The Preacher and the King: vision and meaning in Atheniensis 211

Abstract

Codex Atheniensis 211 is the earliest surviving illustrated Chrysostomic anthology. Its unique and sophisticated illustration still puzzles and fascinates scholars. The relative chronology of the manuscript fluctuates between the end of the ninth century and the first half of the tenth, while its provenance remains to this day unspecified. In an attempt to illuminate the circumstances of its creation, this study engages with the examination of a unique homily and its illustration. In my view, the people responsible for the selection of the sermon and the design of its illustration conceived it as a meaningful re-contextualization of the homily's original delivery; the historical background of fifth-century Constantinople served as a springboard for the articulation of an eloquent visual comment on current public issues in the Byzantine capital.

One of the earliest illustrated manuscripts preserved in the collection of the National Library in Athens is a unique anthology of homilies attributed to John Chrysostom, the eloquent and prolific preacher and patriarch of Constantinople from 398 to 404.¹ The chronology, provenance, and circumstances of its creation have been debated since its first publication by André Grabar in 1932, when he proposed a date in the tenth century.² Initially Grabar put forward the hypothesis of an eastern origin for the book, while later he supported a different view that favoured a provenance from central or southern Italy.³ His conclusion was prompted by his iconographical and stylistic observations. Subsequent researchers have largely relied on his analysis, but new interpretations have also been put forward.⁴ To this day, a secure chronology and the determination of its origin are scholarly desiderata, but equally vivid and stimulating is the discussion on the scribe and the painter.⁵ Limitations of space and scope here prevent the detailed exposition of all the different views or the discussion of all issues pertaining to the comprehension of this fascinating early manuscript. Suffice it to mention that its chronology fluctuates from the second half of the ninth century to the early tenth century, while Constantinople and Italy figure prominently as plausible places of manufacture.

Unlike several early Chrysostomic corpora assembled on the basis of a coherent canon with an explicit exegetical orientation, focusing on specific books from the Scriptures,⁶ the anthology in Athens presents its reader with a seemingly random thematic selection. In the course of time, it has lost both its opening and its close. Today it comprises forty-two homilies that principally elaborate on moralizing themes and theological issues.⁷ The futility of wealth and earthly assets, the value of repentance and almsgiving for the spiritual advancement and eventual salvation of the righteous: these are key motifs surfacing regularly from sermon to sermon. To these we may add doctrinal questions, adhering to a certain theological agenda that quite often resonates polemically either against Christian heretics or against the Jews.⁸ Of the forty-two sermons preserved therein and attributed to John Chrysostom, the majority are by his pen, two are pseudo-Chrysostomic and found only in the Athenian codex, while seven homilies have been attributed to other authors.⁹ At this point, it is important to mention that, unlike the illustrations, which have monopolized scholarly attention, the principles permeating the selection of the homilies in the Athenian codex have not received the attention they deserve.

All views concur on the fact that this is the earliest surviving testimony of an illustrated Chrysostomic collection. Apart from its early date, it stands out because of its originality and its exquisite art. All the compositions are unique, sophisticated, and classicizing – and above all, they were never copied in the following centuries. The extent of the manuscript's original illustration eludes us. The surviving material, though, constitutes the earliest attempt to illustrate the words of this emblematic hierarch. Later, from the eleventh century onwards, compositions inspired by biographical accounts of John would appear in Chrysostomic collections;¹⁰ yet these were not illustrations of the sermons per se. In its current state, the Athenian manuscript features fifteen narrative compositions, several decorative arrangements, and some simpler headpieces. The perfection of the draftsmanship and the apparent references of the iconography and style of execution to the art of late antiquity unfailingly impress anyone who leafs through its pages.

Without exception, the narrative compositions and decorative patterns are distinctive. They are varied and freely executed on parchment, exclusively around the title of each homily in impeccable pen-drawing and with the same light-brown ink used by the scribe for the text. The confident and agile drawing confirms the painter's undisputed talent. The colouring is minimal and wisely distributed in order to highlight garments and to enhance the plasticity of the flesh, especially of faces, hands and feet. The palette is plain and limited: green, red, and blue pale watercolours.

