ, the Lamb of God,
offered on the altar for burnt offerings during his Presentation in the Temple of Jeru-
salem. Far from being a mere evolution of forms, figural images were the product of
intersecting practices, interests, arguments, and beliefs. Liturgical practices and texts,
combined with beliefs, devotional practices, and figural imagery have been treated
here as fossils of a mindset that professed orthodoxy and iconophilia. This mindset
rapidly evolved between the seventh and the ninth centuries and produced elements
of a visual discourse that in many cases had an enduring fortune. An ‘expansive view’
on the role of sacred images, actively supported by the papacy, was embraced also by
the Carolingians, and thus prevailed in the West as it did in Byzantium.4 In fact, the
debate around the ‘image struggle’ informed attitudes to visual representation and
perception – not only to sacred images – in western culture for a long time. So, we
may conclude that the image controversy cast a very long shadow on western and
Byzantine culture well into the modern period.
The specific themes analysed in this study have brought to light not only attitudes
to the visual which were coincident with the major theological controversies of the
seventh to the ninth centuries, but also to related developments of Marian imagery,
cult, and devotion. In fact, against the idea that Mary came to prominence only after
iconoclasm, certain topics and imagery show that she had already become focal in the

3 For example, with respect to the period treated in this book, see Corrigan, 1992; Brubaker, 1999b; and
the analysis of Sansterre, 1994, 221–2. With respect to the illustration of the Bible, on how it can devi-
ate from traditional patterns to reflect specific backgrounds and environments, see Williams, ed., 1999;
Chazelle, 2006, 84.
4 Kessler, 1994, 544.
 Epilogue 317

discourse of those affected by the monothelete controversy and in favour of sacred

images between the late seventh and the eighth centuries. In the same period, she was
presented in Greek and Latin liturgical texts as the main intercessor for humankind,
and as such was promoted by various popes. In sum, the debates over sacred images,
and the Virgin’s role in the divine economy (although apparently unquestioned by the
image contesters), were fundamental in spurring a new Marian imagery, which, in
some cases, became standard thereafter. Because I have essentially dealt with evolving,
‘dynamic’ images/themes, I have left aside the discussion of extant devotional icons
from early medieval Rome; their imagery seems to have crystallised into specific types.
In any case, these icons attest to a widespread devotion to the Virgin in Rome, official
and private. The establishment of Marian feasts in Rome, and the manifestation of her
official cult, is not attested in writing earlier than the late seventh century. It was then
that they were solemnised with public processions – this does not imply that Marian
feasts were not celebrated earlier. However, between the late seventh and the late ninth
centuries, Mary seems to have taken centre stage in the papal city. Private devotion to,
and the official cult of, the Mother of God, the main intercessor for humankind, were
promoted by the popes at the same time that they were shaping their political identity
and asserting their doctrinal independence and authority in the face of the Byzantines
and Carolingians.
Apart from a letter sent by Pope Hadrian I to the Frankish sovereign Charlemagne,
and a letter sent by Paschal I to the Byzantine Emperor Leo V, the popes did not
leave programmatic or explicit texts on these issues. Hence, I resolved to examine
contemporary Latin texts attesting to specific theological concerns, such as the preoc-
cupation with actually seeing God, and a devotional focus on the Mother of God. In
this light, the figure of Ambrose Autpert, a learned theologian active at S. Vincenzo
al Volturno, who had already been considered by previous scholars of ninth-century
papal patronage, became fundamental to my argument. His writings help to explain
particular attitudes to religious themes and feasts in eighth- and ninth-century Rome.
I have retraced Autpert’s specific connections with the papacy, embedded his writings
in a wider cultural discourse, and treated them as mirrors of the ‘orthodox’ thinking
which he shared with the popes. I did this without taking for granted a direct, one-to-
one relation between text and image.
Having examined the rich and ever-growing scholarly tradition on early medieval
Rome, I concluded that the increased artistic patronage of the popes was intentionally
and attentively devised as an important means of reaching the masses, of transmitting
papal doctrinal authority and political independence, and hence of promoting the idea
that figural imagery was necessary to assert common beliefs, uplift the minds of the
