Between Statues and Icons

Contexts of Ancient and

Medieval Anthropology

Editors

Anna Usacheva, Jörg Ulrich, Siam Bhayro

Advisory Board

José Filipe Pereira da Silva, Barbara Crostini, Andrew Crislip,

Samuel Fernandez, Annette Weissenrieder

Vol. 5
 Vladimir Ivanovici

Between Statues and Icons

Iconic Persons from Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages
Cover illustration: Priest performing a dance while believers address him with gestures that point to him
embodying a god. Fresco, 1st century, Herculaneum. Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli (inv. 8919).
(Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici, su concessione del Ministero della Cultura – Museo Archeologico di Napoli)

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 Ἄνθρωπός εἰμι, πλάσμα καὶ εἰκὼν Θεοῦ.
I am a human, the artefact and image of God.

Gregory of Nazianzus, Poemata moralia 1.2.34

Table of Contents

Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Figures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxiii

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxv
Methodological Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxvii
Status Quaestionis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxi

Chapter 1: Setting the Stage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

1.1 Body Language in Early Imperial Society . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
1.2 Sieging Olympus: Humankind Claims Immortality . . . . . . . . . . . 10
1.3 Knowing the Gods: From Cult Statues to Iconic Persons . . . . . . . 19
1.4 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Chapter 2: Emperors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
2.1 Negotiating Divinity in Rome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
2.2 Constructing Iconicity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
2.3 From Image of Jupiter to Image of Christ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
2.4 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Chapter 3: Martyrs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
3.1 Paul’s Concept of Iconic Living . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3.2 Performing Christ in the Arena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
3.3 God’s Living Temples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
3.4 Preserving the Martyrs’ Iconicity: Relics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
3.5 Preserving the Martyrs’ Iconicity: People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
3.6 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

Chapter 4: Initiates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
4.1 Visions, Ascensions, and Transformations in Late Antique
Initiations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
4.2 New Bishops for a New Church . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
4.3 Making Golden Statues of Christ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
4.4 Beyond Baptism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
4.5 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
viii Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Bishops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

5.1 From Martyr-bishops to Teacher-bishops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
5.2 Rome’s Aristocratic Bishops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
5.3 Emperor Justinian’s Living Mirrors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
5.4 Beyond the Living Bishop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
5.5 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157

Chapter 6: Stylites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

6.1 Living vs. Animated Statues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
6.2 Multiplying the Stylite’s Body: Eulogia, Relics, Columns . . . . . . . 166
6.3 Preserving the Iconic Body: Icons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
6.4 Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

Chapter 7: Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

Index of Ancient Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

Index of Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236

Abbreviations

Ancient Authors and Works

A. Carpi – Acta Carpi

A. Cyp. – Acta Cypriani
A. Jo. – Acta Johannis
A. Max. – Acta Maximiliani
A. Paul. – Acta Pauli
A. Phil. – Acta Phileae
A. Thom. – Acta Thomae
Agap., exp. cap. adm. – Agapetus, expositio capitum admonitionum
Agn., lib. pont. rav. – Agnellus, liber pontificalis Ecclesiae Ravennatis
Ambr., d.m. – Ambrose of Milan, de mysteriis
Ambr., exp. Ps. CXVIII – Ambrose of Milan, expositio in Psalmum CXVIII
Ambrosiast., quae. vet. nov. test. – Ambrosiaster, quaestiones Veteris et Novi
Testamenti
Amm. Marc., r.g. – Ammianus Marcellinus, rerum gestarum libri XXXI
ANF – Ante-Nicene Fathers
Anton. Hag., v. Sym. Styl. – Antonius Hagiographicus, vita Symeonis Stylitis
Apophth. Patr. – Apophthegmata Patrum
Apul., m. – Apuleius, metamorphoses
Arist., e.n. – Aristoteles, ethica nicomachea
Aristid., h.l. – Aristides, hieroi logoi
Aug., c. – Augustinus Hipponensis, confessiones
Aug., c.d. – Augustinus Hipponensis, de civitate dei
Aug., s. – Augustinus Hipponensis, sermones
Bas. Anc., d. virg. – Basilius Ancyranus, de virginitate
Bas., bapt. – Basilius Caesarensis Cappadociae, de baptismo
Bas., ep. – Basilius Caesarensis Cappadociae, epistulae
Bas., hom. Mart. Jul. – Basilius Caesarensis Cappadociae, homilia in martyrem
Julittam
Bas., hom. in Ps. CXV – Basilius Caesarensis Cappadociae, homilia in Psalmum CXV
Bas., Spir. – Basilius Caesarensis Cappadociae, liber de Spiritu Sancto
C.D., h.r. – Cassius Dio, historia romana
Charit., C. – Chariton, Callirhoe
Chor., or. – Choricius Gazaeus, orationes
Chrom. Aquil., in M. – Chromatius Aquileiensis, tractatus in Matthaeum
Chrys., ad illum. cat. – Joannes Chrysostomus, ad illuminandos catechesis
x Abbreviations

Chrys., hom. I – Joannes Chrysostomus, homilia I (dicta postquam reliquiae

martyrum)
Chrys., hom. in Col. – Joannes Chrysostomus, homilia in epistulam ad Colossenses
Chrys., hom. in I Cor. – Joannes Chrysostomus, homilia in epistulam I ad Corinthios
Chrys., hom. s. mart. – Joannes Chrysostomus, de sanctis martyribus sermo
Chrys., i.g. – Joannes Chrysostomus, de inani gloria
Chrys., Melet. – Joannes Chrysostomus, homilia in S. Patrem nostrum Meletium
Cic., Att. – Cicero, epistulae ad Atticum
Cic., fam. – Cicero, epistulae ad familiares
Cic., Q.f. – Cicero, epistulae ad Quintum Fratrem
Cic., n.d. – Cicero, de natura deorum
Cic., orat. – Cicero, orator
Claudian., IV cons. – Claudianus, de IV consulatu Honorii Augusti
Claudian., VI cons. – Claudianus, de VI consulatu Honorii Augusti
Clem., prot. – Clemens Alexandrinus, protrepticus
Clem., str. – Clemens Alexandrinus, stromateis
Cod. Iust. – Codex Iustinianus
Cod. Thds. – Codex Theodosianus
Const. Porph., d. cer. – Constantinus Porphyrogennetus, de cerimoniis aulae
Byzantinae libri duo
Cor., in laud. – Corippus, in laudem Iustinii Augusti Minoris
Cypr., ep. – Cyprianus Carthaginiensis, epistula
Cyr., in Jo. – Cyrillus Alexandrinus, in Joannis evangelium
Cyr. H., catech. m. – Cyrillus Hierosolymitanus, catecheses mystagogicae
D. Chr., o. – Dio Chrysostomus, orationes
Ed. dioc. – Edictum Diocletiani de pretiis rerum venalium
ep. Barn. – epistula Barnabae
Ephr., h.e. – Ephraem Syrus, hymnen de epiphania
Ephr., h.v. – Ephraem Syrus, hymnen de virginitate
Eun., v. – Eunapius, vitae philosophorum et sophistarum
Eus., ep. Constant. – Eusebius Caesariensis, epistula ad Constantiam
Eus., h.e. – Eusebius Caesariensis, historia ecclesiastica
Eus., l.C. – Eusebius Caesariensis, de laudibus Constantini
Eus., v.C. – Eusebius Caesariensis, de vita Constantini
Evagr., h.e. – Evagrius Scholasticus, historia ecclesiastica
Ev. Phil. – Evangelia Philippi
Fronto, e. – Marcus Cornelius Fronto, epistulae
Germ. CP, h.e. – Germanus Constantinopolitanus, historia ecclesiastica et mystica
contemplatio
Gr. Naz., carm. – Gregorius Nazianzenus, carmina
Abbreviations xi

Gr. Nyss., mart. – Gregorius Nyssenus, in xl martyres

Gr. Naz., or. – Gregorius Nazianzenus, orationes
Gr. Naz., p.m. – Gregorius Nazianzenus, poemata moralia
Gr. Tur., h.f. – Gregorius Turonensis, historia francorum
Gr. Mag., r.e. – Gregorius I Papa (Magnus), registri epistolarum
Hes., Th. – Hesiodus, Theogonia
Hieron., c.Vigil. – Hieronymus, contra Vigilantium
Hieron., e. – Hieronymus, epistulae
Hist. Aug. – Historiae Augustae Scriptores
h. Ch. et D. – historia Chrysanti et Dariae
h. mon. – historia monachorum in Aegypto
Iamb., d.m. – Iamblichus, de mysteriis
Ign., Eph. – Ignatius Antiochenus, epistula ad Ephesios
Ign., Magn. – Ignatius Antiochenus, epistula ad Magnesios
Ign., Rom. – Ignatius Antiochenus, epistula ad Romanos
Ign., Smyrn. – Ignatius Antiochenus, epistula ad Smyrnaeos
Ign., Trall. – Ignatius Antiochenus, epistula ad Trallianos
Iren., haer. – Irenaeus Lugdunensis, adversus haereses
Isid. Pel., epp. – Isidorus Pelusiota, epistularum libri quinque
It. Eger. – Itinerarium Egeriae
Jo. Cass., c.N. – Joannes Cassianus, de incarnatione Christi contra Nestorium
Joh. Eph., v.s. – Joannes episcopi Ephesi, Vitae Sanctorum Orientalium
Jo. H., v.G.M. – Joannes Hymonides, Vita Gregorii Magni
Lact., i.d. – Lactantius, institutiones divinae
Leont., c.J. – Pseudo-Leontios, sermo contra Judeos
Lib., or. – Libanius, orationes
L.P. – Liber pontificalis
Lucianus, Alex. – Lucianus Samosatensis, Alexander
Lucianus, deor. conc. – Lucianus Samosatensis, deorum concilium
Lucianus, im. – Lucianus Samosatensis, imagines
Lucianus, Peregr. – Lucianus Samosatensis, de morte Peregrini
Lucianus, salt. – Lucianus Samosatensis, de saltatione
Lucianus, Z.t. – Lucianus Samosatensis, Zeus tragoedus
Lucr., r.n. – Lucretius de Rerum Natura
Macr., s.S. – Macrobius, commentarii in somnium Scipionis
Man., a. – Manilius, astronomica
Mart., epig. – Martialis, epigramme
Mart. Lugd. – Epistula Ecclesiarum Viennensis et Lugdunensis
Mart. Mar. – Passio Mariani et lacobi
Mart. Pion. – Martyrium Pionii
xii Abbreviations

Mart. Poly. – Martyrium Polycarpi

Max. Taur., s. – Maximus Taurinensis, sermones
Meth., symp. – Methodius Olympius, symposium
Michael Ital., l.b. – Michael Italikos, Logos Basilkos
Min. Felix., O. – Minucius Felix, Octavius
Mir. Cosm. Dam. – Miracula Cosmae et Damiani
Nar., hom. – Narsai, homiliae
Nic. Dam., v.C. – Nicolaus Damascenus, vita Caesaris
Nik. Chon., h. – Niketas Choniates, historia
NPNF – Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church
Nov. – Novellae
Optatus M., c.P. – Optatus Milevitanus, contra Parmenianum
Or., Cels. – Origenes, contra Celsum
O.R.P. – Ordo Romanus Primus
Pacatus, pan. – Pacatus, panegyricus
Pan. Lat. – Panegyrici Latini
Pass. Eupli – Passio sancti Eupli diaconi Catanae martyris
Pass. Fruct. – Passio sanctorum martyrum Fructuosi episcopi, Auguri et Eulogi
diaconorum
Pass. Perp. – Passio Perpetuae et Felicitatis
Paul. Nol., c. – Paulinus Nolanus, carmina
Paus., Hell. pell. – Pausanias Periegeta, Hellados periegesis
Petron., s. – Petronius, satyricon
Petr. Chrys., s. – Petrus Chrysologus, sermones
Ph., ad G. – Philo Judaeus, legatio ad Gaium
Ph., p.p. – Philo Judaeus, de praemiis et poenis
Ph., v.M. – Philo Judaeus, de vita Moysis
Phot., eis. – Photius Constantinopolitanus, eisagoge (epanagoge)
Pl., Phdr. – Plato, Phaedrus
Plin., h.n. – Plinius, historia naturalis
Plin. m., ep. – Plinius minor, epistulae
Plot., e. – Plotinus, enneads
Plu., p.i. – Plutarchus, ad principem ineruditum
Plu., P.or. – Plutarchus, de Pythiae oraculis
Plu., q.r. – Plutarchus, quaestiones romanae
Plu., l.ed. – Plutarchus, de liberis educandis
Plu., s.n.v. – Plutarchus, de sera numinis vindicta
Plu., v.p. – Plutarchus, vitae parallelae
Pontius, v.C. – Pontius, vita Caecilii Cypriani
Proc. Caes., d.b. – Procopii Caesariensis, de bellis
Abbreviations xiii

Proc. Caes., d.ae. – Procopii Caesariensis, de aedificiis

Procl., h.s. – Proclus, hymnus soli
Prud., perist. – Prudentius, peristephanon
(Ps.)Arist., p. – Pseudo-Aristoteles, physiognomonica
(Ps.)Dion. Ar., c.h. – Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagia, de caelesti hierarchia
(Ps.)Dion. Ar., e.h. – Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagia, de ecclesiastica hierarchia
(Ps.)Hieron., e. – Pseudo-Hieronymus, epistula
Quint., inst. – Quintilianus, institutio oratoria
Sen., ep. – Seneca, epistulae
Sever., creat. – Severianus Gabalensis, orationes in de mundi creatione
Sophr. H., liturg. – Sophronius Hierosolymitanus, fragmentum commentarii liturgici
Stat., silv. – P. Papinius Statius, siluae
Steph. H.M., p.a. – Stephen of Heracleopolis Magna, A Panegyric on Apollo
Suet., v.c. – Suetonius, de vita caesarum
Symm., rel. – Quintus Aurelius Symmachus, relatio
Synes., regn. – Synesius Cyrenensis, oratio de regno
Tac., ann. – Tacitus, annales
Tert., apol. – Tertullianus, apologeticum
Tert., de cor. – Tertullianus, de corona militis
Tert., de pud. – Tertullianus, de pudicitia
Thdr. Mops., fr.s. – Theodorus Mopsuestenus, fragmenta syriaca
Thdr. Mops., h.b. – Theodorus Mopsuestenus, homilia de baptismo
Thdr. Mops., On the Lord’s Prayer – Theodorus Mopsuestenus, On the Lord’s Prayer
Thdt., h.r. – Theodoretus Cyrrhensis, historia religiosa
Ven. Fort., carm. – Venantius Fortunatus, carmina
Ven. Fort., v.M. – Venantius Fortunatus, de vita Sancti Martini
Vict., laud.s. – Victricius, de laude sanctorum
V. Pach. – Vita Pachomii
Wis – Wisdom of Sirach
Zeno, tract. – Zeno Veronensis, tractatus

Journals

AAAHP – Acta ad Archaeologiam et Artium Historiam Pertinentia

AAH – Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae
ACLS Occasional Papers – American Council of Learned Societies Occasional Papers
ACr – Arte cristiana. Rivista int. di storia dell’arte e di arti liturgiche
AH – Art History
AJA – American Journal of Archaeology
xiv Abbreviations