Certain homilies have been chosen to receive unassuming decoration: the title is defined neatly by narrow headbands combining geometric and vegetal ornament.¹¹ Elsewhere we come across improvisations that combine vine sprouts with antique vessels.¹² Similar vegetal elements are employed regularly in narrative scenes in order to mediate a scenery for the action.¹³ In several instances the titles are enclosed within variously rendered crosses.¹⁴ Lastly, decorative frames comprise a distinct and especially impressive category.¹⁵

With regard to the narrative illustration, this talented miniaturist rendered his images with delicacy and sensitivity, conveying the spirit of the text with economy. Each picture is carefully assembled ad hoc by the essential pictorial motifs selected from different visual contexts. Their content is inspired either by the title of the sermon or by the opening lines of the homily proper, and therefore a parallel reading of words and images is mandatory for the reader/viewer to grasp the full meaning of each composition. As has been noted,¹⁶ our miniaturist is especially keen on the illustration of rhetorical contrasts and metaphors, resulting in scenes with parallel or antithetical arrangement.¹⁷ Another recurring compositional principle is the circular display of individual pictorial details.¹⁸

The variety of the modes selected for the decoration of the opening of all the sermons is impressive and at the same time puzzling. No doubt, practical reasons, and especially the challenge of navigating through the pages of this sizeable anthology, must have dictated such a mnemonic mechanism reminiscent of bookmarking. A telling example will suffice to illuminate my point. Towards the closure of the codex and between folios 264r and 310v, we find a series of six homilies dedicated to the inexplicable nature of God and against the Anomoeans – a fourth-century heresy that represented an extreme form of Arianism.¹⁹ The title of the first homily is enclosed within an impressive ciborium-like construction, which singles out the sermon, marks the beginning of the series and brilliantly promulgates Christian values by way of a visual pars pro toto: the ciborium for the entire Church.²⁰ The titles of all five following sermons are enclosed within equally impressive decorative frames reminiscent of precious opus sectile on church walls and floors.²¹ In this way the designer of the illustration managed to clearly indicate a section of the anthology with strong theological overtones that the reader is visually instructed to handle as a distinctive subdivision.

Moreover, taking under consideration the singularity of all options and more precisely the meaningful distribution of the images within the book, I am convinced that neither the homilies nor their individual decorations were selected randomly or lightly. On the contrary, they must have been employed in order to promote a distinct agenda and an explicit objective that complied with the wishes, needs, and tastes of a specific audience. Some homilies were clearly valued more highly than others. Following the traces of these unique choices, that is unique sermons and singular images, it might help us sketch more clearly the profile of the original user or users of this fascinating early book. Taking my cue from Leslie Brubaker's meticulous study of ninth-century visual communication,²² I am equally inclined to see images as indices of socially constructable meaning and as constructors of social meaning. Recurring patterns in both verbal and visual communications are indeed our best guide to how images could work and how people could understand.

In an attempt to illuminate these questions, I will focus upon a single case that stands out for both its text and its illustration. The specific homily is indeed very rare: it survives in the Athenian codex and another manuscript of the eleventh century, today in the Vatican.²³ The historical setting of the sermon's original delivery is adequately documented. Between 400 and 402, John Chrysostom delivered two sermons at the martyrium of St Thomas at Drypia, a location that has yet to be securely identified.²⁴ According to Raymond Janin it was a rural suburb in the south west of Constantinople outside the Theodosian walls and along the Via Egnatia.²⁵ The occasion calling for the preacher's eloquence was the celebration of the Day of the Martyrs, a feast augmented by the ceremonial deposition of new relics arriving in the Byzantine capital at the initiative of Empress Aelia Eudoxia (395–404) who at the time maintained cordial relations with the patriarch.²⁶ The three martyrs whose relics were deposited at Drypia remain anonymous, but there is a strong case for identifying them with Sisinnius, Martyrius, and Alexander, early martyrs of Cappadocian origin. All three had been brutally put to death in the region of Trent in northern Italy in 397, while preaching to the pagans in the Alps. Bishop Virgilius of Trent, who received their ashes, had written to John promising to send him some relics.²⁷ With Chrysostom's consent, the Augusta organised a two-day celebration that included a vigil and a long torchlight litany across the city, starting from Hagia Sophia and terminating at Drypia. The first homily was solemnly delivered right after the end of the litany, in the presence of Eudoxia and the people of the city.²⁸ The festivities culminated the next day with a second homily addressed to the flock, after the departure of Emperor Arcadius (395–408) and his military escort.