faithful, inspire good deeds, and mediate individual and communal salvation.
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Index
Abgar, king 162, 186
Abraham, patriarch 99, 118, 173, 177
acheiropoieton (image not-made-by-human-
hand) of Christ 42, 43; at the Lateran;
Mandylion of Edessa 52 – 3, 186
Adalard of Corbie 81
adoptionism 74 – 5, 104, 121, 127 – 8, 151,
155, 241, 270,
Admonitio generalis 91, 95
adorare 77
adoratio/adoration 73 – 4, 76 – 81, 83,
188 – 9
Adoration of the Magi: event 197; depiction
of 197 – 8, 201, 206
Adorna thalamum tuum, hymn 229
Adsumpta 242 – 4, 248 – 50, 253, 264 – 5, 267,
270, 280 – 3, 285, 288 – 90, 292, 304
aequalitas 83
Africa 114, 313
Agapitus, saint 189
Agatha, saint 148
Agatho, pope 19 – 20, 31, 66, 247
Agnes, saint 137, 139
Agnus Dei, hymn 22, 119, 233; depiction 22;
mosaic in St Peter’s 30
Agobard of Lyon, bishop 184
Aistulf, king 41 – 2, 59, 93, 181
Akathistos, hymn 12, 27, 45, 55 – 6, 60, 233,
247, 307, 311 – 12
Akolouthia to the Akathistos 55 – 6, 60
Alanus of Farfa 103, 106 – 7, 223
Alcuin 279, 288, 314
Alexandria 41, 69, 71, 115, 188, 212
Allen, P. 221 – 2, 225
All Saints, feast of 41
Alpha Omega (Α Ω), monogram of Christ
118, 157, 173, 248
altar cloth 209, 213 – 14, 268 – 70, 302
Ambrogio Lorenzetti 194
Ambrose, Church Father 25, 225 – 6, 287,
310; tomb 212, 214
Ambrose Autpert 7, 12, 64, 87 – 120, 162,
317; Epistola ad Stephanum papam
93 – 4; ‘eruditissimus’ 118; Expositio in
Apocalypsin 93 – 4, 96 – 7, 99, 149; Greek
language 116 – 18; Homilia de Purificatione
95, 106, 108, 113, 216, 223; Homilia de
transfiguratione Domini; homilies 111 – 13,
120; kinds of images 97 – 100; legacy 119;
Libellus de conflictu vitiorum et virtutum;
Oratio contra septem vitia; Sermo de
Adsumptione 103 – 5, 114, 241, 243, 262,
264, 307; ‘rustic servant of the Lord’ 94,
102; Sermo de Cupiditate ; signature as
‘humble monk’ 107; ‘textual icons’/‘textual
images’ 101, 103, 111; Vita sanctorum
patrum Paldonis Tatonis et Tasonis 101
ampulla/ampullae 250, 292
Anastasis: rotunda see Jerusalem, churches;
depiction of 140 – 3, 237 – 8, 293; event 140
Anastasios of Antioch 312
Anastasios of Sinai, abbot 152, 154 – 5
Anastasius Bibliothecarius 78, 116, 303
Anastasius the Persian, saint 35; church of at
Corteolona 35, 37; cult 36; monastery see
Rome, churches/monasteries; relics 35, 37
Andrew of Crete, bishop 27, 30, 32, 53,
56, 114; champion of iconophilia 56 – 7,
109; exile 52, 115; homilies 27, 52, 56;
Homilies on the Dormition I–III 105,
110, 232 – 3, 254 – 5, 258 – 9, 275, 278,
285 – 7, 293, 295, 306, 312 – 13; On the
Annunciation 165; On the Transfiguration
154 – 5; iconophilia 109; Life 52; On the
Veneration of Divine Images 52
Angilbert, abbot 37, 74 – 5, 212
Anna, prophetess 192, 195, 198, 201, 203,
206, 212, 218 – 19, 228, 240
Annunciation: depiction of 124, 127, 169,
195, 197, 201, 206 – 9, 213, 220, 226,
236 – 7, 240, 248, 280, 306 – 9, 311 – 12;
event 42, 213; feast of 23, 42
378 Index
Antioch 41, 69, 71, 115, 219, 312
Antipater of Bostra, bishop 264 – 5
antiphon 113, 119, 152, 228, 250 – 1, 253,
287, 311, 314
Antoninus of Grado, patriarch 40
Apocalypse see Revelation, Book of
apostolic author 18, 99; authority 111, 186;
city see Rome; see see Rome; tradition 18,
23, 79, 187
apostles 13, 18, 58, 70, 102; Acts of 289;
at the Dormition 110, 247, 251; at the
Transfiguration 13; depiction of 40, 63,
131, 135, 161, 212, 237 – 8, 250, 253,
259, 271, 290, 292 – 3, 300, 303;
teaching 54
Aquitaine 106
arca cypressina 203
Arculf, bishop 262, 270
Arichis II, duke 93 – 4, 117
Ark of Covenant 99
Ascension of Christ: depiction of 141, 237,
243, 250, 260 – 1, 269, 270, 290, 292, 296,
316; event 99, 290, 292, 316
Asia Minor 236, 258, 316
aspasmos, kissing, embracing, salutation 77
Assumption of Mary: bodily 14, 32, 114,
241 – 3, 248, 261; controversy 14, 243,
269 – 70, 277, 292, 300; depiction of 10,
241 – 3, 247, 250, 254, 260, 267 – 9, 274,
276, 284, 292 – 3, 295, 302 – 4; event 14,
241 – 2, 248 – 9, 308 – 9; feast of 23, 106,
108, 113, 220, 253, 258, 262 – 4, 269 – 70,
286, 289 – 93; homilies 105 – 6, 108,
113 – 15, 120, 258, 265, 274, 279, 285,
287, 296, 312 – 13
Athanasios of Alexandria, bishop 306;
Pseudo-Athanasios 77
Augustine, Church Father 4, 25, 83, 104,
111, 115, 188, 226; Pseudo-Augustine
225, 279, 287, 311
Ave Gratia Plena, hymn 229
Ballardini, A. 92, 182
Baptism of Christ: depiction of 201, 206 – 9,
237 – 8; event 148
Bari 54 – 5
Basil of Caesarea or Basil the Great 15, 18,
48, 73, 100; depiction of 66, 238
Basil I, emperor 51 – 2
Bath of the Infant Christ: depiction of 206 – 7,
216, 237
baths 35
Bede, monk 152 – 3, 157; De templo 38 – 9;
De temporum ratione 229 – 30; Historia
Anglorum 188; Historia ecclesiastica;
homilies 91, 113; Kalendarium sive
Martyrologium ; On the Purification of
Mary 108, 222 – 3, 225 – 8, 231, 233 – 4
Belting, H. xxi; 119, 127, 285
Benediktbeuern, monastery 107
Benedict Biscop, abbot 39