ALW – Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft

AJP – The American Journal of Philology
AnBoll – Analecta Bollandiana. Revue critique d’hagiographie
Annu. Br. Sch. Athens – Annual of the British School of Archaeology at Athens
APSP – Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society
AR – Archiv für Religionswissenschaft
ARelG – Archiv für Religionsgeschichte
Arion – Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics
ArtB – Art Bulletin
ARYS – ARYS. Antigüedad: Religiones y Sociedades
AT – Antiquité Tardive. Revue Internationale d’Histoire et d’Archéologie (IV e-VIIe
siècle)
AuC – Antike und Christentum
Byz. – Byzantion
ByzZ – Byzantinische Zeitschrift
Cah. Arch. – Cahiers archéologiques: fin de l’Antiquité et Moyen-Age
CBQ – Catholic Biblical Quarterly
ChH – Church History
Class. Q. – The Classical Quarterly
Conc(D) – Concilium: International Journal for Theology
CONVI – Convivium: Exchanges and Interactions in the Arts of Medieval Europe,
Byzantium, and the Mediterranean
DOP – Dumbarton Oaks Papers
EDL – Études de lettres
EMEu – Early Medieval Europe
GaR – Greece & Rome
GRBS – Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies
Gym. – Gymnasium: Zeitschrift für Kultur der Antike und humanistische Bildung
HAM – Hortus Artium Medievalium
Horti Romani – Horti Romani. Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale
di Roma
HPT – History of Political Thought
HTR – Harvard Theological Review
HZ – Historische Zeitschrift
Int J Risk Saf Med – International Journal of Risk & Safety in Medicine
JAAR – Journal of the American Academy of Religion
JECS – Journal of Early Christian Studies
JHRMC – Journal on Hellenistic and Roman Material Culture
JHS – Journal of Hellenic Studies
JPNP – Journal de Psychologie
Abbreviations xv

JR – Journal of Religion
JRS – Journal of Roman Studies
JSNT – Journal for the Study of the New Testament
JThS – Journal of Theological Studies
Late Antiq. Archaeol. – Late Antique Archaeology
LRB – London Review of Books
MAAR – Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome
MDAI.R – Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts – Römische
Abteilung
Mn. – Mnemosyne. A Journal of Classical Studies
MNIR – Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome
Numen – Numen. International Review for the History of Religions
Opuscula – Opuscula. Annual of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome
PaP – Past and Present. A Journal of Scientific History
Perform. Res. – Performance Research
PSPB – Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin
Psychol. Sci. – Psychological Science
RHR – Revue de l’histoire des religions
RIHA Journal – RIHA Journal of the International Association of Research Institutes
in the History of Art
RM – Römische Mitteilungen
SCH – Studies in Church History
Spec. – Speculum
StPatr – Studia Patristica
TAPA – Transactions of the American Philological Association
TMCB – Travaux et mémoires
Tüba-ar – Tüba-ar: Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi arkeoloji dergisi
VC – Vigiliae Christianae
VT – Vetus Testamentum
WZ(B) – Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin,
Gesellschafts- und Sprachwissenschaftliche Reiche
ZAC – Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum
ZAW – Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
Figures

Fig. 1 Seven rings from across the Roman world showcasing the god Mercury, a
man riding a dolphin, the portrait of a woman, and the representation of a
man in Sassanian style under two stars. Gold, mother-of-pearl, cornelian,
rock crystal, agate, 250–400. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection,
Malibu, California (inv. no. 83 AM.228). (Photo: Digital image courtesy of
Getty’s Open Content Program)
Fig. 2 Portrait of Terentius Neo and his wife. Fresco, 1st century, Pompeii. Museo
Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli (inv. 9058). (Photo: Wikipedia, CC0 1.0, su
concessione del Ministero della Cultura – Museo Archeologico di Napoli)
Fig. 3 Ring stone showing a seated man reading a scroll in front of a herm statue.
Carnelian, 1.6 cm, 1st century BCE–3rd century CE. The Metropolitan
Museum of Art (inv. no. 81.6.49)
Fig. 4 Statue of Venus with dolphin (the Mazarin Venus). Marble, 184 cm, 2nd
century, from Rome. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu,
California (inv. no. 54.AA.11). (Photo: Digital image courtesy of Getty’s Open
Content Program)
Fig. 5 Funerary stele of Gaius Julius Helius, shoemaker from Porta Fontinalis.
Marble, late 1st century, Rome. Roma, Musei Capitolini, Centrale
Montemartini (Inv. M.C. 930) (Photo: © Roma, Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai
Beni Culturali)
Fig. 6 Relief showing man feeding grapes(?) to a herm statue. Terracotta, 1st
century, Italy. Musée du Louvre, Département des Antiquités grecques,
étrusques et romaines (inv. no. Cp 4038) (https://collections.louvre.fr/
ark:/53355/cl010288169)
Fig. 7 Funerary relief of high priest (archigallus) of Cybele shown sacrificing to the
goddess. Marble, 0,62 × 0,40 m, 3rd century, from the Isola Sacra necropolis,
Ostia. Museo Archeologico, Ostia. (Photo: Sailko – Wikipedia, CC BY 3.0)
Fig. 8 Masked priest performs a dance under the monumental threshold of a
sacred precinct. Fresco, 1st century, Herculaneum. Museo Archeologico
Nazionale, Napoli (inv. 8919). (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici, su concessione del
Ministero della Cultura – Museo Archeologico di Napoli)
Fig. 9 Bust portrait of follower of Atargatis. Marble, 0,48 × 0,45 m, 3rd century,
unknown provenance. Roma, Musei Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini
(inv. S 2971) (Photo: © Roma, Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali)
Fig. 10 Relief showing the Capitoline Triad (Jupiter, Juno, Minerva) along with
Hercules (left) and Mercury (right) welcoming Emperor Trajan. Jupiter is
handing Trajan (represented on the facing panel) the symbol of his power,
xviii Figures

i.e., the lightning bolt. Parian marble, ca. 104, Benevento. (Photo: Anca
Cezarina Fulger)
Fig. 11 Detail from floor mosaic depicting the history of Apamea on the Orontes.
Syria, 4th century. Discovered in illegal dig and sold on the black market in
2011. (Photo: Interpol)
Fig. 12 Collar with medallion and pendants. The medallion is set around a coin with
the laureate bust of Emperor Commodus (r. 180–192) while the pendants
represent Isis-Fortuna and possibly characters related to her cult. Gold,
3rd century, Alexandria, Egypt. Cleveland Museum of Art (inv. no. 1948.419)
Fig. 13 Sculpted tondi from the reign of Hadrian showing boar hunt (left) and
sacrifice to Apollo (right), integrated above newly sculpted marble relief
showing Emperor Constantine’s (r. 306–337 CE) adlocutio from the
tetrarchic rostra. Arch of Constantine, ca. 320, Rome. (Photo: ‘Following
Hadrian’ – CC BY-SA 2.0)
Fig. 14 Reception courtyard of Emperor Diocletian’s (r. 284–305 CE) palace, with
view of the prothyron. 4th century, Split. (Photo: Stefan Pijanowski)
Fig. 15a Coin with portrait of Philip the Arab (r. 244–259) wearing the crown of
Sol on the obverse and with the temple of Zeus Katabaites on the reverse.
Bronze, 244–249, 29 mm diameter, Syria. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen
Museen zu Berlin Preußischer Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18259953. (Photo:
Bernhard Weisser, in the public domain)
Fig. 15b Coin with portraits of Diocletian (left) and Maximian (right) on the obverse,
and the two emperors in an elephant-drawn chariot on the reverse. Gold,
287, 30 mm diameter, Italy. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu
Berlin Preußischer Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18200802 (Photo: Lutz-Jürgen
Lübke, in the public domain)
Fig. 15c Coin with portrait of Hadrian on the obverse and of Sol on the reverse.
Gold, 117, 20 mm diameter, Italy. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen
zu Berlin Preußischer Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18200596 (Photo: Lutz-Jürgen
Lübke, in the public domain)
Fig. 15d Coin showing portrait of Hadrian on the obverse. The reverse shows Hadrian
and his wife Sabina meeting Isis and Serapis in front of an altar. Hadrian and
Serapis shake hands while Sabina raises her hand in salutation of Isis who
holds the sistrum. Gold, ca. 130, 19 mm diameter, Rome. Bibliothèque
nationale de France (inv. no. FRBNF41982443)
Fig. 16 Two priests carrying a naiskos-shrine of Harpocrates. Clay, first half of the
1st century BCE, 15,6 cm. Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe (inv. no. H
796). (Photo: Thomas Goldschmidt)
Fig. 17 Constantius II as consul of 354. Drawing after 17th-century copy of
manuscript illumination from the Calendar of Filocalus. MS Romanus 1,
Figures xix

Barb. lat. 2154 fol. 13r in the Biblioteca Vaticana. (Drawing by Vladimir
Ivanovici)
Fig. 18 Cavalry mask with protomes showing two men and three women pertaining
to the cult of Bacchus. Iron and bronze with silver veneer, late 1st century,
Nijmegen. Collection Valkhof Museum, Nijmegen, on loan from the Cultural
Heritage Agency of the Netherlands (Photo: Thijn van de Ven)
Fig. 19 Relief at the base of the Obelisk of Theodosius showing Theodosius
(r. 379–395) in the Hippodrome loggia in Constantinople next to
Valentinian II (to his left) and his sons and future emperors of the West and
East, Honorius and Arcadius (to his right). Members of the guard, court, and
high society are depicted around, while representatives of barbarian tribes
kneel below bringing tribute. Marble, 390, Constantinople. (Photo: © The
Byzantine Legacy)
Fig. 20 Pottery bowl with scene of damnatio ad bestias showing a man tied to a pole
and exposed to a male lion. Terra sigillata, ca. 350–430, 18.2 cm diameter,
produced in north Africa. Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe (inv. no.
68/28). (Photo: Peter Gaul)
Fig. 21 Mural showing Andromeda chained to a rock as Perseus and the sea
monster approach. Fresco, late 1st century, from the villa of Agrippa
Postumus at Boscotrecase. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (inv.
no. 20.192.16)
Fig. 22 Late antique reliquary. Silver with traces of niello, 6.8 × 7.2 × 7.2 cm,
early 5th century, from Kaper Koraon, Syria. The Walters Art Museum
(inv. no. 57.638)
Fig. 23 Zachariah holding a censer and reliquary. Mosaic, apse of the Basilica
Euphrasiana, Poreč, ca. 559. (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)
Fig. 24 Deacon carrying a coal container while censing. Nocturnal liturgical service,
Vatopedi Monastery, Mount Athos. (Photo: www.pemptousia.com)
Fig. 25 Relief showing Mithras as a child opening a passageway through the cos-
mos. The zodiac ring marks the threshold between the upper and the
lower cosmic regions, while the personified winds represent the lower
regions or Earth. Below, watching the god’s descent, are characters of his
myth. Limestone, 94 cm, second half of the 2nd century. © Rheinisches
Landesmuseum Trier. (Photo: Th. Zühmer)
Fig. 26 Frontal side of the Seasons Sarcophagus. Marble, 112 cm × 224 cm × 116 cm,
ca. 330, possibly from Rome. © Dumbarton Oaks, Byzantine Collection,
Washington, D.C. (inv. no. BZ.1936.65). (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)
Fig. 27 Relief showing followers of Mithras impersonating the god and the
characters of his myth during the celebration the ritual banquet. Limestone,
xx Figures

59 × 85 cm, likely of the 4th century, Konjica. Zemaljski Muzej Bosne I

Hercegovine / National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina
Fig. 28 Mosaic decoration of domed ceiling inside the San Giovanni in Fonte baptis-
tery in Naples. Ca. 400. (Photo: Domenico Ventura)
Fig. 29 Drawing showing the location of golden mosaic tesserae in the decoration
of the domed ceiling inside the San Giovanni in Fonte baptistery in Naples.
Ca. 400. (Graphic development by Lorenzo R. Pini)
Fig. 30 Mosaic decoration of the domed ceiling of the Orthodox Baptistery. Mosaic,
ca. 458, Ravenna. The blue mosaic tesserae of the background faded over
the centuries, thus the contrast was a lot stronger initially. (Photo: Longo
Editore, with the kind concession of the Opera di Religione della Diocesi di
Ravenna)
Fig. 31 Plan and section of the church San Vitale in Ravenna (ca. 548) showing the
spaces converging in the episcopal cathedra (Plan: Jäggi 2013: 241, section:
Johnson 2018, fig. 7.43)
Fig. 32 Axonometric model of the Lateran Basilica (320) showing the fastigium.
(Image: Bosman / Haynes / Liverani [eds.], 2020, fig. 8.19)
Fig. 33 View from the main doors towards the apse. Virtual reconstruction of the
interior of Santa Maria Maggiore, ca. 432, Rome. (Image: © Bernard Frischer)
Fig. 34 View from the former temple of one of the two stoas that flanked the inte-
rior courtyard of the Sebasteion and of the remains of the propylon. Marble,
1st century, Aphrodisias. (Photo: ‘Following Hadrian’ – CC BY-SA 2.0)
Fig. 35 Apse mosaic showing Christ as a theophanic vision. Late 5th century,
Church of Hosios David, Thessaloniki. (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)
Fig. 36 View of the nave towards the apse. Hagia Sophia, 537, Constantinople. Study
of light in apse, 1948. Byzantine Institute and Dumbarton Oaks fieldwork
records and papers, Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University,
Washington, D.C.
Fig. 37 Apse of the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna (ca. 548). (Photo: Vladimir
Ivanovici, with the kind concession of the Opera di Religione della Diocesi
di Ravenna)
Fig. 38 Cathedra and part of the flanking synthronon in the Basilica Euphrasiana.
Ca. 559, Poreč. The bishop received a red porphyry, round halo topped by a
cross, while the two priests who sat to his sides received rectangular haloes.
(Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)
Fig. 39 Main nave and apse of the Church of Sant’Apollinare in Classe (549).
(Photo: Steven Zucker, Smarthistory, by concession of the Ministero della
Cultura – Direzione regionale Musei dell’Emilia-Romagna. All rights
reserved)
Figures xxi

Fig. 40 Detail from larger mural showing a simple shrine consisting of a statue set
on a column, placed on a rock on the seashore. Such shrines were found
across the Roman world. Fresco, late 1st century, from the villa of Agrippa
Postumus at Boscotrecase. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (inv.
no. 20.192.17)
Fig. 41 Stylite tower, early 6th century, 13.5 m, Umm ar-Rasas (Jordan). (Photo:
Hubert Bartkowiak – Wikipedia CC BY-SA 4.0)
Fig. 42 Herm of Hermes, late 1st century, 149 × 24 × 21 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum,
Villa Collection, Malibu, California (inv. no. 79.AA.132). (Photo: Digital image
courtesy of Getty’s Open Content Program)
Fig. 43 Watercolour of lost mosaic showing devotee present small girl to
St Demetrius. North inner aisle, Church of Saint Demetrius, Thessaloniki,
7th century. (British School at Athens, with kind permission)
Fig. 44 Pilgrim token with the image of Symeon Stylites the Elder. Angels carrying
crowns flank the saint. The Baptism of Jesus and the Adoration of the Magi
are shown below. Red clay, 6th century, from Qal’at Sem’an, Syria. Walters Art
Museum, Baltimore (inv. no. 48.1939)
Fig. 45 Portrait of a bearded man. Tempera on wood, 36 × 37.5 × 0.3 cm, 1st century,
Egypt. The J. Paul Getty Museum (inv. no. 74.AP.20). (Photo: Digital image
courtesy of Getty’s Open Content Program)
Fig. 46 Painted panel with a saint/martyr called Victor. Encaustic(?) on wood,
possibly 6th century. (Photo: su concessione del Museo Archeologico
Nazionale di Firenze, Direzione regionale Musei della Toscana)
Acknowledgments