As noted by Gilbert Dagron,²⁹ religious processions of this type in the city of Constantine during the first centuries were distinctively unlike the imperial triumphs of Roman times. Although they often took the emperor or the empress, following the same route on foot, to the important sacred sites within the city walls or outside the city, during these religious pageants in particular, the triumphal character was reversed: the emperor representing God's divine order on Earth, had to renounce his elevated status and humble himself before God.

This idea is beautifully visualized in the unique composition illustrating Chrysostom's second homily at Drypia contained in Atheniensis 211 on folio 63r (Fig. 1). A haloed emperor crowned with a diadem surmounted by an emblematic cross and dressed in a sumptuous cloak, adorned with dotted cruciform patterns, kneels submissively as he throws himself at the feet of a group of three anonymous martyrs. His hands are hidden under his mantle in an ambiguous gesture that conveys adoration and supplication. On the right, the scene is framed by a slender cypress tree that rises directly in contact with the emperor's red slippers. The composition is crowned by a vine shoot terminating in a bunch of red grapes.

Figure 1 EBE 211, fol. 63r. An anonymous emperor prostrating at the feet of three anonymous martyrs (by the permission of the National Library in Athens)

According to Anthony Cutler and Leslie Brubaker,³⁰ the elucidation of meaning and signification permeating a wide range of postures and gestures – from humble bowing to genuflection and submissive prostration – that were employed by the Byzantines after the end of Iconoclasm in varied ritual and devotional performances, is no easy task. Gestures and postures mattered, and their charged choreography did not necessarily assign a single meaning to a particular move. So, context is pivotal in the process of unravelling the transformation of the elusive posture of proskynesis from the pragmatic into the symbolic.

In our miniature specifically, Cutler identified a reverential hapax,³¹ a case in which the artist was faced with a dilemma of priority: the problem of demonstrating reverence paid to a group of saints rather than an individual martyr. In the end the idea of the imperial proskynesis prevailed, with the consequence that the figures to whom this reverence was principally offered were literally set aside. However, apart from the decoding of the king's bodily attitude, there remains another crucial and perplexing issue that needs to be addressed: the explication of his unmistakable facial likeness to the representation of another kneeling ruler in a roughly contemporary work of monumental art.³²

Normally, all imperial figures in our manuscript are depicted in accordance with a formulaic physiognomic type that privileges round faces, short hair, and short rounded beards. They are all crowned and invariably wear the paludamentum clasped on the shoulder with a fibula. If the emperor's facial features and imperial apparel on folio 63r were rendered in the generic manner that we typically come across in our manuscript, and indeed if he did not stand out for his undeniable facial resemblance to the imperial figure performing an analogous prostration in the mosaic panel that adorns the Royal Gate in the narthex of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople (c. 912) (Fig. 2),³³ then the interpretation of this particular representation would have been straightforward. We would be talking about a literal illustration of the sermon's title – On the Day of the Martyrs in the presence of the King – and we would recognize the Emperor Arcadius in proskynesis in order to receive the divine grace of the martyrs. However, this is not the case here. The prostrate emperor in the Athenian manuscript is individualized. More precisely, he bears very specific features that vividly recall the physiognomy, stance, and apparel of the anonymous imperial figure in the mosaic panel of Hagia Sophia (Figs. 5 and 6). A well-modelled oblong face with clearly outlined eyebrows, eyes and nose, distinctive lips beneath a drooping moustache and an oblong beard of medium length bifurcated at the centre of the chin, is crowned with long hair. This facial type markedly deviates from the imperial formula recycled in the illustrations of the specific codex and is reminiscent of the so-called ‘portrait coins’ of Leo VI (886–912), Romanos I (920–944) and Constantine VII (913–959).³⁴ Such a distinctive deviation must have been purposeful and certainly must have carried profound significance. In my view, the people who designed the illustration here conceived of it as a meaningful re-contextualization of fifth-century events; the historical context of the sermon's original delivery served as a springboard for the articulation of an eloquent visual comment on current public issues in the Byzantine capital.