Benedict of Aniane, abbot 184
Benevento; Duchy of 12, 89, 93 – 4, 106,
117, 184
Bethlehem 145, 149, 206, 219 – 21, 228, 248
Birth of Mary: event 23, 220; feast of 23, 220
British Isles 87
Bronze Serpent 99
Brown, P. 3, 5, 18, 109
Brubaker, L. xx – xxi, 6, 18, 43, 254
Burning Bush 125, 173, 177
Byzantine Empire 20, 46, 49, 58, 60 – 1, 72,
128, 187, 238, 277
Byzantines 2, 21, 70, 76, 317
Byzantium 2 – 3, 6, 9 – 10, 13, 18 – 20, 29,
34, 39, 41, 43 – 4, 48, 51, 56 – 7, 59, 71,
85, 114 – 15, 120 – 1, 143, 156, 184, 187,
189 – 90, 218, 233, 240, 242, 270, 303,
315 – 16
Calabria 33, 72
Cameron, A. 9, 18, 186, 315
Camille, M. 118
Candelaria see Presentation of the Christ
Child in the Temple
Candlemas see Presentation of the Christ
Child in the Temple
Capitulare adversus synodum 74–5, 79, 80, 82
Cappadocian Fathers 48, 73
Capua 108
Carbunculus 164 – 56, 177
Carolingian Empire 187, 243, 270, 291, 295
Carolingians 46, 187, 243
Chalcedonian Christology 19, 23, 220, 231
Chalke gate see Constantinople, other
buildings
Charlemagne, emperor 2, 11, 45 – 6, 70, 72,
74 – 6, 78, 82 – 3, 85 – 6, 91 – 2, 94 – 5, 99,
121, 155, 180, 184 – 5, 212, 214, 223,
269 – 70, 291, 317
Charles the Bald, emperor 234
Chazelle, C. xxi, 6, 39, 234
Chludov Psalter 208
Christ 5, 35, 53, 55, 77, 80, 99; Ascension
see Ascension of Christ; Baptism see
Baptism of Christ; Bath see Bath of the
Infant Christ; body 22, 48, 124, 126,
149, 153, 162, 165 – 6, 220, 226, 232 – 4;
Bridegroom 14, 230, 276, 280, 303, 314;
Child 10, 13, 23, 30, 32, 40, 42, 63,
95, 103, 106, 108, 120, 134, 148, 182,
192, 195, 198, 201, 203, 206 – 7, 209,

212 – 15, 219, 221 – 3, 225, 228, 230,
232 – 4, 238, 240, 242, 248, 254, 271,
315 – 16; Crucifixion see Crucifixion of
Christ; divinity 32, 75, 101, 121, 127,
153 – 4, 164 – 5, 177, 191, 206, 222, 228;
Holy Face see acheiropoieton (image not-
made-by-human-hand) of Christ; humanity
103, 120 – 1, 127, 177, 237; icon/image
53, 70, 292; Incarnate God i, 9, 10 – 11,
13 – 14, 16 – 17, 21, 25, 43, 46 – 7, 53, 69,
71, 87 – 8, 92, 99 – 101, 103, 111, 114,
120; infancy 169, 203, 250, 300; Judge
63, 86, 154, 242; King of Kings 173, 293;
Lamb see Lamb of God; Light 10, 92,
121 – 3, 131, 144, 148, 156, 161, 180,
190, 220, 228 – 30; ministry 89, 173, 201,
250; miracles 99, 131, 259; Nativity see
Nativity of Christ; natures 8, 16, 27, 155,
160, 162, 164, 167, 177, 197, 214, 316;
Passion 21, 169, 184, 227, 232; Redeemer
97, 131, 177, 180, 192, 226, 232, 316;
Son of God/Mary 14, 27, 32, 35 – 6, 42, 74,
91 – 2, 99, 100, 103, 109; Transfiguration
see Transfiguration of Christ
Christe, Y. 122
Christian oecumene 12, 16, 20, 27, 41, 44,
123, 152, 183, 254, 303, 311
Christian practices 4 – 5, 8, 12, 14, 16 – 17,
29, 39, 41, 43 – 6, 61, 65, 85 – 7, 92, 96,
106, 111, 114, 117, 119 – 20, 186 – 7,
221 – 2, 225, 230, 235 – 6, 240, 242, 248,
252, 258, 262, 292, 316
Christian values 7, 19
Christological controversies i, 4, 8 – 10, 12,
16, 27, 36, 49, 86, 112, 120, 122, 195,
240 – 1, 243, 290, 303, 315 – 16
Chronicon Vulturnense 101, 181
Church councils and synods 3, 16, 30,
43, 114, 197, 265; Council in Trullo or
Quinisext Council (691–2) 3, 22, 26,
29, 66, 119, 233; Council of Chalcedon
(451) 66; Council of Constantinople (815)
13, 128, 184; Council of Ephesus (431)
197, 265, 311; Council of Hiereia (754)
11 – 12, 43, 45 – 50, 53, 55, 58 – 60, 63,
66 – 7, 69, 71, 82 – 3, 86, 88, 96, 100 – 1,
110, 155, 241, 277; Council of Nicaea
II (787) 34 – 6, 50, 54, 56, 58, 71 – 8, 80,
82 – 3, 96, 109, 123, 149, 185, 187 – 8,
265; Lateran Synod (649) 19 – 20, 50,
60, 66, 222, 241; Lateran Synod (769)
50, 70 – 1, 75, 77, 80 – 1, 86, 96, 186;
Roman Synod (731) 39, 50, 70, 77, 81,
115; Six Ecumenical Councils or Synods
30, 79, 187; Sixth Ecumenical Council
in Constantinople (680–1) 8, 19 – 20, 27,
Index 379
30 – 1, 34, 45, 247, 259, 306; Synod of
Frankfurt (794) 11, 75 – 6, 83, 128; Synod
of Paris (825) 13 – 14, 85, 123, 188, 215;
Synod of Regensburg (792) 75, 128;
Synod of Rispach, Freising, and Salzburg
(800) 269
Church Fathers 12 – 13, 20, 25, 40, 45, 50,
66, 71, 79, 82, 86, 89, 91, 96, 99, 102,
106, 155, 182, 184, 189, 223, 225 – 6, 261,
269, 278, 290, 310; depiction of 40, 66
Circumcision: depiction of 193; event 193,
221
Claudius of Turin, bishop 37, 184, 270, 288
Clayton, M. 263
Cogitis me see Paschasius Radbertus
Constantine of Nakoleia, bishop 188
Constantine I, emperor 86
Constantine I, pope 29 – 32
Constans II, emperor
Constantine II, pope
Constantine IV, emperor 19 – 21, 45, 247
Constantine V, emperor 33, 43, 46 – 7, 52,
55 – 8, 60, 66, 70, 83, 86, 101
Constantine VI, emperor 35, 71 – 2, 74,
79, 95
Constantinople 8, 16, 19, 21, 25 – 6, 28 – 9,
33 – 4, 37, 41, 44, 46, 48 – 9, 51 – 2, 54,
56, 60, 65, 72, 89, 105, 115, 184, 186,
188, 197, 208, 212, 219, 238 – 9, 254,
258 – 9, 264, 277, 289, 311; churches:
Blachernai 27 – 8, 219, 247, 300; Chora
51, 56; Theotokos Kyriotissa 197 – 8, 203,