This book was many years in the making, with it being the result of an inter-
est that began in 2004, when I first read Plotinus’s recommendation to treat
ourselves as sculptors do with statues. Over this long period, several friends,
colleagues, and family members have helped in various ways. For making the
research possible and offering feedback on the manuscript, I would like to
thank Michele Bacci, Sible de Blaauw, Barbara Crostini, Francesca Dell’Acqua,
James Francis, Christoph Frank, Georgia Frank, Herbert Kessler, Susanne
Kubersky-Piredda, Tanja Michalsky, Daniela Mondini, Valerio Neri, Christiane
Schroeder, Salvatore Settis, and Antoine Turner.
I would also like to thank the series editors, Jörg Ulrich, Anna Usacheva, and
Siam Bhayro, for their feedback and support. Rebekka Föste, Kai Klemm-Lorenz,
and Janna Rieke Lüttmann did an incredibly fast and thorough check of the
manuscript, which assured its stylistic coherence. I thank them for it. Finally,
I would like to thank Martina Kayser for assuring a quick and smooth produc-
tion of the book.
Introduction

In 695, having managed to anger all social strata, twenty-six-year-old emperor

Justinian II was dethroned, had his nose cut off, and was sent into exile. Playing
on the same concept that led to his disfigurement – namely, that the emperor
was the image of the Christian God in the earthly realm, and, as such, his body
had to be whole – Justinian made a gold prosthesis for his nose and retook
the throne.1 The Christian God was the last in a series of personifications of
the divine that Roman emperors imaged since the turn of the millennium.
This book discusses how Romans came to credit humans with the capacity
to render the divine visible through their bodies, analyses several manifesta-
tions of this ‘iconic’ state, and considers how the Romans’ desire to attain this
state influenced Roman culture from the reign of Octavian Augustus (27 BCE–
14 CE) to that of Justin II (565–574).2
Those whom I call ‘iconic’ – i.e., persons whose bodies were held to repre-
sent the divine – are emblematic of a consequential process. Rome’s accom-
plishments encouraged people to reconsider humanity’s place in the cosmic
order. The phenomenon eventually led the Romans to abandon a worldview
rooted in the Homeric hymns in favour of a synthesis of Graeco-Roman and
Judaeo-Christian elements that promised the possibility of attaining immortal-
ity and, thus, becoming like the gods. This newfound confidence was expressed
through the understanding of humans as the preferred locus for the divine
on Earth. This state could be achieved by having a divine spirit take residence
within one’s body or by consecrating one’s soul through a virtuous way of life
or through ritual actions. Since the Romans thought that one’s character was
revealed through their body, the bodies of persons who had become loci of the
divine turned into images of the divine. Emperors, philosophers, priests, and
other categories on which this study focuses were thought to embody distinct
expressions of this state.

1 Agn., lib. pont. rav. 137 (D. Mauskopf Deliyannis [ed.], Agnellus of Ravenna. Liber Pontificalis
Ecclesiae Ravennatis, CCCM 199, Turnhout 2006, 312–313). On Justinian’s reign, see
J.F. Haldon, Byzantium in the Seventh Century: The Transformation of a Culture, New York
²1997. On mutilation in the Byzantine period, see E. Patlagean, Byzance et le blason pénal du
corps, in: Du châtiment dans la cité. Supplices corporels et peine de mort dans le monde antique.
Table ronde de Rome (9–11 novembre 1982), Rome 1984, 405–427; J. Lascaratos / P. Dalla-Vorgia,
The Penalty of Mutilation for Crimes in the Byzantine Era (324–1453), in: Int J Risk Saf Med 10
(1997), 51–56.
2 Throughout, I use ‘Romans’ to refer to those who lived within the confines of the Roman
state, regardless of their ethnicity, cultural background, or religious affiliation.
xxvi Introduction

This book, therefore, traces the emergence, dissemination, and implica-

tions of an anthropological model specific to Roman society. As we will see,
the capacity to become a vessel and image of the divine was gained thanks to
phenomena that affected the whole of Roman society, but the expressions this
iconic capacity took were shaped by specific contexts. A common feature of
these persons is represented by their competition with temples and cult stat-
ues, whose functions they usurped. Over time, the need to preserve and multi-
ply the presence of iconic people led to the creation of new ways of accessing
the divine – such as relics, icons, and eulogia.3 Thus, in addition to shedding
light on the change in worldview taking place as Graeco-Roman Antiquity gave
way to the early Middle Ages in the Mediterranean area, the study of iconic
persons allows us to observe how a culture developed new mechanisms for
interacting with the divine.
None of the three categories of media on which this study focuses – i.e., cult
statues / iconic persons / relics, icons, and eulogia – can be fully understood
without a careful consideration of the other two. From the beginning, the fig-
ure of the iconic person was influenced by the perception of cult statues since,
on the one hand, in ascribing to people the functions of cult statues, Romans
addressed them with gestures borrowed from their interaction with statu-
ary. On the other, those who sought iconic status invited the association by
imitating the statues’ immobility, adopting their aesthetics and architectural
settings, and claiming identification with the gods the statues represented.
Competition with iconic persons also shaped the development of cult statues.
In addition to the emergence of a category of cult statue that reproduced the
presence of iconic humans – i.e., cult statues of living emperors – new ways
of enhancing the statues’ power were developed to maintain their appeal in
a religious marketplace that now also offered living, human statues.4 Relics,
icons, and eulogia were conceptually in-between cult statues and iconic per-
sons. Said to reproduce the presence and power of iconic persons, these new
mechanisms posed the same problems and advantages as cult statues, as they
were material and inanimate but could be easily multiplied and distributed.
As such, they need to be studied in relation to both iconic persons and cult
statues. Caught in a dynamic of mutual influence with these objects, iconic
persons toed the line between living person and animated artefact. Therefore,

3 Eulogia (lit. blessings) were objects held to contain the power of a holy place or person. They
could be artefacts, as well as substances such as dust, oil, water, or human parts, such as hair.
4 On animating statues in Late Antiquity, see S.I. Johnston, Animating Statues. A Case Study in
Ritual, in: Arethusa 41 (2008), 445–477. On imperial statues, see below.
Introduction xxvii

studying these figures is as much an art historical endeavour as it is a study of

religious anthropology.
Iconic persons bridged not only cult statues with icons, but also the two
worlds these artefacts represent. Despite having dedicated loci in temples
and statues, the divine permeated all aspects of life, from the food market
in Pompeii, which included a space dedicated to the cult of the emperor, to
Roman bedrooms decorated with images of the goddess Venus caught up
in amorous games. A change in how humans related with the divine thus
involved a reconsideration of every aspect of life. Peter Brown has pointed
out that Christianity’s greatest challenge and biggest accomplishment was to
change not the god at the top of the hierarchy, but the myriad expressions of
divinity that populated the Roman world.5 As shown by the studies of Brown
and David Frankfurter, iconic individuals offered themselves as alternatives to
old ways of interacting with the gods.6 By further attesting to this, my book
supports Brown’s view that “the rise of the holy man is the Leitmotiv of the
religious revolution of late antiquity.”7

Methodological Considerations

Historians of Roman society had pointed out the cultural instrumentalisation

of bodies as early as the 1890s. Nevertheless, the wave of scholarly interest in
the body’s role in social interaction that began in the 1960s and manifested
across the social and humanistic sciences significantly enriched our under-
standing of Roman bodies. A side-effect of this increased attention was that
due to the abundance and diversity of sources documenting Roman culture, its
various aspects had to be studied separately. Thus, analyses of social, political,
religious, and philosophical phenomena have shown the emergence of a new
anthropological model in Roman imperial culture, but there lacks a study that
considers the cumulative implications of these finds.

5 P. Brown, Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of the Christianisation of the Roman World,
Cambridge 1995, 8–11.
6 Esp. P. Brown, The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity, in: JRS 61 (1971), 80–101;
id., The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity, New
York 1988; id., Enjoying the Saints in Late Antiquity, in: EMEu 9 (2000), 1–24; D. Frankfurter,
Syncretism and the Holy Man in Late Antique Egypt, in: JECS 11 (2003), 339–385; id.,
Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity, Princeton 2018.
7 Brown, The Rise, 1971, 99. The process was not without opposers, see M. Dal Santo, Debating
the Saints’ Cult in the Age of Gregory the Great, Oxford 2012.
xxviii Introduction

In this book, I seek to summarise and combine the results of these fields,
pursuing a double goal. On the one hand, I wish to show that phenomena such
as the tendency to ascribe divine status to humans, the popularity of divine
intermediaries in several religions, or the loss of confidence in ancient sanc-
tuaries and cult statues were facets of a wider process, which produced a new
way of perceiving the cosmic order and humanity’s place in it.8 On the other
hand, the book proposes a way to integrate such phenomena and thus come
closer to understanding the complexity and effects of this process that shaped
medieval culture.
Previous attempts to offer a comprehensive explanation of the phenom-
enon that produced the anthropological model represented by living ‘iconic’
persons have fallen short of offering a working model. In the early 1900s, mem-
bers of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule introduced the artificial category
of the “divine men” to draw attention to the novelty of crediting people with
super-human powers in Roman society.9 However, the concept’s reference to
‘divinity’ seemed inadequate since these persons’ relationship with the divine
varied greatly. As a result, the notion of ‘divine men’ was widely criticised.10
Peter Brown focused instead on the Christian expression of the process, which
he used to argue that the period saw a revolution in how humans related with
the divine.11 To explain the appeal of the Christian ‘holy man,’ Brown looked to
some of the main functions he took up, such as patron and exemplary figure.
The constant revisions of Brown’s concept of ‘holy man’ and critiques of Bieler’s
notion of ‘divine men’ showed the need for a flexible definition, which allows
us to recognise the expressions this human potentiality took, without restrain-
ing them to categories proposed by specific religions or cultural contexts.12

8 I call here ‘religion’ any system that claimed to offer a formula for regulating human-
divine relations. This includes the philosophical schools of the time.
9 R.R. Reitzenstein, Hellenistische Wundererzählungen, Leipzig 1906; L. Bieler, Theios Aner.
Das Bild des göttlichen Menschen in Spätantike und Frühchristentum, 2 vols., Vienna
1935/1936.
10 For an overview of the concept’s afterlife, see J.-J. Flinterman, The Ubiquitous “Divine
Man”, in: Numen 43 (1996), 82–98.
11 Esp. Brown, The Rise, 1971; id., Enjoying, 2000.
12 Brown revised the image of his ‘holy man’ several times, from patron to imitator of Christ
and exemplary figure. Revisions were made also by others: G. Fowden, The Pagan Holy
Man in Late Antique Society, in: JHS 102 (1982), 33–59; M. Whitby, Maro the Dendrite:
an Anti-Social Holy Man?, in: M. Whitby / P. Hardie / M. Whitby (eds.), Homo Viator,
Classical Essays for John Bramble, Bristol 1987, 309–317; G.W. Bowersock, Hellenism in Late
Antiquity, Cambridge 1990; G. Anderson, Sage, Saint and Sophist, London 1994; C. Rapp,
“For Next to God, You Are My Salvation”: Reflections on the Rise of the Holy Man in Late
Antiquity, in: J. Howard-Johnston / P.A. Hayward (eds.), The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity
and the Early Middle Ages. Essays on the Contribution of Peter Brown, New York 1999, 63–81;
Introduction xxix

As a solution, I propose to recognise the period as characterised by a will-

ingness to credit living humans with the capacity to reveal the divine to the
senses, and to analyse the distinct expressions of this potential in their imme-
diate contexts. The book tests this approach: the first chapter discusses the
origin of the figure of the iconic person, while the rest of the chapters focus
on various ways in which one could become an image of the divine. Although
overused in both scholarship and popular culture, I chose the term ‘iconic’ to
describe this ontological state because the term’s roots in the Greek term εἰκών
draw attention to the fact that in this cultural context, a privileged relationship
with the divine implied a visual expression.13
Whether one was thought to be inhabited by a divine spirit or to have been
consecrated through virtuous living, contemplation, or rituals, the resulting
state was expected to manifest through the person’s body. As Celsus, the second-
century critic of Christianity, pointed out, such a person would be distinguish-
able through the size, beauty, or strength of their body, or through their voice
or persuasiveness.14 Even when persons imparted the divine through odour
or wisdom, the state had a visual component because in Roman culture such
individuals were perceived as models to imitate.15 Thus, whether they revealed
the divine through their transformed physical features, healing abilities, or
advice offered, iconic persons were spectacles to be witnessed and imitated.
The instances I chose to focus on are the better documented and more con-
sequential ones – such as, emperors, martyrs, and bishops – as well as those
that, in my opinion, shed the most light on the phenomenon, namely, initiates
and stylite ascetics. Since these categories have been extensively studied, my
analysis is limited to their functioning as vessels and images of the divine. For

ead., Saints and Holy Men, in: A. Casiday / F.W. Norris (eds.), The Cambridge History of
Christianity. Vol. 2 Constantine to c. 600, Cambridge 2007, 548–566; Frankfurter, 2003;
id., 2018; S. Panayotakis / G. Schmeling / M. Paschalis (eds.), Holy Men and Charlatans in
the Ancient Novel, Groningen 2015. See the overview in R. Kosinski, Holiness and Power.
Constantinopolitan Holy Men and Authority in the 5th Century, Boston 2016, 6–16.
13 On the meaning of εἰκών in the Greek philosophical and patristic traditions, see A. Vasiliu,
Eikôn: L’image dans le discours des trois Cappadociens, Paris 2010.
14 Or., Cels. 6.75 (M. Marcovich [ed.], Origenes: Contra Celsum Libri VIII, Leiden 2015,
451–452).
15 On odour, see S.A. Harvey, Scenting Salvation. Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory
Imagination, TCH 42, Berkeley 2006; M. Roch, The “Odor of Sanctity”: Defining Identity
and Alterity in the Early Middle Ages (Fifth to Ninth Century), in: A. Marinković / T. Vedriš
(eds.), Identity and Alterity in Hagiography and the Cult of Saints, Zagreb 2010, 73–88. See
Bieler, 1935/1936, vol. 1 for the ways in which a privileged relationship with the divine was
thought to manifest.
xxx Introduction

each category, I tried to identify the origin of their iconic quality, the forms it
took, and how it was eventually passed on to artefacts.
The decision to not analyse the instances in depth is prompted by two con-
siderations. First, the simplification of the process allows us to discern its main
features, with the zooming-out effect revealing the evolution from cult statues
to iconic persons and eventually to relics, icons, and eulogia. Second, the lit-
erature on each of the instances I address is extensive and growing exponen-
tially.16 To explore the iconic quality of these categories, it is necessary to draw
on textual, visual, and material sources and analyse dynamic performances in
relation to the views held by various communities. A systematic treatment of
all these aspects would result in a very long text in danger of never being fin-
ished because useful perspectives and methodologies continue to be devel-
oped (e.g., affect theory). Thus, I opted for an essay-like form that places the
figure of the iconic person at the centre of several consequential phenomena
present in Roman culture. The result is inevitably lacunary, but my hope is that
the study will be received as an exercise in interdisciplinarity and a plea for a
bottom-up approach in which the studied phenomenon dictates the method-
ology, rather than the field of study in which one activates.
To compensate for the simplification of the case studies in this book, an
accompanying volume was published that addresses the phenomenon from
a complementary perspective.17 While here I focus on iconic ‘types’, contribu-
tions to this open-access anthology explore the main ways in which iconicity
manifested, namely, through beauty, luminosity, gender, ugliness, movement,
and immobility.
Jesus of Nazareth and the desert ascetics, two instances that would have
made obvious case studies, are missing from this study. Georgia Frank’s mono-
graph The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity
makes a chapter on ascetics redundant because she showed the ways in which
their bodies became screens for the divine.18 Similarly, the figure of Jesus was
analysed by Michele Bacci in his The Many Faces of Christ. Portraying the Holy
in the East and West, 300 to 1300.19 Bacci shows how the constant reworking
of Jesus’s image in the Christian tradition originated in a conflict between a
tendency to imagine Jesus as physically unattractive – following Isaiah’s “ugly

16 A search on Emperor Constantine I in a database of historical publications reveals 1026

titles.
17 See: https://journals.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/index.php/rihajournal/issue/view/4899.
18 G. Frank, The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity,
TCH 30, Berkeley 2000.
19 M. Bacci, The Many Faces of Christ: Portraying the Holy in the East and West, 300 to 1300,
London 2014.
Introduction xxxi

servant” prophecy (Isa. 52:14) – and the expectation of physical beauty that his
divine status generated in Roman culture. Bacci’s study has also shown that
most Christians agreed with Celsus, that the body of a holy person should indi-
cate the divine inhabiting them.
Available sources focused my analysis on Christian expressions of the phe-
nomenon, but I have tried to place them in context in order to show how ico-
nicity was a Mediterranean rather than a Christian phenomenon. Christianity
and polytheism, the early and late Roman imperial periods, written and mate-
rial culture, theology and ritual practice have often been studied separately.
Nevertheless, they are mutually dependent facets of the same cultural flux.
Found at their intersection, the figure of the iconic person provides us with
a fil rouge that allows us to consider these categories together and illuminates
the dynamic of this flux.