Figure 2 Hagia Sophia, Constantinople. A view of the royal proskynesis-mosaic (photo by Steven Zucker, PhD)

In fact, if we turn to the crowned figure on folio 56r (Figure 3) leading a small group of righteous Christians that Chrysostom exhorts to partake into two banquets simultaneously – a literal one of earthly delicacies and an allegorical one of divine nourishment resulting from the heavenly inspired prophetic words –³⁵ it is clear that here the designer of the illustration was not interested in identifying the ruler with a specific person. What distinguishes him from the rest is the gesture of speech he directs to the hierarch across the altar and the imperial insignia, namely his crown and the paludamentum – the military chlamys clasped on the right side with a fibula. Compared to him, the features of the emperor in proskynesis on folio 63r appear consciously customized, as if they were meant to identify a specific individual. In my mind this obvious similarity between two almost contemporary works of art – our miniature on the one hand and the mosaic panel in Hagia Sophia on the other – is not accidental and therefore it would be wrong to bypass it without further consideration.

Figure 3 EBE 211, 56r. Two parallel banquets (by the permission of the National Library in Athens)

Another indicative case of a royal model that stands out in stark contrast to the virtuous emperor will further underscore the talent of the miniaturist and his ability to adjust the imperial formula meaningfully within varied visual contexts. On folio 132v (Fig. 4) at the opening of the sermon dedicated to the moral value of repentance,³⁶ Herod and John the Baptist, the devious king is represented seated on a throne as he witnesses the abominable outcome of John's beheading. Directly across Herod the parchment has been excised, and, judging by the outline of the hole, we may safely assume that there it must have appeared the head of the Baptist on a disc. It might have been Salome presenting it to the king, or even Herodias herself. Herod embodies an anti-hero, the stereotype of the immoral and decadent king, a fact visualized brilliantly in a series of iconographical details: his crown remains without a cross, and his halo is distinctively coloured sky-blue. This is the only figure in the entire manuscript that bears a coloured halo. Finally, it is worth mentioning that his face has received targeted attacks that have left traceable marks.

Figure 4 EBE 211, fol. 132v. Herod (by the permission of the National Library in Athens)

Leaving images aside for a moment, I suggest we briefly turn to the homily and its content. The sermon is dedicated to the power of the martyrs and further elaborates on the concept of man's reconciliation with death in anticipation of the spiritual rewards the righteous will receive in heaven.³⁷ Unlike Chrysostom's first homily at Drypia, which was delivered in the presence of the empress and sounded more like a panegyric,³⁸ the second one contained in the Athenian codex is rather introverted and loaded with soteriological overtones. Right from the beginning the emperor and his military escort are praised for their humility. By escaping the vainglory of worldly power, pride and ostentation, they will reap their reward in heaven through the intercession of the martyrs. Death, unknown to God's creatures before the fall, was taught to Adam and Eve by the Creator Himself through the fratricide. The heroes of the Old Testament such as Enoch, Noah, Jonah, and Elijah, prefigured through their example salvation from death and thus offer comfort and hope to the believer. The sermon ends with an interesting address to the ‘philosopher and the sublime one’,³⁹ for whom the hierarch's admonitions are unnecessary, since he already knows the magnitude of the heavenly kingdom and realizes the vanity of earthly pleasures and temptations.⁴⁰ Undoubtedly, the spirit of the homily leaves an aftertaste of mortality and an odour of death. Perhaps for this very reason, the laconic composition illustrating this sermon and mediating visually the entreaty of the king is meaningfully framed by the lofty cypress tree: it points elegantly upwards, towards the heavenly kingdom that both the ‘wise philosopher’ of the sermon and the kneeling emperor of the image anticipate vehemently.

The combined reading of word and image supports the hypothesis that the imperial proskynesis depicted here was not exclusively intended as a literal illustration of the historical event of the fifth century. Instead, it may have constituted a nuanced and updated reading of the past event as well as a representation that wished to convey a very personal message. The cypress tree growing at the feet of the emperor is not a random pictorial choice in order to balance the composition: it is the visualization of wishful thinking. Taking into consideration the soteriological overtones permeating the sermon of the eloquent preacher, the historical background of its delivery, and the regal authority communicated by both the verbal and the visual discourse, I am inclined to propose that the emperor depicted here is not a stereotypical figure. On the contrary, this ruler must have been very real and dear to the commissioner of the manuscript and most probably already dead when the codex was created. Whoever decided to enclose the individualized depiction of this particular ruler within the pages of this book sincerely wished to convey a positive commemoration of him; a commemoration that vividly recalls a visual prayer. In order to achieve this, he purposely selected this rare and highly charged homily and meticulously designed and personalized its illustration.