212; other buildings: Chalke gate 32, 54;
imperial palace 21, 30, 32, 54
Corippus 305
Cormack, R. 113, 271
Corteolona 35 – 8, 44, 79, 96
Cosmas, saint 149, 307
Council in Trullo or Quinisext Council (691–
2) see Church councils and synods
Council of Chalcedon (451) see Church
councils and synods
Council of Constantinople (815) see Church
councils and synods
Council of Ephesus (431) see Church
councils and synods
Council of Hiereia (754) see Church councils
and synods
Council of Nicaea (787) see Church councils
and synods
Councils, Six Ecumenical see Church councils
and synods
Council, Sixth Ecumenical in Constantinople
(680–1) see Church councils and synods
Counter-Reformation 85
Crete 27, 259
380 Index
Crucifixion of Christ, depiction of 123, 128,
141, 169, 173, 207, 237; event 152, 154,
159, 177, 191 – 2, 203
Crypt of Abbot Epyphanius see S. Vincenzo
al Volturno
Damascus 49, 115, 219, 259
Damian, saint 307
damnatio memoriae see memory, erasure
Deesis 131, 137
De’ Maffei, F. 285
Deshman, R. 244 – 5
Desiderius, duke and king 59, 93
diaconia, charitable foundation 55 – 6, 60,
145, 306
Dionysios the Areopagite or Pseudo-Dionysios
18, 99–100, 110, 155, 166, 188, 249
Disentis 302
Dormition of the Virgin Mary: depiction of
110, 242, 300, 302 – 4; event 110, 262;
feast of 219, 258, 262, 275, 286; homilies
56, 110 – 11, 232 – 3, 245, 254 – 5, 275, 277,
286 – 7, 293, 306, 312
Drogo of Metz, bishop 214
Drogo Sacramentary 214 – 15, 218
Duchesne, L. 42
Duchy of Benevento see Benevento, Duchy of
Duchy of Naples, see Naples, Duchy of
Duchy of Tuscany, see Tuscany, Duchy of
Dungal, monk 37
dyotheletism 19
Działyński enkolpion 292
ecclesia ex circumcisione 197
Edessa 161 – 2
Egeria, pilgrim 218, 260
Egypt 238, 258, 316
eikôn 73
eikonomachoi 2, 43, 45, 47 – 8, 109, 277 – 8
Eirene, Empress 54, 71 – 2, 74, 79, 95
Elijah, prophet 124, 131, 154
England 108, 152, 222, 225, 279, 302
enkolpion, pectoral amulet 127, 141, 206,
208, 235 – 9, 292 – 3, 295
Enoch, patriarch 99
Epyphanius, abbot 108 – 9, 169, 172, 280
etimasia 195
Eucharist 22 – 3, 47 – 8, 134, 148, 165, 169,
233 – 4, 240, 248, 300
Eugene II, pope 13, 188
Eusebius Gallicanus 104, 264
Eustathius, dux 306 – 7
Euthymios, saint 66
Evangelists 54, 212, 296
Exaltation of the Holy Cross, feast of
152, 165,
exegesis (Bible) 111 – 12, 118, 153, 228, 288;
exegetes 51, 104, 124, 159, 165, 195, 209,
248, 285
Ezechiel, prophet 310
Farfa, monastery 106 – 7, 262, 296
Felicissimus, saint 189
Felix of Urgell, bishop 75, 127, 128, 270, 288
Felix IV, pope 149
Fieschi Morgan casket 238 – 9
First Coming of Christ see Parousia
Florence, church of S. Marco 201, 244
florilegium/florilegia 19, 50, 69, 71, 81 – 2,
114 – 15, 188
Foletti, I. 119
Four Living Creatures, depiction of 148
Francia 45, 80, 279
Franks 20, 43, 59, 70, 82, 93 – 4, 120, 189,
292, 295
Froehner, W. 293
Fulcoald of Farfa, abbot 107
Fulgentius of Ruspe 223
Gabriel, archangel 236 – 7, 308
Gelasian Sacramentary 223
Gelasius, pope 219
Gentilly 70 – 1, 188
George, papal legate to the Sixth Ecumenical
Council 31
Germanos of Constantinople, patriarch 30,
32, 49, 56, 60, 85, 115; champion of
iconophilia 37, 39, 53 – 4, 57, 109, 115;
exile 52, 60, 85, 115; Homilies on the
Dormition I–II 32, 105, 110, 233, 275,
286 – 7, 293, 295, 312; Letter to John of
Synnada 188; relics 51
Gervasius, protomartyr 212
Golden Altar of Milan see Milan, objects
Gortyna 27, 115, 259
Gospel 73, 105, 151 – 2, 160, 192, 195, 203,
218, 220 – 1, 223, 226 – 7, 233 – 6, 240, 288
Greek language 40, 50, 56, 59, 76 – 7, 88,
105, 114, 116 – 18, 155, 238, 279
Greeks 30, 56, 60, 65, 70, 86, 111, 114,
186 – 7, 220, 263 – 4, 285, 307
Greek-speaking: communities 59, 67, 86, 96,
105, 114, 254, 306; monks 51, 56, 60 – 1,
96, 145, 186 – 8; popes see popes; saints
66 – 7, 69, 86, 115 – 16, 300, 302 – 3
Gregorian Sacramentary 223
Gregory Nazianzos 48, 155, 238
Gregory of Nyssa 48
Gregory of Tours 260 – 3, 290, 296, 300;
Glory of the Martyrs 260
Gregory the Great, pope 25 – 6, 28, 44 – 5,
66, 79, 80 – 2, 148, 188, 223, 228, 310;

Dialogues 228; laetaniae septiformes 25,
44, 80; letters 80 – 2, 188
Gregory II, pope 29, 32 – 4, 38, 58, 60, 72,
79, 123
Gregory III, pope 8, 39 – 41, 63, 79,
183 – 4, 190
Gregory IV, pope 13, 189, 209, 212
Grimoald IV, Prince 181
Hadrian I, pope 2, 45, 50, 64, 71 – 6, 78 – 83,
86, 89, 92, 94 – 5, 99, 121, 123, 128, 149,
180 – 1, 183, 185, 223, 241, 262, 268, 300,
307, 317
Hadrian II, pope 296, 303
Hadrianum or Responsum 45, 74 – 5, 78 – 9,
82, 99, 185
Haldon, J.F. 6, 43
Hamburger, J.F. 96
hand of God 148, 171, 260
Harrowing of Hell see Anastasis
Heraclius, emperor 36
heresy 5, 10 – 11, 16 – 17, 33, 44, 75, 95 – 6,
104, 121, 127 – 8, 184 – 5, 222, 288, 292
Hermepertus, abbot 101
Hodges, R. 181
Holy Face see acheiropoieton (image not-
made-by-human-hand) of Christ
Holy Land 106, 115, 240, 248, 250, 261 – 2,
269 – 70, 292
Holy Scriptures see Sacred Scriptures