Status Quaestionis

Scholarly interest in the use of the body as signifier in Graeco-Roman Antiquity

began with Karl Sittl’s Die Gebärden der Griechen und Römer, published in the
now distant 1890.20 Since then, an impressive number of studies has been ded-
icated to the symbolism of ancient bodies.
Most analyses focus on rulers. A first wave of research was done between
the World Wars. Elias Bickerman studied imperial apotheosis; Lily Ross Taylor
opened the discussion on imperial divinity; and Richard Delbrueck analysed
imperial self-presentation strategies.21 Andreas Alföldi showed how Roman
emperors borrowed elements from representations of the gods to construct
themselves as divine presences.22 Art historian André Grabar made the same
argument with regards to imperial representations.23 During the same years,
Ludwig Bieler popularised the concept of “divine men”, discussed above.24
Despite being widely criticised, the syntagm “divine men” continues to be

20 K. Sittl, Die Gebärden der Griechen und Römer, Leipzig 1890.

21 E. Bickermann, Die römische Kaiserapotheose, in: AR 27 (1929), 1–31; L.R. Taylor, The
Divinity of the Roman Emperor, Middletown 1931; R. Delbrueck, Spätantike Kaiserporträts
von Constantinus Magnus bis zum Ende des Westreichs, Berlin 1933.
22 A. Alföldi, Die Ausgestaltung des monarchischen Zeremoniells am romischen Kaiserhofe, in:
RM 49 (1934), 1–118; id., Insignien und Tracht der römischen Kaiser, in: RM 50 (1935), 1–171
(republished together as id., Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche,
Darmstadt 1970).
23 A. Grabar, L’empereur dans l’art byzantin: recherches sur l’art officiel de l’empire d’Orient,
Paris 1936.
24 Bieler, 1935/1936.
xxxii Introduction

used, which attests to the phenomenon’s relevance and to the need to find a
better way to approach it.
Ernst Kantorowicz’ research popularised among medievalists the idea that
Roman emperors and medieval kings functioned as images of the divine.25
In the 1980s, the scholarly focus shifted from the mise-en-scène of imperial
personas to the conceptual grounds of their divinity.26 Of particular relevance
for our study is Ittai Gradel’s analysis, which showed that Romans understood
divinity (also) as a status issue. This allowed emperors to claim divine status on
account of their godlike authority.27 As historians of imperial self-presentation
debated these issues, developments in sociological and anthropological stud-
ies stressed the cultural dimension of human bodies.
Beginning in the 1970s, interest in the body’s role in social interaction grew,
as taboos on topics like sexual orientation were slowly lifted.28 As a result, soci-
etal regulation of corporeal behaviour and the body’s use in communicating
identity were recognised and explored. Influenced by Erwin Goffman’s theory
of social dramaturgy and by Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of habitus – both draw-
ing on Marcel Mauss’s considerations on the techniques du corps – classicists
explored the connotations of Greek and Roman bodies.29 Michel Foucault’s
interest in the cultural conditioning of corporeal habits found echoes in Peter
Brown’s studies on late antique bodies.30 Brown’s work shaped a generation of

25 E.H. Kantorowicz, Kaiser Friedrich der Zweite, Berlin 1927; id., The “King’s Advent”: And the
Enigmatic Panels in the Doors of Santa Sabina, in: ArtB 26 (1944), 207–231; id., The King’s
Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology, Princeton 1957; id., Gods in Uniform,
in: APSP 105 (1961), 368–393; id., Oriens Augusti – Lever du Roi, in: DOP 17 (1963), 119–177.
26 E.g., S.R.F. Price, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor, Cambridge
1984. See the bibl. in J. Bardill, Constantine, Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age,
Cambridge 2012.
27 I. Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion, Oxford 2002, esp. 27–53. His view is
shared by Simon Price, Spencer Cole, and others, but contested by M. Koortbojian, The
Divinization of Caesar and Augustus: Precedents, Consequences, Implications, Cambridge
2013.
28 See B.E. Schneider / P.M. Nardi (eds.), Social Perspectives in Lesbian and Gay Studies: A
Reader, London 1998.
29 M. Mauss, Les Techniques du corps, in: JPNP 32 (1936), 271–293; E. Goffman, The
Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Edinburgh 1956; P. Bourdieu, Esquisse d’une théorie de
la pratique, précédé de trois études d’ethnologie kabyle, Geneve 1972.
30 M. Foucault, Histoire de la sexualité, tome 3: Le souci de soi, Paris 1976; id., Technologies of
the Self, in: L.H. Martin / H. Gutman / P.H. Hutton (eds.), Technologies of the Self: A Seminar
with Michel Foucault, Amherst 1988, 16–49; id., L’herméneutique du sujet. Cours au College
du France, 1981–2, Paris 2001; Brown, The Rise, 1971; id., The Cult of the Saints: its Rise and
Function in Late Antiquity, Chicago 1981; id., 1988. The two influenced each other’s think-
ing through discussions “over coffee” cf. M. Foucault / R. Sennett, Sexuality and Solitude,
Introduction xxxiii

scholars who pursued related topics.31 Thanks to these studies we know now
how corpulence, beauty, physiognomy, gestures, body alterations, gender, and
costume were perceived in Antiquity and Late Antiquity.32 Consequently, the
cultural context in focus here is one of the best studied in terms of the semiot-
ics of living bodies.
Some of these studies dealt with the image-like quality ascribed to living
people and have prepared the way for the present analysis. James Francis stud-
ied the association of living persons with images by second- and third-century

in: LRB 3 (1981), 3–7; P. Brown, A Life of Learning, in: ACLS Occasional Papers 55 (2003),
1–20 (2–3).
31 On Brown’s impact, see S. Elm / N. Janowitz (eds.), Charisma and Society: The 25th
Anniversary of Peter Brown’s Analysis of the Late Antique Holy Man, JECS special issue,
6 (1998); J. Howard-Johnston / P.A. Hayward (eds.), The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity
and the Middle Ages: Essays on the Contribution of Peter Brown, New York 1999; J. Kreiner /
H. Reimitz (eds.), Motions of Late Antiquity: Essays on Religion, Politics, and Society in
Honour of Peter Brown, Turnhout 2016.
32 R. Brilliant, Gesture and Rank in Roman Art. The Use of Gestures to Denote Status in
Roman Sculpture and Coinage, MCAAS 14, New Haven 1963; E.C. Evans, Physiognomics
in the Ancient World, Philadelphia 1969; F. Graf, Gestures and Conventions: The Gestures
of Roman Actors and Orators, in: J. Bremmer / H. Roodenburg (eds.), A Cultural History of
Gesture, Ithaca 1992, 36–58; J.L. Sebesta / L. Bonfante (eds.), The World of Roman Costume,
Madison 1994; M.W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome,
Princeton 1995; T.S. Barton, Power and Knowledge: Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine
under the Roman Empire, Ann Arbor 1995; P. Zanker, The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the
Intellectual in Antiquity, Berkeley 1995; G.S. Aldrete, Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient
Rome, Baltimore 1999; E. Gunderson, Staging Masculinity: The Rhetoric of Performance in
the Roman World, Ann Arbor 2000; A. Corbeill, Nature Embodied. Gesture in Ancient Rome,
Princeton 2004; V. Neri, La bellezza del corpo nella società tardoantica. Rappresentazioni
visive e valutazioni estetiche tra cultura classica e cristianesimo, Bologna 2004; D. Cairns
(ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Swansea 2005; M.B. Roller, Dining
Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values, and Status, Princeton 2006; id., Models from the
Past in Roman Culture: A World of Exempla, Cambridge 2018; S. Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face,
Seeing the Soul: Polemon’s Physiognomy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, Oxford
2007; C.M. Conway, Behold the Man: Jesus and Greco Roman Masculinity, Oxford 2008;
J. Edmondson / A. Keith (eds.), Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, Toronto
2008; T. Fögen / M.M. Lee (eds.), Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, Berlin
2009; D. Frère / L. Bodiou / V. Mehl (eds.), L’expression des corps: gestes, attitudes, regards
dans l’iconographie antique, Rennes 2006; L. Bodiou / V. Mehl / M Soria (eds.), Corps outra-
gés, corps ravagés de l’Antiquité au Moyen Âge, Turnhout 2011; L. Bodiou / F. Gherchanoc /
V. Huet / V. Mehl (eds.), Parures et artifices: le corps exposé dans l’antiquité, Paris 2011; T.M.
O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture, Cambridge 2011; K. Upson-Saia / C. Daniel-Hughes /
A.J. Batten (eds.), Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity, Farnham 2014; L. Gawlinski,
Dress and Ornaments, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.), A Companion to the Archaeology of
Religion in the Ancient World, Oxford 2015, 96–106.
xxxiv Introduction

authors.33 Georgia Frank shed light on the theophanic quality attributed to

desert ascetics.34 Valerio Neri showed the iconic implications of beauty.35
Laura Nasrallah discussed Clement of Alexandria’s (d. ca. 215) use of statues
as analogy for living persons.36 Like Alföldi, Ramsey MacMullen, and others
before him, Tonio Hölscher showed that Roman emperors and other promi-
nent figures imitated images to create symbolic associations.37
In parallel, scholars working on Jewish and Christian theology recovered the
ways in which the text in Genesis 1:26 and 2:7 – where humankind is said to
have been made out of dust into the image of God – was interpreted by certain
communities. Their studies showed that in several contexts the image of God
was thought to reside in the body.38 As we will see, the early Christian belief
in the body’s iconic potential was rooted in these discussions about Adam’s
creation in the image of God.
In recent studies, Patricia Cox Miller, Hannah Hunt, and Bissera V. Pentcheva
address the iconic potential late antique Christians ascribed to living humans.
Miller notes that late antique society was characterised by a willingness
to believe that “the sensible world, including human sense perception, the
body, and objects in the material realm, could be viewed not as distractions
but as theophanic vehicles.”39 In this context, certain living bodies gained a

33 J.A. Francis, Subversive Virtue: Asceticism and Authority in the Second-century Pagan World,
University Park 1995; id., Living Icons: The Metaphor of Imaging from the Second to Fourth
Centuries CE, in: StPatr 40 (2006), 209–214; id., Verbal and Visual Representation: Art
and Text, Culture and Power in Late Antiquity, in: P. Rousseau (ed.), A Companion to Late
Antiquity 285–305, Oxford 2009, 285–305.
34 Frank, 2000.
35 Neri, 2004.
36 L.S. Nasrallah, The Earthen Human, the Breathing Statue: The Sculptor God, Greco-Roman
Statuary, and Clement of Alexandria, in: K. Schmid / C. Riedweg (eds.), Beyond Eden: The
Biblical Story of Paradise [Genesis 2–3] and its Reception History, Tübingen 2008, 110–140.
37 T. Hölscher, Visual Power in Ancient Greece and Rome: Between Art and Social Reality,
Oakland 2018, 12 cf. R. MacMullen, Some Pictures in Ammianus Marcellinus, in: ArtB 46
(1964), 435–455.
38 W.J. Burghardt, The Image of God in Man According to Cyril of Alexandria, Woodstock 1957;
C.H.T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls,
STDJ 42, Leiden 2002; A. Schüle, Made in the ‘Image of God’: The Concepts of Divine Images
in Gen 1–3, in: ZAW 117 (2005), 1–20; G.H. van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context:
The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient
Philosophy and Early Christianity, WUNT 232, Tübingen 2008; C. Markschies, Gottes
Körper. Jüdische, christliche und pagane Gottesvorstellungen in der Antike, Munich 2016;
A.A. Orlov, Living Mysteries: Embodiment of Divine Knowledge in Jewish Apocalypticism, in:
Gnosis 7 (2022), 17–52.
39 P.C. Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity,
Philadelphia 2009, 41 (emphasis mine).
Introduction xxxv

theophanic quality that made them the focus of their contemporaries. Her
research also stressed that in searching for a way to focus devotion on some-
thing perceivable through the senses, living persons, icons, and relics posed the
same problem of materiality, but she did not explore the relationship between
the three media further.40 Hunt and Pentcheva both studied how the biblical
idea of being made “in the image of God” was contextualised in Late Antiquity.
Hunt traced the evolution of the notion in the Christian Syriac tradition up to
the seventh century, showing how it shaped the perception of living bodies
in general and of ascetic ones in particular.41 Pentcheva, who introduced the
concept of corporeal iconicity, defined it as a non-representational state that
was partially performative and partially the result of receiving the spirit of God
within.42 As such, the state characterised both persons and inanimate matter,
such as churches or the Eucharistic bread and wine, which had been imbibed
with the divine pneuma.43 Pentcheva’s iconic Christians do not become visual
images of God, but vessels through which the divine pneuma flowed into the
world.44 In what follows, I argue instead that cohabitation with the divine was
held to alter one’s body, transforming it into an image of the divine, and I show
that the Church Fathers constructed themselves and select others as material
images of the divine.
My analysis of living persons as images thus sheds new light on the Patristic
‘image theory’ that art historians and theologians struggled to reconstruct in
order to understand why cult images were so disputed in the medieval off-
shoots of Roman culture. As pointed out by art historian Hans Belting, the
concept of image is essentially an anthropological one.45 Thus, the new cat-
egories of cult images created in Late Antiquity can only be understood in
relation with the anthropological paradigm that emerged in the same period.
The Graeco-Roman preference for anthropomorphism and the abundance of
textual and material sources available for this context allow us to discern when