In autumn 1950, a young Cyril Mango published a Byzantine funerary inscription kept in the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul and dated to precisely 903.⁴¹ The inscription invokes the good will of the anonymous holy martyr as well as God's grace, and records the planting of cypress trees to the fair memory of Arsavir.⁴² The deceased, in whose memory the planting took place, was of Armenian origin, head of the imperial bodyguard and diplomat of the ninth century.⁴³ According to Mango, the custom of planting cypress trees in both Christian and Ottoman cemeteries to this day has Byzantine roots. They believed that the resinous fragrance of the tree would help to dispel the odour of mortality.⁴⁴ More importantly, though, the auspicious upward growth of the tree was homeopathically equated with the soul's favourable transitus to the other world. Arsavir's funerary inscription from the early tenth century leaves no room for doubt that this belief goes back in time, and this strengthens our suggestion that the use of the cypress tree in this particular composition was purposeful and meaningful.

In summary, I strongly believe that the likeness of the emperor at the feet of the martyrs in our manuscript (Fig. 5) with the anonymous emperor at the feet of the enthroned Christ in the mosaic panel of Hagia Sophia (Figure 6) is not accidental. It is unlikely that the miniaturist of the Chrysostomic anthology came up with such a unique composition spontaneously by his own initiative. Instead, he must have had thorough instructions to follow a given model. He might even have seen with his own eyes the monumental composition adorning the cathedral of the Byzantine capital. Therefore, if the mosaic panel is dated approximately to the first quarter of the tenth century, then the Athens Chrysostom must have been created around the same time. I am also willing to endorse the view of all those who have so far argued for a Constantinopolitan origin of the book,⁴⁵ despite the fact that there are several issues that still complicate matters and prevent the unreserved acceptance of such a proposition.⁴⁶ Finally, if the emperor who humbles himself at the feet of Christ in the narthex of Hagia Sophia has indeed appropriated the physiognomy of Leo VI,⁴⁷ Leo the Wise, then likewise, I would be willing to identify the same emperor in the Athenian manuscript.

Figure 5 Detail of the imperial figure in EBE 211, fol. 63r (by the permission of the National Library in Athens)

Figure 6 Detail of the emperor in the proskynesis-mosaic (reproduced from T. Whittemore, The Mosaics of St. Sophia at Istanbul. Preliminary report on the first year's work, 1931–32. The mosaics of the narthex [Oxford 1933], Pl. XXI – on public domain @ https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.55204)

Moving a step farther and maybe overstretching the limits of an educated guess, I would venture that there exist some intriguing historical coincidences linking the fifth-century events to those of the early tenth century. Despite his charisma in preaching and his undeniable talent in administering the church, Chrysostom is notorious for his scepticism and ascetic suspicion of women. In his eyes, they are by nature shallow, disobedient, malevolent. When in positions of authority, they would insinuate themselves because of their vanity and abuse of power. Aelia Eudoxia fitted this biased image promulgated by the hierarch nicely.⁴⁸ The vitriolic criticism that he exerted upon her conduct in the Byzantine court and public space have gone down in history.⁴⁹ When he even went so far as to overtly call her Herodias and Jezebel, both proverbial embodiments of queenly evil, Eudoxia demanded the patriarch's dethronement and exile. John's removal caused upheaval in the Byzantine capital, as the flock rallied behind their beloved hierarch.

At the beginning of the tenth century the Byzantine capital became the backdrop of an equally loud and long-lasting scandal, which involved the patriarch Nicholas I Mystikos (901–925) and the imperial couple, Leo VI and Zoe Karbonopsina (906–912). The tetragamy affair, namely the crisis caused by Leo's uncanonical fourth marriage in 906, threatened the Constantinopolitan church with schism, and resulted in the patriarch's exile. In the end the emperor was granted a dispensation but had to do penance.⁵⁰ In my mind, it would not have been a far-fetched scenario if someone from within the Patriarchate or from the monastic institutions of the capital had recognized the similarities and decided to exploit them in the design of this unique Chrysostomic anthology. For the late emperor the designer of the illustration reserved a privileged spot, at the feet of the martyrs and at the roots of the slender cypress tree. For Leo did repent!

Such deliberate revisiting of past events was not uncommon. A famous historical precedent of the late fourth century that nuances meaningfully the events related to the tetragamy incident and its reverberations – St Ambrose (339–397) denying access into the church to Emperor Theodosius I (347–395),⁵¹ and imposing upon him a public penance – was evidently well-known to Leo's contemporaries, who did not fail to draw conclusions.⁵²