Holy Sepulchre see Jerusalem, buildings
homilies and sermons 6, 113; function 90,
111 – 12
Homiliary of Agimundus 258, 264 – 6, 268
honorificare 77
Hrabanus Maurus 113
Hwaetbert, abbot 230
Hypapante see Presentation of the Christ
Child in the Temple
iconoclasm i, xx, 1 – 5, 9 – 10, 12 – 13, 16 – 17,
29 – 30, 33, 35 – 6, 38 – 41, 43 – 6, 51 – 2, 55,
57 – 60, 63, 71, 73, 79, 82, 86 – 7, 92, 95 – 6,
99, 109 – 10, 120 – 1, 123, 127 – 8, 156, 161,
183 – 5, 189 – 90, 192, 198, 208, 214, 231,
236, 277 – 8, 315 – 16
iconoclasmus 2
iconoclasts 2
iconoclastic controversy or controversy over
sacred images i, xi, 2 – 5, 7, 9, 11 – 18,
29 – 30, 32, 34 – 5, 39, 41, 43 – 5, 50, 52 – 3,
55 – 6, 65, 67, 70 – 1, 77, 80, 85 – 8, 92,
94 – 6, 99, 101, 109, 113, 115, 121 – 2, 186,
189, 195, 215, 218, 234, 240 – 2, 269 – 71,
274, 295, 303, 315 – 17
iconomachy 2, 17
Index 381
iconophiles 9, 12, 18, 33, 43, 45 – 6, 48, 50,
81, 87, 109, 114, 186, 236, 239, 277, 316
iconophilia 1, 2, 5, 11, 13 – 14, 27, 40, 45,
51, 63, 85 – 6, 88, 92, 109, 120, 182,
184 – 5, 189, 239, 272, 277, 316
iconophobes 43, 46, 48
icons 9, 28, 45, 47, 52 – 3, 83, 110, 171,
266, 317; bas-relief 40, 54, 63, 183, 213;
cult/veneration of 3, 9, 45 – 7, 50; liturgical
2, 119; textual 12, 87 – 8, 100, 103, 110,
120, 279
Ildefonsus of Toledo, bishop 103, 244, 275,
305; Pseudo-Ildefonsus 311
Illyricum 72, 114
images: burning/destruction of 2, 30, 32 – 3,
37, 47, 54 – 5, 303; controversy see
iconoclastic controversy; cult/veneration
of i, 3, 9 – 11, 18 – 20, 40, 42, 45 – 50, 52 – 3,
58, 72 – 8, 81, 85 – 6, 94, 97, 105, 110, 184,
187 – 9; function 15, 18, 19, 41, 72, 82,
87, 100, 111, 295; immaterial 2, 73, 87,
97, 100, 110 – 11 119; kinds of 99 – 100;
liturgical 10, 17, 22, 119; material 2 – 3,
87, 97, 100 – 1, 110 – 12, 120, 156, 162;
mental 2, 13 – 14, 17, 87, 89, 100 – 1, 103,
109 – 10, 112, 119 – 20, 234; pictorial i,
6 – 7, 9 – 10, 13, 18, 29, 39, 41, 43, 47,
56, 61, 65, 69, 79, 86 – 7, 96, 109, 111,
119 – 21, 128, 152, 156, 161 – 2, 183, 197,
241 – 3, 268, 277, 285, 289, 292, 295,
302, 304, 307; power of 1, 13, 17, 101,
119, 166, 239; sacred i, 1 – 4, 9 – 11, 13 – 4,
16 – 21, 29, 33, 35, 37, 39, 41 – 61, 70 – 2,
74 – 86, 89, 94, 96, 100, 109, 111 – 12,
119, 121, 123, 128, 184 – 9, 234, 239,
242, 274, 315 – 17; texts and images 4, 6,
12, 15, 45, 73, 87 – 9, 96 – 7, 103, 112 – 13,
118 – 20; textual 10, 14, 18, 101, 105, 114;
usefulness of 38, 82 – 3, 113; visual 3 – 4,
6 – 8, 11, 14 – 16, 18, 21, 30, 40, 73, 87,
89, 100, 110, 112, 114, 118 – 19, 216, 243,
274, 276, 283, 291, 295
imago 83; clipeata 126, 253
Incarnate God, see Christ
Incarnation i, 9, 14, 45, 87 – 8, 103 – 5, 109,
111, 191, 206; belief in 46; depiction
of 123, 127, 142, 159, 197; iconophile
argument of 9, 45, 109, 231; mystery of
32, 203; reality of 32, 195
Innocent IV, pope 239
Jacob, patriarch 99, 311 – 12
James, apostle 124
Jarrow 39, 91, 157, 230
Jerome, Church Father 25, 153, 223, 295,
310; Pseudo-Jerome 308
382 Index
Jerusalem 26, 28, 36, 41, 44, 69, 70 – 1, 106,
115, 124, 145, 149, 188, 197, 218 – 23,
225, 228 – 9, 258, 289, 312; churches:
Anastasis 115, 218; Holy Sepulchre 106,
219; Temple 13, 38, 99, 192, 195, 198,
201, 219, 222, 225 – 6, 231, 233, 310;
sites: Gethsemane 110, 269; Mount of
Olives 289
John Chrysostom, patriarch 153, 238, 264
John of Arezzo, bishop 296
John of Damascus vii, 15, 49, 52, 69,
73, 115, 162; adoptive brother of 229;
auctoritas 50; champion of iconophilia
18, 49 – 50, 73, 77, 99, 100, 109, 161,
185; Exposition of the Orthodox Faith;
165; florilegium 50; homilies 105,
110; Homilies on the Dormition I–III
105, 110 – 11, 233, 275, 278, 286 – 7,
293, 295, 306, 312 – 13; kinds of
images 99 – 100; legacy 51, 56; On the
Divine Images 15, 77, 99, 186; On the
Transfiguration 155
John of Synnada, bishop 188
John of Thessalonike, bishop 258
John Moschos 221; Pratum Spirituale 312
John the Baptist, saint 127, 271
John the Evangelist 131, 137, 188, 207,
237 – 8, 271, 300
John I, abbot 101
John VII, pope 14, 29, 66, 243, 250, 258 – 9;
oratory in St Peter’s 14, 198 – 9, 243 – 4,
247 – 8, 289 – 90, 304; mural paintings in
S. Maria Antiqua 66, 198; servant of the
Mother of God 244 – 5, 247
John VIII, pope 243, 296, 303
Joseph, saint 192, 198, 201, 203, 206, 208,
212, 218, 220, 225, 231
Joshua, abbot 180, 182
Justin I, emperor 219
Justin II, emperor 197, 305
Justinian, emperor 125, 219
Justinian II, emperor 21, 29, 66, 233
Juvenal of Jerusalem, bishop 218
King of Kings, see Christ
Koimesis see Dormition of the Virgin Mary
Kondakov, N. 293
kontakion 305
Kosmas Vestitor 295
Kramer, R. 86
Krueger, D. 312
Labatt, A. 127, 140
laetaniae or letanie see processions in honour
of Mary
laetaniae septiformes see Gregory the Great
Lamb of God 13, 21 – 2, 99, 161, 192, 203,
225, 232 – 4, 240, 315; depiction of 21 – 2,
131, 139, 145, 148; hymn see Agnus Dei
Langobardia 29, 89, 94, 181
Lantfredus, abbot 107
Lateran clergy 22, 181; Cross 203; Synod