40 Ead., Shifting Selves in Late Antiquity, in: D. Brakke / M.L. Satlow / S. Weitzman (eds.),
Religion and the Self in Antiquity, Bloomington 2005, 15–39; ead., On the Edge of Self and
Other: Holy Bodies in Late Antiquity, in: JECS 17 (2009b), 171–193; ead., The Corporeal, 2009.
41 H. Hunt, Clothed in the Body: Asceticism, the Body and the Spiritual in the Late Antique Era,
Surrey 2012.
42 B.V. Pentcheva, Performing the Sacred in Byzantium: Image, Breath and Sound, in:
Perform. Res. 19 (2014), 120–128; ead., Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space, and Spirit in Byzantium,
University Park 2017, 11.76–84; ead. (ed.), Aural Architecture in Byzantium. Music, Acoustics,
and Ritual, London 2017.
43 Ead., Hagia, 2017, passim.
44 Ead., 2014; ead., Hagia, 2017, 11.76–84.
45 H. Belting, An Anthropology of Images: Picture, Medium, Body (T. Dunlap, trans.), Princeton
2014.
xxxvi Introduction

and why Greeks and Romans ascribed animated character to images, how
humans reclaimed those functions when an anthropological model emerged
that held humans capable of mediating themselves between humanity and the
divine, and how a new class of artefacts was eventually created to complement
and preserve the functioning of these humans. The process attests to the pull
of matter in human worship. Indeed, the “web of humans and things, perme-
ated by a deep incarnational theology” specific to Byzantine society has its
roots in the context we will look at, which documents the survival of animism
against all odds amid a literate and sophisticated society.46
Belief in the iconic quality of living persons was preserved in the eastern,
so-called ‘Byzantine’ offshoot of Roman culture.47 As pointed out by Katherine
Marsengill, “[scil. in Byzantium] a man or woman who had accomplished a
greater spiritual degree of enlightenment, who had experienced God, sim-
ply could not exist without such a state physically and visibly revealed.”48
Marsengill further argues that icon worship shaped the visual expression of
this iconic state in Byzantium, with living saints imitating the icons of pre-
vious saints.49 Thus, a later phase of the phenomenon we are studying here
involved living people seeking iconic status by imitating icons, in the way
that, we will see, they imitated cult statues in the early centuries CE. For the
Latin West, Martino Rossi Monti shows how the idea that a holy person’s body
was rendered luminous by the indwelling grace was preserved by medieval
theologians.50
This short and inevitably incomplete historiographic sketch indicates the
complexity of studying the body as living image of the divine in this cultural
context. The topic has been addressed as a philological, theological, philosoph-
ical, art historical, and ritual phenomenon. The extensive bibliography and the
variety of possible approaches make a comprehensive study unfeasible. Thus,

46 G. Peers, Animism, Materiality, and Museums: How Do Byzantine Things Feel?, Amsterdam
2020, 1. On the debate on images in the early Middle Ages, see now F. Dell’Acqua,
Iconophilia. Politics, Religion, Preaching, and the Use of Images in Rome, c.680–880,
BBOS 27, London 2020.
47 On what we grew accustomed to call ‘Byzantium’ being the Roman state, see A. Kaldellis,
Romanland: Ethnicity and Empire in Byzantium, Cambridge 2019.
48 K. Marsengill, The Influence of Icons on the Perception of Living Holy Persons, in:
J. Bogdanović (ed.), Encounters with the Holy: Perceptions of Body and Space in the Medieval
Mediterranean, Abingdon 2018, 87–103 (87).
49 Ead., Portraits and Icons: Between Reality and Spirituality in Byzantine Art, Turnhout 2013;
ead., 2018.
50 M. Rossi Monti, “Opus es magnificum”: The Image of God and the Aesthetics of Grace, in:
C.S. Jaeger (ed.), Magnificence and the Sublime in Medieval Aesthetics, New York 2010,
17–29.
Introduction xxxvii

I constructed my argument as a development of previous analyses. Sharing

Miller’s conviction that the late antique period is characterised by unprece-
dented optimism regarding the capacity of matter to represent the divine, I
further her exploration about the theophanic potential of living bodies. In this,
my study is not novel. As we have seen, the iconic dimension of Roman emper-
ors and Christian ascetics are well-established topics. Nevertheless, I believe
that it is important to recognise the diverse types of iconic living as pertaining
to the same phenomenon and that part of the functions of private and public
settings designed in this timeframe was to establish the iconic quality of the
persons at their centre. In this, I integrate the living persons in the art historical
analysis of the spaces. The context that gave rise to the idea that humans can
become vessels and images of the divine is addressed in the following chapter,
which is followed by an analysis of how this potential was embodied by emper-
ors, martyrs, initiates, bishops, and stylite ascetics, and passed on by them to
objects.51

51 Andrei Orlov’s monograph on the iconic quality ascribed to the bodies of Adam, Enoch,
Jacob, and Moses in early Judaism came out too late for its finds to be integrated in the
present study. Orlov’s analysis attests to how popular the belief in the capacity of living
humans to become living images of god was in Jewish milieux in the Near East around the
turn of the millennium—the cultural matrix of the Christian movement. It also showed
that the biblical passages Christians interpreted to develop an iconic view of humans,
which we will discuss in the following pages, were used in similar manner in Jewish com-
munities. See A.A. Orlov, Embodiment of Divine Knowledge in Early Judaism, Abingdon
2022.
 Chapter 1

Setting the Stage

Standing unknowingly at the crossroad between Antiquity and the Middle

Ages, young Augustine of Hippo (354–430) pondered the choice Roman soci-
ety offered him.1 The old world tempted him with a rewarding social position
based on his training in rhetoric. Concurrently, the siren call of the new world
allured him to a life dedicated to God. His doubts, Augustine tells us, ended as
he opened the Christian Scriptures and his eyes fell upon Paul’s advice to “Put
on the Lord Jesus Christ, and do not take forethought for the flesh…”2 Paul
had borrowed the notion of “putting on” from the language of clothing and
used it twice in his writings to define the relationship between Jesus and his
followers.3
In his epistle to the Romans, which ended up deciding Augustine’s future,
Paul called on his readers to “put on” Jesus by imitating his behaviour, thus pro-
moting a performative notion of following.4 In Galatians, the Apostle argued
that those who had been baptised had “put on” Christ, thus reworking the
biblical notion that humans had been made in the image of God.5 Whether
performative as in Romans or ontological as in Galatians, the “putting on” or
“dressing” with Christ was a state that others were supposed to be able to see in
one’s actions and, in the case of Paul, in the physical marks left by his tribula-
tions.6 Thus, Paul urged Christians to become images of Christ.

1 On the life of Augustine, see P. Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, Berkeley ²2000;
J.J. O’Donnell, Augustine, a New Biography, New York 2005.
2 Rom 13:14 ἀλλὰ ἐνδύσασθε τὸν κύριον Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν, καὶ τῆς σαρκὸς πρόνοιαν μὴ ποιεῖσθε εἰς
ἐπιθυμίας. cf. Aug., c. 8.12 (W.H.D. Rouse [ed.], St. Augustine’s Confessions. Vol. 1: Books 1–8,
LCL 26, Cambridge 1912, 464–465). Quotes from the Old Testament follow Swete’s Septuagint
(2010) and those from the New Testament the SBL Greek New Testament (2010). Translations
into English follow Young’s Literal Translation (1862), amended at times.
3 On the meaning of the verb ἐνδύω and its transformative implications, see M.F. Hull, Baptism
on Account of the Dead (1Cor 15:29): An Act of Faith in the Resurrection, Atlanta 2005, 245–
246. On clothing imagery in Paul, see J.H. Kim, On the Significance of Clothing Imagery in the
Pauline Corpus, London 2004; R. Canavan, Clothing the Body of Christ at Colossae: A Visual
Construction of Identity, WUNT 2.334, Tübingen 2011.
4 Cf. the immediate context of the concept in Rom 14.
5 Gal 3:27 “for as many as to Christ were baptized did put on Christ;” / ὅσοι γὰρ εἰς Χριστὸν
ἐβαπτίσθητε, Χριστὸν ἐνεδύσασθε.
6 On the idea of “putting on Christ,” see E. Haulotte, Symbolique du vêtement selon la Bible, Paris
1966; S.P. Brock, Clothing Metaphors as a Means of Theological Expression in Syriac Tradition,

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_002

2 Chapter 1

In Augustine’s time, several types of Christians were credited with having

“put on” Christ. In the fourth century, bishops, hermits, martyrs, and the now
Christian emperors were all considered images of Christ, with each represent-
ing the Christian God in a different form. These alternatives had developed
out of a notion of iconicity that crystallised around the turn of the millennium
and which Paul himself referenced when he wrote to the Christians in Rome to
“put on” Christ. In this chapter, we will travel back to Paul’s Rome to see what
“putting on” a god meant to first-century Romans and then follow how the con-
cept evolved during the first three centuries.
The origin of the anthropological model at the core of this study – which
held humans capable of containing and displaying the divine – appears related
to the encounter between a particular culture of public self-presentation and
a growing belief in the human potential to attain divinity. A third element, the
cult statue, stands in the background of the phenomenon, shaping its vocabu-
lary, aesthetic, and gestures. In what follows I introduce the three elements –
the Roman culture of self-presentation, the Roman notion of deification, and
the pairing of iconic persons with cult statues – and ponder how they contrib-
uted to the figure of the iconic person.

1.1 Body Language in Early Imperial Society

In Antiquity, most people signalled their social status through garments and
insignia. In addition, communities around the Mediterranean held the body
capable of disclosing the person’s character. Five centuries apart, the anony-
mous author of the Book of Sirach and Bishop Basil of Ancyra (d. 362) attest to
the resilience of this belief, with the former arguing that “One can tell a man
by his appearance; a wise man is known as such when first met. A man’s attire,
his hearty laughter and his gait, proclaim him for what he is;” and the latter
confirming that “it is not only the voice or even the look that displays the image
of the soul as if in a mirror; but even a man’s dress and laugh and gait testify
concerning it.”7

in: M. Schmidt / C.F. Geyer (eds.), Typus, Symbol, Allegorie bei den östlichen Vätern und ihren
Parallelen im Mittelalter. Internationales Kolloquium, Eichstätt 1981, Regensburg 1982, 11–38.
7 Wis 19:28–29 (A. Rahlfs [ed.], Septuaginta, Stuttgart ⁹1971; trans. New American Bible 2002)
ἀπὸ ὁράσεως ἐπιγνωσθήσεται ἀνήρ, καὶ ἀπὸ ἀπαντήσεως προσώπου ἐπιγνωσθήσεται νοήμων· στο-
λισμὸς ἀνδρὸς καὶ γέλως ὀδόντων καὶ βήματα ἀνθρώπου ἀναγγελεῖ τὰ περὶ αὐτοῦ. Bas. Anc., d.
virg. 36 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 30, Paris 1888, coll.
741AB; trans. T.M. Shaw, Askesis and the Appearance of Holiness, in: JECS 6 [1998], 485–499,
[491]) Ἐπειδὴ γὰρ αἱ ἐν σώματι ψυχαὶ ἀδυνατοῦσαι ἀλλήλαις γυμνῶς περὶ ἀρετῆς ὁμιλεῖν, τοῖς
Setting the Stage 3

Over time, communities developed detailed sartorial, behavioural, and

physiognomic codes that allowed them to assess their interlocutors.8 Body and
deportment indicated one’s character and, through moles and other signs used
in divination, one’s destiny.9 Garments and jewellery communicated one’s age
group (i.e., child, young adult, adult), social standing, political function, cleri-
cal role, and religious affiliation.10 (see Fig. 1) One could complement their
public image with portraits, which allowed Romans to depict themselves with
desired qualities, as well as to create visual associations with revered humans
or gods. Thus, Roman self-presentation was a combination of embodied per-
formances and of representations, with the two media influencing each other.
Physiognomics were attested in ancient Mesopotamia, the Greek poleis in
the fourth century BCE, and Ancient Near Eastern communities in the sec-
ond century BCE.11 In Roman society physiognomics were recognised as a sci-
ence and came to shape social interaction at every level.12 Thus, most Romans
shared Cicero’s (106–43 BCE) belief in a direct correspondence between body
and character. As the famous orator put it, “every motion of the soul has its
natural appearance, voice, and gesture; and the entire body of man, all his

περικειμένοις σώμασιν ὀργάνοις πρός τε τὴν φωνὴν καὶ τὴν θέαν ἀναγκάζονται χρῆσθαι, καὶ ὁ
μὴ δυνάμενος ψυχῆς ἐνδεδεμένης σώματι κάλλος ἰδεῖν, ἢ λόγῳ ταύτης ἀκοῦσαι, τὸ τοῦ σώματος
κίνημα ἐν ᾧ ἐστιν ὁρᾷ, καὶ τῆς διὰ τούτου φωνῆς ἐπακούων, τὸ κάλλος αὐτῆς διὰ τούτων ἀναλο-
γίζεται, καὶ οὐ φωνὴ μόνον ἢ καὶ βλέμμα, ὥσπερ ἐν κατόπτρῳ τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς εἶδος δεικνύει· ἀλλὰ
καὶ στολισμὸς ἀνδρὸς, καὶ γέλως, καὶ βῆμα ποδὸς, ἀναγγέλλει περὶ αὐτοῦ.
8 Quint., inst. 11.3 (H.E. Butler [ed. / trans.], Quintilian. The Orator’s Education. Vol. 1:
Books 1–2, LCL 124, London 1980) exemplifies the extent to which Romans codified body
language.
9 On physiognomy, see Evans, 1969; Barton, 1995; Swain (ed.), 2007; J. Trimble, Corpore
enormi: The Rhetoric of Physical Appearance in Suetonius and Imperial Portrait Statuary,
in: J. Elsner / M. Meyer (eds.), Art and Rhetoric in Roman Culture, Cambridge 2014, 115–
154. On divinatory markers, see V. Dasen, Le langage divinatoire du corps, in: V. Dasen /
J. Wigaux (eds.), Langages et métaphores du corps dans le monde antique, Rennes
2008, 223–242; ead., Body Marks-Birthmarks. Body Divination in Ancient Literature and
Iconography, in: D. Boschung / A. Shapiro / F. Wascheck (eds.), Bodies in Transition.
Dissolving the Boundaries of Embodied Knowledge, Paderborn 2015, 153–177. On deport-
ment, see Gleason, 1995; Corbeill, 2004; Conway, 2008.
10 Sebesta / Bonfante (eds.), 1994; Edmondson / Keith (eds.), 2008; Upson-Saia / Daniel-
Hughes / Batten (eds.), 2014.
11 On Mesopotamia, see B. Böck, Physiognomy in Ancient Mesopotamia and Beyond: From
Practice to Handbook, in: A. Annus (ed.), Divination and Interpretation of Signs in the
Ancient World, OIS 6, Chicago 2010, 199–224; on the Near East, see M. Popović, Reading
the Human Body. Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic–
Early Roman Period Judaism, Leiden 2007; on Greece, see M.L. Catoni, La comunicazione
non verbale nella Grecia antica. Gli schemata nella danza, nell’arte, nella vita, Turin 2008.
12 Evans, 1969; Swain (ed.), 2007.
4 Chapter 1

Figure 1 Seven rings from across the Roman world showcasing the god Mercury, a man
riding a dolphin, the portrait of a woman, and the representation of a man in
Sassanian style under two stars. Gold, mother-of-pearl, cornelian, rock crystal,
agate, 250–400. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu, California
(inv. no. 83 AM.228). (Photo: Digital image courtesy of Getty’s Open Content
Program)

facial and vocal expressions, like the strings of a harp, sound just as the soul’s
motion strikes them.”13 A generation later, Ovid (43 BCE–ca. 18 CE) rewrote