(649) see Church councils and synods;
Synod (769) see Church councils and
synods
Latin language 12, 40, 50, 54 – 6, 60, 63, 66,
70, 74, 76 – 8, 86, 103, 115 – 18, 188, 223,
249 – 50, 258 – 61, 264 – 5, 292, 295 – 6, 303,
305, 307
Laurence, protomartyr 169, 173, 177
latreia 73, 77 – 8
Law of Moses see Moses
Leonardi, C. 101
Leo the Great, pope 22–3, 26, 30, 66, 199, 225
Leo III, emperor 32 – 8, 41, 44, 46, 52 – 5,
57 – 8, 60, 72, 79, 115
Leo III, pope 11, 13, 61, 75, 121, 123 – 4,
127 – 8, 145, 149, 151 – 2, 156, 180, 190 – 1,
203, 209, 212, 235, 239, 241, 267, 288,
302, 309
Leo IV, emperor 58
Leo IV, pope 14, 243, 289, 291 – 2
Leo V, emperor 101, 184, 238, 278, 317
Libellus synodalis 188
Liber Pontificalis 22, 30, 32–3, 37, 39–40, 42,
50, 54, 58–61, 63, 71, 123, 182, 212, 220,
223, 258–9, 262, 268, 270, 292, 302, 307
Libri Carolini 46, 82 – 3, 85, 184, 189
Lidova, M. 254
Life of Mary of Egypt see Sophronios of
Jerusalem
Life of Saint Stephen the Younger 53 – 4, 187
liturgical: calendar 108, 115, 152–3, 219;
hymns 5, 12, 22, 27, 45, 55–6, 60, 71,
86, 105, 108, 110, 113, 117–19, 161,
230, 233–4, 247, 258, 282, 284–8, 300,
304– 7, 311– 14 (Adorna thalamum tuum
see Adorna thalamum tuum, hymn; Agnus
Dei see Agnus Dei, hymn; Akathistos see
Akathistos, hymn; Ave Gratia Plena see
Ave Gratia Plena, hymn; Magnificat see
Magnificat, hymn); practices 4–5, 8, 14, 41,
46, 65, 87, 96, 106, 114, 117, 119, 187,
221, 225, 230, 240, 248, 252, 262, 316
Liutprand, king 35 – 8, 40
Logos, the Word of God 187, 206, 214, 236
Lombards 32, 36 – 8, 42 – 3, 59, 70, 93,
120, 181
Lorenzetti see Ambrogio Lorenzetti
Lorsch, monastery 37
Louis the Pious, emperor 85, 180 – 1, 184,
187 – 9, 291

Madonna della Clemenza 254, 272, 275
Magnificat, hymn 282, 284 – 8, 304, 306, 313
Maiestas: of Christ 152 – 3, 169, 173, 177,
212, 271; of the Virgin 127, 284
Mandylion of Edessa see acheiropoieton
(image not-made-by-human-hand) of
Christ
Mariale of Reichenau 258, 296
Marian feasts see Virgin Mary
Mariology 10, 91, 113 – 14
Mark the Evangelist 124, 127, 151, 189
Mar Sabas, Great Lavra, monastery 115
Martin, saint 106
Martin I, pope 19, 22, 66, 241
Mary, mother of Jesus Christ see Virgin Mary
Maskarinec, M. 307
material culture i, 4 – 6, 8, 10, 18, 87, 106,
285, 292
Maximos the Confessor 19, 186, 222
Mayr-Harting, H. 295
McClendon, C. 9, 29
McKitterick, R. 33, 112
Mediterranean area/sea i, 1 – 3, 6, 16, 45, 57,
105, 114, 116, 155, 195, 233, 235 – 6, 238,
239 – 40, 242, 244, 254, 257 – 8, 306, 313,
315 – 16
memory 21, 25, 54, 56, 89, 100, 166, 258;
aids 5; classification 4; collective 119;
cultural 112; erasure 30; exercise 5, 116;
fabric of 14
mentality: iconophile 87, 111, 304;
‘orthodox’ 12, 87; religious 4, 13, 96, 109,
111, 119, 234, 242, 261
Methodios, patriarch 186, 208
Michael II, emperor 187 – 8
Michael III, emperor 188
Milan 37, 260, 279; Basilica of
Sant’Ambrogio 212; Golden Altar 212,
215
Milo of Saint-Amand 314
mind’s eye 4
miracles 3, 36, 83, 99, 131, 259
monoergism 16, 221
monotheletism 5, 8, 10, 16 – 17, 19, 29 – 31,
44, 53, 221 – 2, 241, 306, 315
Montecassino, monastery 42, 93, 264
mosaics 7, 12 – 13, 51, 62, 73, 119, 121, 124,
126 – 8, 131, 137, 143, 145, 149, 151 – 2,
156, 161, 180, 190 – 1, 197, 201, 222, 244,
247, 267, 289 – 90, 304, 309, 316
Moses, prophet 124, 131, 154, 173, 177;
Law of 42, 82, 192 – 3, 222, 225, 227 – 8
Mount Nebo 32
Mount Sinai 125, 155, 267
Mount Tabor 13, 91, 103, 124 – 5, 148,
153 – 4, 156, 315 – 16
Index 383
Mount Zion 139
Müstair 212
Naples, Duchy of 2, 303
Nativity of Christ: depiction of 201, 206 – 7,
209, 213, 237, 248, 269; event 310;
feast 219; hyms 311; homilies on 219, 279,
286, 313
Nebo, mount see Mount Nebo
neoplatonic/Neoplatonism/Neoplatonist 18,
155
New Testament 79, 96, 117, 124, 148, 209,
220, 228, 310, 312
Nicholas, saint 238
Nicholas I, pope 188, 303
Nikephoros I, emperor 238
Nikephoros I, patriarch 186, 235, 239
Niketas the Patrikios 52
Noble, T.F.X. 3, 78, 189
Northumbria 38 – 9, 222, 230, 314
Nothelm, monk 39
Notkerus Balbulus 300
oecumene see Christian oecumene
Old Testament 48, 73, 79, 96, 148, 154, 209,
220, 228, 233, 310, 312
Opus Caroli, see Libri Carolini
orans 201, 242 – 4, 248, 250, 259, 265, 289,
296
Ordines Romani 23, 229
orthodoxy 7, 9, 11 – 12, 16, 20, 27, 29 – 30,
33, 36, 38, 44, 46 – 9, 51, 53, 58, 60, 63,
66, 69, 92, 128, 184 – 5, 187, 190, 199,
236, 277 – 8, 289, 315 – 16
Osborne, J. 4, 8, 106, 292
Palestine 49, 51 – 2, 60, 114, 152, 219 – 22,
225, 240, 258, 295, 302, 312, 316
Pantheon or S. Maria ad martyres see Rome,
churches/monasteries
Parousia: First Coming of Christ 127; Second
Coming of Christ 13, 63, 103, 122 – 3,
137, 153, 156, 173, 177, 180, 191, 230,
296, 316
Paschal I, pope 13 – 14, 51, 88, 92, 101, 119,
121, 126, 128, 134, 143, 145, 148 – 9,
151 – 2, 156, 165, 181 – 7, 190 – 1, 195,
203, 206, 209, 214, 216, 218, 235, 242 – 3,
267 – 78, 280, 289, 291, 302, 304, 308,
309, 317
Paschasius Radbertus 78, 118, 295, 308;
Cogitis me 295, 300
patrimony of St Peter 33, 72, 76
Paulinus of Aquileia 89
Paul the Deacon 37, 82, 89, 117 – 8; Collectio
Pauli 82; History of the Lombards 37;
384 Index
homiliary for Charlemagne 276, 285;
homilies on the Assumption 113, 243,
262 – 4, 269 – 70, 275; knowledge of Greek
117; Life of Gregory the Great 234
Paul: basilica of St Paul outside the walls see
Rome, churches/monasteries; depiction of
30, 137, 148 – 9, 195, 244; saint 18, 124,
164, 247
Paul I, pope 8, 12, 58 – 61, 63 – 7, 69 – 70, 79,
86, 93, 183, 187, 242
Pavia 35, 37 – 8
Pelagius II, pope 148
Peter: basilica of St Peter’s see Rome,
churches/monasteries; depiction of 30,
131, 137, 148 – 9, 195, 197, 237; saint 21,
23, 44, 63 – 4, 124, 153, 156, 180, 183,
201, 245, 247; throne of 28; vicar of
Christ 22, 259
Philippikos Bardanes, emperor 29 – 31, 35
phoenix, depiction of 148 – 9, 191
Phokas, emperor 28
Pippin III, king 43, 45, 58–9, 70, 94, 117, 188
Platytéra tōn ouranōn or Virgin ‘wider than
the heavens’see Virgin Mary
Pliska enkolpion 127, 141, 206 – 10, 237 – 8,
293 – 4
Pohl, W. 4
popes i, 1 – 3, 7 – 8, 19, 59 – 60, 88, 92 – 3, 96,
120, 180 – 1, 186, 317; authority 23, 26,
43 – 4; artistic patronage 3, 13 – 14, 26, 63,
209, 267, 289; champions of ‘orthodoxy’
7, 12, 16, 19 – 20, 29, 44, 60, 66, 123, 184;
depiction of 66, 250; Greek/eastern popes
28, 54; iconophilia 3, 11 – 12, 16, 33, 58,
82, 96, 121, 185, 231, 241; as vicar of
Peter 44, 64, 247, 259
Praxedis, saint 131, 137, 139, 148
Presentation of the Christ Child in the
Temple: depiction of 13, 192, 196 – 203,
206 – 9, 212 – 20, 222 – 3, 231, 235, 237 – 8,
240; event 13, 192 – 3, 196; feast of 13,
23, 42, 106, 182, 222 – 3, 225, 228 – 30,
240; homilies 13, 95, 103, 106, 108, 120,
225 – 8, 240
processions in honour of Mary see Virgin
Mary, processions in honour of Mary
Proklos, patriarch 264 – 5, 311
proskynesis 30, 76 – 7, 169, 274, 280
Protasius, protomartyr 212
Psalms 152, 187, 251, 287 – 8
Psalter 208, 212, 215, 234, 284, 288
Pseudo-Andrew of Crete see Andrew
of Crete
Pseudo-Augustine see Augustine
Pseudo-Athanasios see Athanasios
Pseudo-Dionysios see Dionysios the
Areopagite
Pseudo-Ildefonsus see Ildefonsus of Toledo,
bishop
Pseudo-Jerome see Jerome
Pudentiana, saint 131, 137, 139, 148
Purification of the Virgin Mary see
Presentation of the Christ Child in the
Temple
Quinisext Council or Council in Trullo (691–2)
see Church councils and synods
Ravenna 32, 37, 40, 59, 123, 306
Reichenau, monastery 258, 296
relics 17 – 19, 35 – 6, 42 – 3, 48, 51, 57, 124,
165, 187, 189, 239, 250, 289; papal
collections 41 – 2, 203, 206, 218; containers
203, 206, 218, 235 – 6; translations 23,
121, 274; veneration of 19, 47 – 8
reliquary of the True Cross see True Cross
Responsum see Hadrianum
Resurrection of Christ: event 14, 99, 137,
156, 260 – 2, 277, 288; depiction of 140,
212, 237
Revelation, Book of 95, 127 – 8, 148, 157,
160 – 1, 164, 173, 182; commentary on
93, 97, 99, 117 – 18, 155, 163, 180,
225 – 6, 285
Reynolds, D. 6
romanitas 7
Romans 40 – 3, 70
Romanos the Melode 305, 312
Rome i, xx, 4 – 8, 11 – 12, 16, 21, 25 – 31,
35 – 7, 39 – 45, 49, 50 – 2, 54 – 61, 65,
69 – 72, 74, 77, 80, 82, 85 – 9, 92, 94, 100,
106 – 8, 115, 117, 119, 123 – 4, 126 – 8, 131,
140, 145, 148, 151 – 3, 155, 165, 169, 182,
186 – 9, 191, 195, 197, 212, 218 – 23, 225,
228 – 30, 233, 235 – 6, 239 – 44, 250, 252,
254, 258 – 9, 261 – 2, 264 – 5, 268, 270 – 1,
279, 289, 292, 300, 303, 306 – 7, 310 – 11,
314 – 17; apostolic city 114, 145; apostolic
see 71, 222; buildings: Forum 22 – 3, 228,
257, 289; Grotte Vaticane (in St Peter’s)
244; Lateran complex 43, 203; Lateran
portico 54, 60; Pantheon 28, 169, 266;
papal scrinium 39, 115; Church of 1 – 2,
69, 76, 201, 270; churches/monasteries:
All Saints oratory (in St Peter’s) 41;
Lateran basilica 25 – 6, 70; oratory of
John VII (in St Peter’s) 14, 41, 198 – 9,
201, 242 – 4, 258, 253 – 4, 257, 259, 271,
304; S. Adriano or Curia Julia 23, 228,
289; S. Anastasius ad aquas salvias 36;
S. Clemente 14, 243, 289; S. Cecilia 145,
148 – 9, 156, 183; S. Crisogono 70, 184,
190; S. Francesca Romana see S. Maria
Nova; S. Maria ad martyres (Pantheon)

28, 169, 266; S. Maria Antiqua 12, 28,
61, 63 – 4, 66, 69, 86, 198, 203, 212,
222, 241, 254, 271, 307; S. Maria de
Secundicerio or Temple of Fortuna Virilis
or of Portunus 300, 302 – 3; S. Maria in
Campo Marzio 60; S. Maria in cancellis
(in St Peter’s) 41; S. Maria in Cosmedin
306 – 7; S. Maria in Domnica 14, 145, 148,
183, 242, 270 – 2, 274, 276, 278, 280, 289,
304; S. Maria Maggiore 23, 25, 40, 42,
63, 182 – 3, 195, 197 – 8, 203, 209, 220,
228, 257, 268 – 71; S. Maria Nova 266;
S. Prassede 23, 128, 145, 148 – 50, 152,
156, 183, 187; S. Sabina 30, 32, 106, 296;
SS. Cosma e Damiano 22, 149, 307s; SS.
Nereo e Achilleo 123 – 4, 126 – 8, 155; S.
Pietro in vinculis 23; S. Silvestro in capite
59, 61; S. Venanzio 250, 265, 271; S.