13 Cic., orat. 3.216 (F.T. Ellendt [ed.], M. Tullii Ciceronis De oratore libri tres. Vol. 1, Königsberg
1840, 571; trans. F. Graf, Gestures and Conventions: The Gestures of Roman Actors and
Orators, in: J. Bremmer / H. Roodenburg [eds.], A Cultural History of Gesture, Ithaca 1992,
36–58 [40]) Omnis enim motus animi suum quendam a natura habet vultum et sonum et
gestum; corpusque totum hominis et eius omnis vultus omnesque voces, ut nervi in fidibus,
ita sonant, ut a motu animi quoque sunt pulsae.
Setting the Stage 5

Rome’s foundational myths around this principle, with the leitmotif of his
Metamorphoses being the heroes’ transformation into shapes that reflected
their characters.14 Attesting to the weight placed on this aspect is the industry
that quickly developed around it. Makeup helped one hide a pallor that would
have undermined their credibility; fake moles allowed one to claim being born
under good auspices; hair dye cancelled the signs of age; and wigs compen-
sated for a stingy nature.15 As Romans were becoming accustomed to reading
one’s identity in their public persona, social interaction became increasingly
theatrical.16
Two unrelated phenomena seem to have promoted the body as the main
conveyor of identity, instead of garments, thus preparing its recognition as a
theophanic screen. The first was the social mobility generated by Rome’s con-
quests.17 Terentius Neo, a first-century baker, had himself and his wife depicted
in the tablinum of the domus they bought in the vicinity of Pompeii’s forum.
(see Fig. 2) In the portrait Terentius wears a toga and holds a rotulus, sym-
bolising his citizenship and successful business, respectively. His wife wears a
purple dress – the most expensive textile of the time – and pairs it with gold
and pearl earrings; she also holds writing tablets and a stylus to indicate her
literacy.18 Crowning this tableau that features so many expensive commodities
are the pensive glances of the two. These indicate a detachment from mun-
dane concerns that had long been the prerogative of wealthy patricians.
The opportunities offered by early imperial society allowed individuals
such as our baker to acquire the traditional markers of high status: wealth,
a domus, public functions, and social connections. Naturally, changes in sta-
tus were signalled on the body, with the nouveau riche adopting the garments

14 On bodies in Ovid, see P. Murray, Bodies in Flux: Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in: D. Montserrat
(ed.), Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings: Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity,
London 1998, 80–96.
15 Suet., v.c.: Otho 12.1 (J.C. Rolfe [ed. / trans.], Suetonius. Lives of the Caesars, Vol. II: Claudius.
Nero. Galba, Otho, and Vitellius. Vespasian. Titus, Domitian. Lives of Illustrious Men:
Grammarians and Rhetoricians. Poets (Terence. Virgil. Horace. Tibullus. Persius. Lucan).
Lives of Pliny the Elder and Passienus Crispus, LCL 38, Cambridge 1959, 244–246).
16 S. Bartsch, The Mirror of the Self. Sexuality, Self-knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman
Empire, Chicago 2006, esp. Chapter 4 “The Self on Display”; J.A. van Waarden, Episcopal
Self-Presentation: Sidonius Apollinaris and the Episcopal Election in Bourges AD 470, in:
J. Leemans (ed.), Episcopal Elections in Late Antiquity, Berlin 2011, 555–562 (556–557).
17 On social mobility in this period, see S. Treggiari, Social Status and Social Legislation, in:
A.K. Bowman / E. Champlin / A. Lintott (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. 10: The
Augustan Empire, 43 BC–AD 69, Cambridge 1996, 873–904.
18 On the portrait, see J.R. Clarke, Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans: Visual Representation
and Non-elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C.–A.D. 315, Berkeley 2003, 261–268.
6 Chapter 1

Figure 2 Portrait of Terentius Neo and his wife. Fresco, 1st century, Pompeii. Museo
Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli (inv. 9058). (Photo: Wikipedia, CC0 1.0, su
concessione del Ministero della Cultura - Museo Archeologico di Napoli)

and jewellery of the wealthy. Patricians retaliated by identifying as symbols

of high social status characteristics that required life-long dedication, rather
than things that could be bought. Erudition, self-control, and the practice of
virtues thus became the markers par excellence of the Roman aristocrats. This
contributed to shifting the focus away from garments to the physical bodies
of those seeking public offices, since these characteristics manifested through
physiognomy, deportment, and speech.
As a result, paideia – i.e., the formation of the male patrician – became a
finely tuned mechanism that shaped the ideal man.19 The belief that a person’s

19 On this, see Gleason, 1995; Corbeill, 2004; Conway, 2008. On paideia more generally, see
H.I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, New York 1956; W. Jaeger, Early Christianity
and Greek Paideia, Cambridge 1985; R.A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The Grammarian
Setting the Stage 7

character alters the outlook of their body and vice-versa – that one can affect
character by shaping the body – was central to the process.20 Nursemaids mas-
saged the bodies of babies to give them harmonious shapes in the hopes of
influencing their personalities.21 Later, young adults had to surround them-
selves with portraits of exemplary figures because looking at something was
thought to result in the imprinting of its image on the person’s retina.22 Thus,
“to gaze continuously upon noble models imprints their likeness in souls
which are not entirely hardened and stony.”23 (see Fig. 3) Paideia thus became
an exercise in fashioning and, as one became an adult, self-fashioning, with
the philosopher Plotinus (203–270) recommending his students to consider
themselves as artisans chiselling statues.24

and Society in Late Antiquity, TCH 11, Berkeley 1988; R. Browning, Education in the Roman
Empire, in: A. Cameron / B. Ward-Perkins / M. Whitby (eds.), Cambridge Ancient History,
vol. 14. Late Antiquity: Empire and Successors, AD 425–600, Cambridge 2000, 855–883;
R. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt,
Princeton 2001.
20 Cf. a popular treatise attributed to Aristotle, which claimed that “Soul and body, as it
seems to me, are affected sympathetically by one another: on the one hand, an alteration
of the state of the soul produces an alteration in the form of the body, and contrariwise
an alteration in bodily form produces an alteration in the state of the soul.” / Δοκεῖ δέ
μοι ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ τὸ σῶμα συμπαθεῖν ἀλλήλοις· καὶ ἡ τῆς ψυχῆς ἕξις ἀλλοιουμένη συναλλοιοῖ τὴν
τοῦ σώματος μορφήν, πάλιν τε ἡ τοῦ σώματος μορφὴ ἀλλοιουμένη συναλλοιοῖ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς
ἕξιν. (Ps.)Arist., p. 2.35 (R. Foerster [ed.], Scriptores physiognomonici Graeci et Latini. Vol. 1,
Leipzig 1893, 40; T. Loveday / E.S. Forster [trans.], Physiognomonics in Complete Works of
Aristotle. Vol. 1: The Revised Oxford Translation, Princeton 2014, 1237–1250, [1242]).
21 Plu. (d. ca. 119), l.ed. 3 (F.C. Babbitt [ed. / trans.], Plutarch. Moralia. Vol. 1: The Education of
Children. How the Young Man Should Study Poetry. On Listening to Lectures. How to Tell a
Flatterer from a Friend. How a Man May Become Aware of His Progress in Virtue, LCL 197,
Cambridge 1927, 14); Gleason, 1995, 70–71.
22 Quint., inst. 1.11.2–3 (Butler [ed. / trans.], 1980, 182–184); A.M. Riggsby, Pliny on Cicero
and Oratory: Self-Fashioning in the Public Eye, in: AJP 116 (1995), 123–135; P. Zanker, The
Functions of Roman Art, in: C. Marconi (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Roman
Art and Architecture, Oxford 2015, 310–325 (311–312).
23 Ph., p.p. 114 (F.H. Colson [ed. / trans.], Philo. On the Special Laws, Book 4. On the Virtues. On
Rewards and Punishments, LCL 341, Cambridge 1939, 380–381) αἱ γὰρ συνεχεῖς τῶν καλῶν
παραδειγμάτων φαντασίαι παραπλησίας εἰκόνας ἐγχαράττουσι ταῖς μὴ πάνυ σκληραῖς καὶ ἀπο-
κρότοις ψυχαῖς. On the transformative nature of sight in Roman culture, see D. Fredrick (ed.),
The Roman Gaze. Vision, Power, and the Body, Baltimore 2002; B. Maire, L’imprégnation par
le regard ou l’influence des simulacres sur l’embryon, in: P. Mudry / O. Bianchi / O. Thévenaz
(eds.), “Mirabilia”. Conceptions et représentations de l’extraordinaire dans le monde antique,
Bern 2004, 279–294.
24 Plot., e. 1.6.9 (A.H. Armstrong [ed. / trans.], Plotinus. Ennead. Vol. 1: Porphyry on the Life
of Plotinus. Ennead I, LCL 440, Cambridge 1989, 258) cf. Pl., Phdr. 252 (H.N. Fowler [ed. /
trans.], Plato. Euthyphro. Apology. Crito. Phaedo. Phaedrus, LCL 36, Cambridge 2005, 490).
8 Chapter 1

Figure 3
Ring stone showing a seated man
reading a scroll in front of a herm statue.
Carnelian, 1.6 cm, 1st century BCE –
3rd century CE. The Metropolitan
Museum of Art (inv. no. 81.6.49)

Being in the shape of Plato (ca. 427–347 BCE), for example, implied sharing
the philosopher’s virtues. This is a principle attested throughout Roman soci-
ety, from aficionados of Emperor Marcus Aurelius (r. 161–180) to members
of Bishop Basil of Caesarea’s congregation, who reproduced their leaders’
external appearance in the hopes of being credited with similar qualities.25
In addition to gazing upon portraits, young patricians were expected to also
imitate dead and alive exemplary figures. As a result, teachers, philosophers,
statesmen, and religious overachievers constructed and displayed their public
personae as spectacles for others to imitate.26 The system is best visible dur-
ing the tirocinium fori, the year preceding one’s debut in social life, which was
spent observing an older peer.27 The young adult learned to imitate the proper
gait, gesticulation, tone of voice, direction of gaze, and even how to hold the

25 On Basil, see Gr. Naz., or. 43.77 (J. Bernardi [ed.], Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours 42–43,
SC 384, Paris 1992, 294–296), quoted below, p. 126.
26 On exempla in Roman society, see Quint., inst. 12.2.29–31 (D.A. Russell [ed. / trans.],
Quintilian. The Orator’s Education. Vol. 5: Books 11–12, LCL 494, Cambridge 1922, 236–237);
J. Leemans, Christus Agonothetes: An Exploration of an Agonistic Image to speak about God
and Christ, in: E. Moutsoulas (ed.), Jesus Christ in the Theology of Gregory of Nyssa. Minutes
of the Ninth Conference on St. Gregory of Nyssa (Athens, 7.–12. September 2000), Athens
2005, 529–556; Bartsch, 2006, ch. 4; J. Petitfils, Mos Christianorum: The Roman Discourse
of Exemplarity and the Jewish and Christian Language of Leadership, Tübingen 2016;
M.B. Roller, Constructing Autocracy: Aristocrats and Emperors in Julio-Claudian Rome,
Princeton 2001; id., 2006; id., 2018, ch. 8.
27 On the tirocinium fori, see W. Eder, Tirocinium fori, in: Der Neue Pauly, (2003), online.
Setting the Stage 9

toga.28 Thus, the public personae of Romans were chiselled into desired shapes
that signalled one’s class, education, and character, with their bodies displayed
and assessed as “finished artifacts.”29
The second phenomenon that brought the physical body to the forefront of
social interaction was the introduction of large bath complexes. As they grew
popular and multiplied, the thermae became the preferred venues for social
interaction, competing with the fora.30 In the nude or with minimal garments,
characteristics such as corpulence, and control of gestures and voice became
essential in communicating identity.
Thus, the popularity of physiognomics made Romans pay attention to other
bodies; social mobility allowed more people to adopt the external markers of
success; and public baths intensified the mingling of social categories in set-
tings where the role of garments was reduced. As a result, public interaction
became increasingly theatrical and, as put by Rabun Taylor, “to most Romans,
regardless of rank, everyday life was a sequence of performances, rehearsed
or extemporaneous.”31 Roman imperial society thus fits Goffman’s interpreta-
tion of social interaction as an exchange of theatrical performances staged to
convince others and Foucault’s observations on the body as the meeting place
of societal norms and individual desires.32 Thanks to this cultural dynamic,
Romans developed an art critic’s gaze to assess the personae of private and
public figures. Stimulated by the role representations played in constructing
one’s public image, Romans applied in social interaction appraisal criteria for-
merly used for artefacts.
In the mise-en-scène of their public personae, Romans typically sought
visual associations with past figures of authority, whose images were repre-
sented in marble. Whether it was a victorious general displaying himself in
front of Jupiter’s statue or a parvenu baker wearing a toga in front of statues

28 On these aspects, see Aldrete, 1999; Gunderson, 2000; Gleason, 1995; Corbeill, 2004;
Conway, 2008; O’Sullivan, 2011.
29 D. Burchell, Civic Personae: MacIntyre, Cicero and Moral Personality, in: HPT 19 (1998),
101–118 (7–8).
30 On the phenomenon of the thermae, see F.K. Yegül, Baths and Bathing in Classical
Antiquity, New York 1992; ead., Bathing in the Roman World, New York 2010.
31 R. Taylor, The Moral Mirror of Roman Art, Cambridge 2008, 20.
32 For Foucault’s view of the body as “the place where the most minute and local social
practices are linked up with the large scale organisation of power”, see H.L. Dreyfus
/ P. Rabinow, Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics, Chicago 1983,
xxvi. On the legacy of Goffman’s social performativity, see P. Burke, The Performative
Turn in Recent Cultural History, in: A. Öztürkmen / E.B. Vitz (eds.), Medieval and Early
Modern Performance in the Eastern Mediterranean, Turnhout 2014, 541–561; M. Carlson,
Performance. A Critical Introduction, London 2018.
10 Chapter 1

of like-dressed illustrious citizens, visual alignment with representations of

the gods and ancestors was a common practice for those seeking authority.33
Portraits added to this by allowing Romans to overcome certain limitations of
living bodies. Through representations, one could permanentise the prestige
of a function they held temporarily, display simultaneously functions with dis-
tinct looks, or bring to the forefront certain physiognomic features (whether
real or invented).34 The search for prestige and social recognition thus led to a
rapprochement between living persons and the gods, as the visual characteris-
tics of the latter were adopted by the former.
Since beauty was seen as a visual expression of virtue and goodness in
Graeco-Roman culture, the gods were represented as idealised humans.35 (see
Fig. 4) By altering the outlook of their bodies with the help of makeup, gar-
ments, and insignia, and by having themselves represented with young, sym-
metrical, and unblemished bodies to claim an internal state that matched
those external features, Romans drew nearer to the visual canon of divinity.
As these processes unravelled, changes in Roman society opened the discus-
sion on the human potential to attain divine or quasi-divine status. As a result,
Romans came to canvas bodies in search not only of the person’s social stand-
ing and character, but also of an intimate relationship with the divine.