Zeno 128, 130 – 1, 134, 140 – 1, 143, 148;
St Paul outside the walls 22, 36; St Peter’s
8, 14, 22, 25, 30, 40 – 1, 50, 61, 71, 75 – 6,
165, 183, 190, 198 – 9, 212, 222, 242 – 4,
259, 264, 274, 289; sites: Caelian Hill
124; Esquiline Hill 23, 25, 182; Palatine
Hill 28; Schola Graeca 300; objects:
staurotheca of Paschal I see True Cross,
reliquaries
Sabas, saint 66
Sabina, saint 30
Sacra ad synodum, Constantine VI’s and
Eirene’s letter 74
Sacra Parallela 51 – 2
Sacred Scriptures 14, 20, 45, 81, 83, 89, 97,
102, 111, 152, 154, 173
Saint-Denis 56, 59, 253, 307
Sansterre, J.-M. 3 – 4, 14
Sarcophagus 259 – 60, 302
scrinium, papal library/archive see Rome,
other buildings
Scriptures see Sacred Scriptures
Scythopolis 302
Second Coming of Christ see Parousia
Secundinus, monk 81 – 2
Semoglou, A. 290
Sens, Trésor de la Cathédrale, linen brocade
with the Assumption of the Virgin 250, 260
Seraphia, saint 30
Serenus of Marseille, bishop 80 – 2
Sergius I, pope 21 – 3, 25 – 940, 108, 119, 153,
165, 199, 220, 229 – 30, 233, 257 – 8, 304
sermon see homily
servant of God/Mary 35, 94, 102, 104, 164,
244, 247 – 8, 259, 283, 286, 288, 306 – 7
Severos of Antioch, patriarch 219
Shorr, D.C. 192 – 3, 195, 201, 206, 235
Sicily 33, 72
Index 385
Simeon, prophet 13, 192 – 3, 195, 197 – 8,
201, 203, 206 – 7, 209, 212 – 13, 215,
218 – 23, 226 – 9, 232, 234, 240
similitudo 83
Sinai see Mount Sinai
Sinai, monastery of the Theotokos (later of
St Catherine) 155, 267
Sixth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople
(680–1) see Church councils and synods
Sixtus II, pope 183 – 4, 190
Sixtus III, pope 79
Smith, J.M.H. 41
Sophronios of Jerusalem, patriarch 113,
219 – 22, 225 – 8, 231, 312; Life of Mary of
Egypt 312
spolia: conceptual 304; textual 105, 304
stained glass 121, 123, 156 – 7, 159, 166,
173, 177, 179, 191
staurotheca, reliquary of the True Cross see
True Cross
Stefanus, secundicerius 303
Stephen, protomartyr 169, 173, 177
Stephen II, pope 42 – 3, 59, 79, 93, 181,
306 – 7
Stephen III, pope 64, 70, 79, 86, 94, 180,
182, 186
St Gall, monastery 296, 300
St Paul outside the walls see Rome churches/
monasteries
St Peter’s see Rome, churches/monasteries
Sutri 33
S. Vincenzo al Volturno: Crypt of Abbot
Epyphanius 51, 167, 169, 173, 177, 180,
243, 280, 285 – 6, 288 – 9, 304, 308 – 9;
monastery xx, 12, 64, 87, 89, 92, 94, 101,
108, 123, 157, 180 – 1, 280; S. Vincenzo
Maggiore 169, 182
Sylloge Laureshamensis 37 – 8
Sylvester, pope 79
Synodica, Hadrian I’s letter 45, 71 – 3, 78 – 9,
81 – 2
Synod, Lateran (649) see Church councils
and synods
Synod, Lateran (769) see Church councils
and synods
Synod of Frankfurt (794) see Church councils
and synods
Synod of Paris (825) see Church councils and
synods
Synod of Regensburg (792) see Church
councils and synods
Synod of Rispach, Freising, and Salzburg
(800) see Church councils and synods
Synod, Roman (731) see Church councils and
synods
Syria 152, 258
Svizzeretto, F. 272
386 Index
Tabor, mount see Mount Tabor
Talaricus, abbot 182
Taso, founder of S. Vincenzo al Volturno 107
Tato, founder of S. Vincenzo al Volturno 107
Temple of Jerusalem see Jerusalem, buildings
textual icons see icons
Theodora, empress 186, 239
Theodora, mother of pope Paschal I 128,
131, 134
Theodore, papal legate to the Sixth
Ecumenical Council 30 – 1
Theodore, saint 149
Theodore Stoudios 110, 162, 186 – 7, 277 – 8,
286 – 7, 296, 313
Theodore I, pope 220
Theodotos I, patriarch 184
theophany 122, 124, 153; depiction of
127, 152
Theophilos, emperor 239
Theoteknos of Livias, bishop 32, 286
Theotokos see Virgin Mary
Thomas of Maurienne, abbot 102, 106
Thunø, E. 92, 121 – 2, 127 – 8, 148 – 9, 156,
203, 214, 216, 274
Timothy of Baghdad, patriarch 161
Toesca, P. 285, 289,
Transfiguration of Christ: depiction of 13,
124, 126 – 8, 131, 140, 145, 208; event 13,
122, 124, 152, 159, 166, 191, 238; feast of
152, 155; homilies 91; 120, 123, 152, 154
Transitus Mariae 261
transitus of the Virgin Mary see Virgin Mary
Triumph of Orthodoxy (843) 289
True Cross: cult 36; relics 36, 203, 236, 238;
reliquaries: staurotheca of Paschal I
Trullo, council of see Church councils and
synods
Tuotilo 296, 300
Tuscany, Duchy of 59
Twenty-Four Elders 148
Tyre 212
Utrecht Psalter 215
Valerianus, saint 148, 184
van Dijk, A. 253, 257
velum/vela 269, 280
Venantius Fortunatus 103, 279, 305, 307,
311, 313
venerare 77
Vicopisano enkolpion 141 – 2, 206 – 8,
236 – 9, 293
Vincent of Zaragoza, saint 107
visual thinking 1, 7, 10, 12, 87, 92, 96
Virgin Mary: Adsumpta 242–4, 248–50, 253,
264–5, 267, 270, 280, 283, 285, 288–90,
292, 304; Constantinopolitan cult 8, 28,
44, 247; Ecclesia 96, 104, 226; cathedra
27; co-Redeemer/co-Redemptrix 206, 280,
304; emblem of orthodoxy 16, 27, 277;
emblem of wisdom 16, 27; feast days 23,
26, 28, 42, 44, 91, 105–8, 113–15, 195,
215, 218–23; ‘formam Dei’ 104, 241; gate
of Heaven 105, 229, 243, 276, 278–9,
286, 310–14; Hodeghetria 266; humility
92, 103, 203, 206, 221, 222, 225, 231–2,
247, 279, 283–6, 288, 304, 307, 309,
313–14, 316; intercessor 5, 9, 12–14, 25,
27, 32, 44, 63–5, 69, 86, 92, 103, 109, 131,
149, 169, 187, 227, 240–4, 247, 253–4,
256, 259, 266, 274, 276–7, 280, 285–6,
288–9, 303–4, 306, 309, 312, 314, 317;
Jerusalem cult 27, 44; ladder to Heaven
13, 105, 243, 276, 278–9, 285–6, 288–9,
303–4, 310–14; Maria Regina 248, 254,
265, 275, 285, 306–7, 309; mediator 103,
255, 274–5, 280, 285, 295, 303, 312,
314; mother of the Church/faithful 92, 96,
104, 226, 232; Mother of God i, 8–12, 14,
16–17, 23, 26–7, 44, 46, 58, 69, 88, 100,
103, 105, 108–11, 120, 124, 183, 187, 222,
226, 229, 231, 233, 242–4, 247–8, 250–1,
253–4, 259, 261, 265, 268, 271–2, 274–8,
283, 303–4, 306, 311, 315–17; orans 201,
242, 243–4, 248, 250, 253, 259, 265, 271,
289, 296; Platytéra tōn ouranōn or Virgin
‘wider than the heavens’ 32; processions
in honour of 8, 11, 16, 23–7, 42, 44, 108,
203, 258, 317; queen of Heaven 14, 27,
92, 149, 203, 248, 253–4, 259, 274–5,
280, 283, 285, 305–9, 313; relics 27–8,
248, 274; Roman cult 8, 16, 23, 25, 27–8,
106–8; servant of God 104, 244, 248, 259,
286, 288, 306; Theotokos 46, 73, 124,
127, 155, 226, 248, 265, 267, 270–2, 274,
276, 278, 316; threshold of Heaven 9, 278,
311–12; throne see cathedra; transitus 110,
242–3, 247–8, 255, 259–60, 262, 264,
268, 287, 292, 295, 300, 302–4
Visitation: depiction of 201, 206; event 283
Warburg, A. 6 – 8
Warner, M. 14
Wearmouth 39
Wirksworth 302
Wisskirchen, R. 92, 274
Yazid, caliph 36
Zacharias, pope 54, 60, 79
Zaragoza, church of S. Engracia 259
Zechariah, prophet 152