1.2 Sieging Olympus: Humankind Claims Immortality

In a short satirical dialogue, Lucian of Samosata (ca. 125–ca. 180) had the
Olympian gods lament the crowding of their court.36 The gods of the provinces,
whom the Romans generously welcomed into their pantheon, had joined the

33 On the practice, see Hölscher, 2018, with bibl.

34 On Roman portraits, see, e.g., J. Fejfer, Roman Portraits in Context, Berlin 2008; K. Fittschen /
P. Zanker, Katalog der römischen Porträts in den Capitolinischen Museen und den
anderen kommunalen Sammlungen der Stadt Rom, tome IV. Kinderbildnisse. Nachträge
zu den Bänden I–III. Neuzeitliche oder neuzeitlich verfälschte Bildnisse. Bildnisse an
Reliefdenkmälern, 2 vols., Berlin 2014, with bibl.
35 The connection between beauty and goodness is found already in Homer, whose gods
and heroes are described as καλὸς κἀγαθός. See J.-P. Vernant, Mortals and Immortals: The
Body of the Divine, in: F.I. Zeitlin (ed.), Mortals and Immortals: Collected Essays, Princeton
1991, 27–49; I. Jenkins, The Human Body in Greek Art and Thought, in: id. (ed.), Defining
Beauty: The Body in Ancient Greek Art, London 2015, 16–29.
36 Lucianus, deor. conc. 2 (A.M. Harmon [ed. / trans.], Lucian. Vol. 5: The Passing of Peregrinus.
The Runaways. Toxaris or Friendship. The Dance. Lexiphanes. The Eunuch. Astrology.
The Mistaken Critic. The Parliament of the Gods. The Tyrannicide. Disowned, LCL 302,
Cambridge 1936, 420).
Setting the Stage 11

Figure 4 Statue of Venus with dolphin (the Mazarin Venus). Marble, 184 cm, 2nd century,
from Rome. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu, California
(inv. no. 54.AA.11). (Photo: Digital image courtesy of Getty’s Open Content
Program)
12 Chapter 1

Olympians and brought with them countless human followers who made
the divine mountaintop claustrophobic. Allegiance to a ‘saviour god’ was one
of several ways through which Romans could gain immortality and, with it,
quasi-divine status.37 I believe that the possibility to cross over to the realm of
the gods was created by the feats of prominent Romans who bridged the gap
between humans and gods, thus opening the gates of Olympus.
The extraordinary lives of Marius (157–86 BCE), Sulla (138–78 BCE),
Pompey the Great (106–48 BCE), and Julius Caesar (100–44 BCE) entitled
them to immortality. These individuals stood out from a number of peers who,
as Cicero put it, had “from boyhood aspired ‘far to excel, and alone to be leader
of others.’”38 In quoting the Iliad to express his youth’s aspirations, Cicero
draws our attention to the formative role Homer’s poems had on Romans.39 A
key part of paideia, the Iliad and the Odyssey set the parameters of human exis-
tence during the period before the turn of the millennium. Within these mar-
gins, humans could achieve divinity through immortal fame, itself attainable
through extraordinary achievements. Perseus, Theseus, Achilles, and Hercules
had gained their places among the gods through this method. Later, Alexander
the Great (r. 336–323 BCE) confirmed the possibility by carving for himself a
place in human memory. Following the same logic, Julius Caesar, “[scil. having]
exulted in his many glorious victories, not unreasonably thought himself to be
something more than human.”40 Caesar’s contemporaries agreed and conferred

37 On immortality being the characteristic of divinity, see A.D. Nock, Review of H.G. Meecham,
The Epistle to Diognetus: The Greek Text with Introduction, Translation and Notes
(Manchester 1949), in: JR 31 (1951), 214–216 (214–215); N. Janowitz, Magic in the Roman
World: Pagans, Jews and Christians, New York 2001, 71. Janowitz, 2001, 71–72 noted that
“In Jewish, Christian and Greco-Roman texts the transformation of a human into a divine
being was thought to be effected by a stunning variety of techniques and combinations
of techniques: burial, a vision of the deity, an ascent through the heavenly realm, being
a vegetarian, and being drenched in blood, dipped in water, or drowned in the Nile.” On
self-deification, see also M.D. Litwa, Desiring Divinity: Self-Deification in Early Jewish and
Christian Mythmaking, New York 2016.
38 Iliad 6.208 cf. Cic., Q.f. 3.5.4 (W.G. Williams [ed. / trans.], Cicero: The Letters to His Friends.
Vol. 3, LCL 230, Cambridge 1960, 592–593) illud vero, quod a puero adamaram, πόλλ’ ἐπέ-
τελλεν αἰὲν ἀριστεύειν καὶ ὑπείροχον ἔμμεναι ἄλλων, totum occidisse.
39 On Homer in Roman culture, see J. Farrell, Roman Homer, in: R. Fowler (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to Homer, Cambridge 2004, 254–271. Homer remained the mark
of high education until the dawn of the medieval period, with Chor. (6th ct.), or. 2.23
(R. Foerster / E. Richtsteig [eds.], Choricii Gazaei opera, Leipzig 1929, 34–36) describing
bishop Marcianus of Gaza by likening him to Homer’s Nestor and quoting the Iliad.
40 Nic. Dam. (b. ca. 64 BCE), v.C. 130.64 (M. Toher [ed. / trans.], Nicolaus of Damascus: The
Life of Augustus and the Autobiography, Cambridge 2017, 102–103) Αὐτός τε ἐκεῖνος ἐπὶ πολ-
λαῖς καὶ καλαῖς νίκαις ἀγαλλόμενος οὐκ ἀπεικότως, πλέον τε ἢ ἄνθρωπος ἀξιῶν ἤδη εἶναι, τοῖς
μὲν πολλοῖς ἐθαυμάζετο.
Setting the Stage 13

to him the right to have a priest of his cult, to render his house temple-like by
adding a pediment to the facade, and to display his statue alongside those of
the gods during processions.41 In the following period, the de facto beginning
of the imperial system institutionalised the process by investing a living per-
son with godlike authority.42 In addition, the remarkable dynamism of early
imperial society, which allowed even persons of low origin such as Vespasian
(r. 69–79) to accede to the imperial throne, permitted any (male) Roman to
dream of achieving similar status, match the feats of mythical heroes, and
assure his immortality.43
Those like Cicero, who could not claim a spot on Olympus based on their
extraordinary accomplishments, found different paths to the gods’ mountain.
Given Cicero’s search for fame and failure to obtain it, it is telling that the earli-
est theorisation of the deifying effect of virtues in the Latin-speaking provinces
is found in his writings. When Cicero’s daughter Tullia died, the grieving father
decided that her merits set her above the women of the past whose virtues had
“raised them to heaven through fame.”44 As pointed out by Naomi Janowitz,
Cicero’s desire to have the divinity of his daughter recognised “carried none of
the political implications that divine honours for Caesar did, but it required a
similar view of human possibility.”45 A novelty in Cicero’s own time, the notion
quickly caught on.
Children and adults alike came to be praised in their epitaphs as embodi-
ments of deified virtues.46 Their funerary monuments – like the one Cicero
wanted for his daughter – gained a cultic quality, with their designs imitating
temples.47 In such instances, the portrait of the deceased replaced the statue
of a god. The best-known case, a sculpted relief that decorated the tomb of the
Haterii family on the Via Labicana in Rome, is also the most detailed.48 The
tomb for the family matriarch is depicted in the shape of a temple, with her

41 On Julius Caesar’s divine status, see Taylor, 1931; Koortbojian, 2013.

42 Cf. Gradel, 2002.
43 On his low origin, see Suet., v.c.: Vesp. 1 (Rolfe [ed. / trans.], 1959, 280).
44 Cicero, Cons. cf. Lact., i.d. 1.15.20 (P. Monat [ed.], Lactance. Institutions divines. Livre I,
SC 326, Paris 1986, 160) in caelum tollenda fama fuit.
45 Janowitz, 2001, 75. On deification in Cicero, see S. Cole, Cicero and the Rise of Deification at
Rome, New York 2013.
46 In this period, the deification of deceased children was attested among followers of tradi-
tional Roman deities, as well as Christians and Jews cf. Janowitz, 2001, 74–75.
47 Cic., Att. 12.36 (E.O. Winstedt [ed. / trans.], Cicero. Letters to Atticus. Vol. 3, LCL 9,
Cambridge 1918, 72) refers to the tomb as fanum (lit. shrine).
48 E.W. Leach, Freedmen and Immortality in the Tomb of the Haterii, in: E. D’Ambra /
G. Metraux (ed.), The Art of Citizens, Soldiers and Freedmen in the Roman World, Oxford
2006, 1–18; J. Trimble, Figure and Ornament, Death and Transformation in the Tomb of
14 Chapter 1

bust decorating the tympanum. Similar, if less adorned cases are known from
across the Roman world.49
In the same period, the popularity of Stoic philosophy increased. Stoics held
that the divine was an essence that permeated also the earthly realm, and that
humans could tap into this essence by living virtuously.50 As put by Seneca
(4 BCE–65 CE), the sage and the god were ‘produced’ in the same way, namely
by acting rationally.51 Thus, what Cicero and others felt to be right – namely
that the virtuous life of certain persons put them on par with deified personifi-
cations of those qualities – received ‘scientific’ support in Stoicism.52
As a result of these developments in the political and philosophical spheres,
the process of self-formation that paideia was becoming at the time turned to
a certain extent into a self-divinisation mechanism. Attesting to this is Seneca’s
confession that the imitation of exemplary figures required by paideia made
him feel that he was being mystically transformed, rather than just morally
reformed.53 Whether one cultivated virtues in view of a political career or
in search of a contemplative life, these were now held to confer a spiritual
status that toed the line between human and divine.54 As expected in the
physiognomic culture of the time, one’s virtuousness reflected through their
body. Physical features that Romans thought to indicate virtue and rational-
ity became symbols of one’s privileged relationship with the divine. Thus,
Seneca insisted that the wise person “has an element of godliness, heavenli-
ness, grandeur.”55

the Haterii, in: N. Dietrich / M. Squire (eds.), Ornament and Figure in Graeco-Roman Art:
Rethinking Visual Ontologies in Classical Antiquity, Berlin 2018, 327–352.
49 On Roman temple tombs and their meaning, see B.E. Borg, Roman Tombs and the Art of
Commemoration: Contextual Approaches to Funerary Customs in the Second Century CE,
Cambridge 2019, 239–290.
50 Already Arist. (384–322 BCE), e.n. 7.1.2 (H. Rackham [ed. / trans.], Aristotle. Nicomachean
Ethics, LCL 73, Cambridge 1926, 374) argued that the practice of virtues transforms men
into gods. On Stoic thought in general, see B. Inwood (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to
the Stoics, Cambridge 2003.
51 Sen., ep. 87.19 (R.M. Gummere [ed. / trans.], Seneca. Epistles. Vol. II: Epistles 66–92, LCL 76,
Cambridge 1920, 334) Quaeris, quae res sapientem faciat? Quae deum.
52 On the deification of virtues and their consecrating effects, see Fowden, 1982, 50; A.J. Clark,
Divine Qualities. Cult and Community in Republican Rome, New York 2007; E. Mayer, The
Ancient Middle Classes: Urban Life and Aesthetics in the Roman Empire, 100 BCE–250 CE,
Cambridge 2012, 129.
53 Sen., ep. 6.1 (R.M. Gummere [ed. / trans.], Seneca. Epistles. Vol. I: Epistles 1–65, LCL 75,
Cambridge 1925, 24–25) Intellego, Lucili, non emendari me tantum sed transfigurari.
54 Sen., ep. 48.11 (Gummere [ed. / trans.], 1925, 320).
55 Sen., ep. 87.18 (Gummere [ed. / trans.], 1920, 334–335) Des oportet illi divinum aliquid, cae-
leste, magnificum. cf. also ep. 115.4.
Setting the Stage 15

In the following period, the idea that virtue could confer quasi-divine sta-
tus spread in Roman society. At the beginning of the second century, Marcus
Ulpius Crotonensis, a private citizen, praised his deceased wife’s qualities by
representing her in the guises of the goddesses Venus, Fortuna, and Spes.56
In another area of Rome, Gaius Julius Helius, a shoemaker at Rome’s Porta
Fontinalis, commissioned a funerary stele for his tomb. Now in the Centrale
Montemartini Museum, the stele depicts Helius in heroic nudity. (see Fig. 5)
What prompted the shoemaker’s confidence was apparently his generosity, to
which he alluded in his epitaph.57 In both cases, the same logic Cicero had
used for his deceased daughter supported the claim of quasi-divine status.58
The deifying effect of virtues manifested also while a person was alive.
Those who excelled in a particular virtue came to be identified with the deity
associated with that quality. For his skill in curing, Octavian Augustus’s doctor
received a statue next to that of Aesculapius, the god of medicine.59 It results
from this gesture that Antonius Musa had become a material vessel for the
healing power of the god, just as Aesculapius’ cult statues. In such cases people
began addressing the living bodies of the persons the same way they did the
cult statues of the gods. This is a recurrent topic in novels of the time. The hero-
ine of the story of Cupid and Psyche – included in the second-century best-
seller Metamorphoses – renders the cult statues of Venus obsolete. The young
girl’s incredible beauty made people redirect their attention from Venus’s stat-
ues towards Psyche.60 The beauty of another literary heroine, Callirhoe, had
people prostrate themselves to her; a gesture typically reserved for statues of
the gods and divinised rulers.61 Humans who embodied the defining feature
of a deity, whether it was the healing power of Aesculapius or the beauty of
Venus, tended thus to be assimilated to their statues, and Romans utilised the

56 H. Wrede, Das Mausoleum der Claudia Semne und die bürgerliche Plastik der Kaiserzeit, in:
MDAI.R 78 (1971), 125–166; id., Consecratio in forma deorum. Vergottliche Privatpersonen
in der romischen Kaiserzeit, Mainz 1981, 99; E. Mayer, The Ancient Middle Classes: Urban
Life and Aesthetics in the Roman Empire, 100 BCE–250 CE, Cambridge 2012, 124–126.
57 For other interpretations of the portrait, see E. D’Ambra, Roman Art, Cambridge 1998,
46–48; Mayer, 2012, 116–117.
58 For other cases, see, e.g., Koortbojian, 2013, 219–226.
59 Suet., v.c.: Aug. 59 (J.C. Rolfe [ed. / trans.], Suetonius. Lives of the Caesars. Vol. I: Julius.
Augustus. Tiberius. Gaius. Caligula, LCL 31, Cambridge 1979, 214).
60 Apul., m. 4.29–30 (S. Gaselee [ed.], The Golden Ass being the Metamorphoses of Lucius
Apuleius, LCL 44, London 1924, 186–190).
61 Charit., C. 1.1 and 3.2 (G.P. Goold [ed.], Chariton. Callirhoe, LCL 481, Cambridge 1995, 34
and 142). The godlike beauty of heroines is a trope in novels of the time. See M.J. Warren,
A Robe Like Lightning: Clothing Changes and Identification in Joseph and Aseneth, in:
Upson-Saia / Daniel-Hughes / Batten (eds.), 2014, 137–153.
16 Chapter 1

Figure 5 Funerary stele of Gaius Julius Helius, shoemaker from Porta

Fontinalis. Marble, late 1st century, Rome. Roma, Musei
Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini (Inv. M.C. 930)
(Photo: © Roma, Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali)
Setting the Stage 17

vocabulary and gestures meant to describe and interact with statuary for these
iconic figures.62
As it is often the case with bestsellers, these heroines embodied a state
that readers desired for themselves. When it comes to the statue-like quality
of early imperial literary characters, this is confirmed by the fact that most
en vogue cults promised similar status to those who joined, as we will see in
Chapter 4. Over time, as Romans got comfortable with associating certain liv-
ing persons with statues, the distance between the two media disappeared.
Although a Christian, the rhetor Prohaeresius (d. ca. 368) was hailed by the
people of Rome as an embodiment of Mercury on account of his eloquence,
with the effect that they treated his living body like a statue, licking his breast
and kissing his feet and hands.63
Those who were not blessed with incredible beauty, did not have a particu-
lar talent, nor could dedicate their lives to the practice of virtues could still
attain immortality through the following of certain gods. Initiations had been
performed since the Archaic period in sanctuaries across the Mediterranean
world with the purpose of assuring one’s immortality or divine protection over
specific aspects of life, such as sea travel.64 Under Roman rule one did not have
to travel anymore to Eleusis or Samothrace to assure their salvation, as count-
less local shrines promised similar results.65 In addition, representatives of
deities began to roam the empire, seeking out the allegiance of Romans and
promising not only salvation of the soul but also iconic status on earth.
Iconicity gained through initiation or the following of a specific deity was
signalled through insignia, garments, or body alterations. These features
informed interlocutors of the central role piety played in the person’s life and
of the divine protection they enjoyed. The practice caused a revolution in the
Roman system of social interaction, as it introduced a criterion of prestige
that did not previously exist, since priesthoods had been treated before like
other temporary offices.66 As Peter Brown points out regarding the Christian
expression of this process, “By ‘conversion’ he [scil. the average man] gained a
moral excellence which had previously been reserved for the classical Greek

62 Apul., m. 4.32 (Gaselee [ed. / trans.], 1924, 192) mirantur quidem divinam speciem, sed ut
simulacrum fabre politum mirantur omnes.
63 Eun., v. 12. (W.C. Wright [ed.], Philostratus. Eunapius. Lives of the Sophists. Eunapius: Lives
of the Philosophers and Sophists, LCL 134, Cambridge 1921, 496). On Prohaeresius, see
E.J. Watts, City and School in Late Antique Athens and Alexandria, TCH 41, Berkeley 2006,
48–78.
64 H. Bowden, Mystery Cults in the Ancient World, London 2010; J.N. Bremmer, Initiation into
the Mysteries of the Ancient World, MVAW 1, Berlin 2014.
65 Pausanias (d. ca. 180) mentions eleven such shrines in Arcadia.
66 See R. Garland, Greek and Roman Priests and Religious Personnel, in: Oxford Research
Encyclopedia of Religion (2016), online, on priesthood in Roman culture.
18 Chapter 1

and Roman gentleman because of his careful grooming and punctilious con-
formity to ancient models.”67
Living bodies, thus, came to be canvassed in search of indicators of both
social and spiritual status, with Romans seeking signs of virtue (e.g., self-
control, beauty), divine election (e.g., birthmarks, beauty), initiation or reli-
gious office (e.g., markings, insignia, or particular looks). Because features that
characterised statuary – i.e., beauty, symmetry, size, and luminosity – ranked
high in the indicators of spiritual excellence, the reflex to address such living
persons with gestures meant for statues came naturally.
When he argued in the second century that Jesus of Nazareth’s body was
supposed to display his special relationship with the divine, the philosopher
Celsus did a rare thing for ancient sources: he took the time to state the obvi-
ous.68 This was possibly due to his wonderment at the Christians’ obvious error
in worshipping Jesus, for his body did not match this fundamental principle.
More than a century before Celsus, Paul’s audience in Corinth had raised simi-
lar concerns vis-à-vis the apostle. His critics denounced the contrast between
the spiritual authority claimed by Paul and his feeble appearance and unre-
fined rhetoric: “the letters indeed – said one – are weighty and strong, and the
bodily presence weak, and the speech despicable.”69 In response, Paul did not
challenge the principle underlying his critique, but argued that the presence
of Jesus manifested in the form of tribulations, rather than beauty, strength, or
eloquence.
Paul belonged to a particular category of religious overachiever, namely that
of the “chosen vessels.”70 Rather than enriching their public personae with
piety towards one god or another, such individuals subjected their identities
to their gods. As such, they became living instruments of these deities. In the
words of Paul, “I no longer live, and Christ lives in me.”71 Such “chosen ves-
sels” made their bodies vehicles through which the gods moved on earth and
mingled with humans, as several cults and philosophical schools of the time

67 P. Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, London 1971, 53.

68 See above, p. xxix n. 14.
69 2 Cor 10:10 ὅτι Αἱ ἐπιστολαὶ μέν, φησίν, βαρεῖαι καὶ ἰσχυραί, ἡ δὲ παρουσία τοῦ σώματος ἀσθενὴς
καὶ ὁ λόγος ἐξουθενημένος.
70 Acts 9:15 “… a choice vessel to me is this one [Paul], to bear my name before nations and
kings …” / ὅτι σκεῦος ἐκλογῆς ἐστίν μοι οὗτος τοῦ βαστάσαι τὸ ὄνομά μου ἐνώπιον ἐθνῶν τε καὶ
βασιλέων υἱῶν τε Ἰσραήλ,
71 Gal 2:20 Χριστῷ συνεσταύρωμαι. ζῶ δὲ οὐκέτι ἐγώ, ζῇ δὲ ἐν ἐμοὶ Χριστός. On Paul as “the
body of Christ”, see A. Segal, Some Observations about Paul and Intermediaries, in: PSCO
Minutes February 4 (1988), online.
Setting the Stage 19

claimed regarding their own overachievers. This put them on a par with cult
statues.
Thus, as the human potential to mingle with the divine became accepted,
the various ways to obtain this status generated myriad iconic types. Emperors
embodied the Homeric notion of divinisation, with them claiming divinity on
account of their godlike authority and heroic feats.72 Those who excelled in
areas associated with the patronage of a certain deity were identified with the
respective gods’ statues. Philosophers and patricians who practiced virtuous
living embodied a more generic notion of iconicity, which was now ascribed
also to the great philosophers of the past, in primis Plato. Finally, those who
subjected their lives to a specific deity became living vessels of their power.
Because they fulfilled similar functions – that is, providing anthropomorphic
containers and images of the divine – the radical expressions of this anthropo-
logical model came to compete with cult statues.

1.3 Knowing the Gods: From Cult Statues to Iconic Persons

Romans shared both public and private spaces with a population of statues.73
(see Fig. 13) These were used to preserve the image and reproduce the physi-
cal presence of the deceased; to honour the living; and to flesh out the pres-
ence of the divine.74 Thus, statues brought together the living, the dead, and
the gods within a single, anthropomorphic community.75 Depending on the
context and function of the statue, the ways in which people interacted with
it differed. Since what interests us here is the human capacity to function as
a cult statue, I will focus on this category. What I refer to as ‘cult statues’ were
typically anthropomorphic images credited with the capacity to enclose, but
not restrict, the presence of the god they represented.76 Some of the statues in
this category were also thought to showcase the actual image of the god and

72 See below, Chapter 2.

73 P. Stewart, Statues in Roman Society. Representation and Response, Oxford 2003, 118.
74 Hölscher, 2018, 10.
75 Not all statues of the gods were anthropomorphic, but in general they followed the
human form.
76 On cult statues, see C. Malamoud / J.-P. Vernant (eds.), Corps des dieux, Paris 1986;
A.A. Donohue, Xoana and the Origins of Greek Sculpture, ACS 15, Atlanta 1988; T. Scheer,
Die Gottheit und ihr Bild: Untersuchungen zur Funktion griechischer Kultbilder in Religion
und Politik, Munich 2000; D.T. Steiner, Images in Mind: Statues in Archaic and Classical
Greek Thought, Princeton 2001; J. Mylonopoulos (ed.), Divine Images and Human
Imaginations in Ancient Greece and Rome, RGRW 170, Leiden 2010.
20 Chapter 1

discharge its power.77 Such artefacts were at the core of the most important
collective religious practices.
Although the divine was thought to be present on Earth in various forms,
its more ancient manifestations were found in temples that hosted statues.78
Inside towns, temples were the focus of public rituals that gathered the local
population, as specialised or temporary personnel sacrificed animals to assure
the deity’s benevolence towards the community.79 Outside towns, sanctu-
aries tended to specialise in the fulfilling of specific functions (e.g., healing,
prophecy).80 Some temples allowed people to see and touch the statue, others
restricted access to those who sacrificed specific animals or performed puri-
fication rituals, while others let only members of the cultic personnel see the
god. Romans could also interact with cult statues in less complex settings.81
Roman houses often had areas dedicated to cultic actions, where simple
shrines (lararia) hosted statuettes and painted images of the household gods
(lares), as well as of deities toward which the pater familias had piety.82 Thus,
one could create their own pantheon by combining old, new, local, or foreign
gods, as well as divinised humans.83 Statues of the gods were also found in
simple shrines set up in nature, which signalled the belief in the place’s inhabi-
tation by a god. (see Fig. 40) Nevertheless, a statue did not have to be located
in a space dedicated to ritual to be recognised as an instrument of the divine.

77 Scheer, 2000; P. Eich, Gottesbild und Wahrnehmung: Studien zu Ambivalenzen früher

griechischer Götterdarstellungen (ca. 800 v.Chr.–ca. 400 v.Chr.), Stuttgart 2011; V.J. Platt,
Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-Roman Art, Literature and
Religion, Cambridge 2011.
78 On temples, see H. von Hesberg, Temples and Temple Interiors, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.),
A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, Hoboken 2015, 320–333,
with bibl.
79 T. Luginbühl, Ritual Activities, Processions and Pilgrimages, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.), A
Companion to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, Oxford 2015, 41–59, with
bibl.
80 R. Raja, The Archaeology of Ancient Sanctuaries, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.), A Companion
to the Archaeology of Religion in the Ancient World, Oxford 2015, 29–40, with bibl.
81 In recent years, there has been a sustained interest in ‘lived religion’, with an important
number of publications showing the various ways in which Romans performed their
faith. See, e.g., V. Gasparini / M. Patzelt / R. Raja / A.-K. Rieger / J. Rüpke / E. Urciuoli (eds.),
Lived Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean World: Approaching Religious Transformations
from Archaeology, History and Classics, Berlin 2020.
82 K. Bowes, At Home, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.), A Companion to the Archaeology of Religion
in the Ancient World, Oxford 2015, 209–219, with bibl.
83 Hist. Aug.: Alexander Severus 29.2–3 (D. Magie [ed. / trans.], Historia Augusta, Vol. 2:
Caracalla. Geta. Opellius Macrinus. Diadumenianus. Elagabalus. Severus Alexander. The
Two Maximini. The Three Gordians. Maximus and Balbinus, LCL 140, Cambridge 1993,
234).
Setting the Stage 21

In fact, several statues of gods or divinised humans found in public and pri-
vate spaces were credited with divine agency. Thus, the notion of cult statue
was not restricted to the large objects found in temples, although it is safe to
assume that they were the model for the others, on account of being the older
and more prominent formula. This flexibility in recognising an image as a cult
statue is reflected in the terminology, which allowed Romans to apply the terms
typically used for cult statues to other types of images (and to humans).84
The human form had been used in the Archaic period (ca. 700–ca. 500
BCE) to render approachable the dangerous phenomena the first gods rep-
resented, and continued to be used for ‘softer’ personifications of the divine,
such as virtues or abstract notions like ‘peace’ and ‘abundance.’85 The statues’
anthropomorphism invited interaction inspired by inter-human relations,
such as washing, feeding, dressing, speaking to, caressing, kissing, and even
intercourse.86 Through physical proximity, touch, or by looking at cult statues,
Romans interacted with the divine. Despite objections raised by some of the
better educated Greeks and Romans, who were bothered by the ways in which
the materiality and shape of the statues tended to trivialise interaction with
the divine, statues continued to be used as a mediator between the human and
the divine, thus attesting to Romans being “eager in every possible way to be
with them and to hold converse with them.”87 (see Fig. 6)

84 Both Greek and Latin had several terms for images. The terms typically used for cult
statues were agalma and xoanon (Greek) and simulacrum and signum (Latin). On the
terminology, see J.-P. Vernant, Figures, idoles, masques, Paris 1990; Stewart, 2003, 20–35;
S. Estienne, Simulacra deorum versus ornamenta aedium: The Status of Divine Images in
the Temples of Rome, in: Mylonopoulos (ed.), 2010, 257–271.
85 On this process, see R.L. Gordon, The Real and the Imaginary: Production and Religion in
the Graeco-Roman World, in: AH 2 (1979), 5–34; E.-J. Graham, Reassembling Religion in
Roman Italy, Abingdon 2020, 149–153.
86 On the treatment of statues as persons, see Lucr., r.n. 1.316–318 (W.H.D. Rouse / M.F. Smith
[ed. / trans.], Lucretius. On the Nature of Things, LCL 181, Cambridge 1959, 24); P. Weddle,
Touching the Gods: Physical Interaction with Cult Statues in the Roman World, PhD
diss., Durham 2010; E.E. Perry, Human Interactions with Statues, in: E.A. Friedland /
M. Grunow Sobocinski / E.K. Gazda (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Roman Sculpture,
Oxford 2015, 653–666; P. Kiernan, Roman Cult Images: The Lives and Worship of Idols from
the Iron Age to Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2020.
87 D. Chr., o. 12.53 (J.W. Cohoon [ed. / trans.], Dio Chrysostom, Discourses 12–30, LCL 339,
Cambridge 1939, 64–65) οὕτω καὶ θεοῖς ἄνθρωποι ἀγαπῶντες δικαίως διά τε εὐεργεσίαν καὶ
συγγένειαν, προθυμούμενοι πάντα τρόπον συνεῖναί τε καὶ ὁμιλεῖν.; D. Freedberg, The Power of
Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response, Chicago 1989, 188–190. On objec-
tions, see J. Geffcken, Der Bilderstreit des heidnischen. Altertums, in: AR 19 (1916/1919),
286–315; C. Ando, The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire, Berkeley 2009.
22 Chapter 1

Figure 6 Relief showing man feeding grapes(?) to a herm statue. Terracotta, 1st century,
Italy. Musée du Louvre, Département des Antiquités grecques, étrusques et
romaines (inv. no. Cp 4038) (https://collections.louvre.fr/ark:/53355/cl010288169)

Whether in complex or simple settings, the moment of interaction was pre-

pared through architectural setting, decoration, lighting, and ritual actions; all
of which imbued the artefact with agency. Reflective materials were preferred
due to their capacity to reproduce the luminosity associated with divine mani-
festations. At temples, such materials allowed the cultic personnel to animate
the statue by displaying it in the penumbra of the cella and in combination
with controlled sources of natural and artificial light that bounced off the stat-
ue’s surface.88 Although the power and preciousness of cult statues cannot be
related in absolute terms because some of the oldest and most revered statues
of the Graeco-Roman world were non-anthropomorphic pieces of stone or
wood, in general, the materiality and workmanship contributed to the power

88 On the interior of temples, see Von Hesberg, 2015, with bibl. On ‘ritual viewing’ and how it
affected the perception of the artefacts, see J. Elsner, Roman Eyes. Visuality and Subjectivity
in Art and Text, Princeton 2007.
Setting the Stage 23

of the statue.89 Several other artifices were used in specific settings to make the
statues appear alive by making them levitate, speak, or move. Thanks to these
strategies, by the time Romans recognised the human potential to embody the
divine, statues were established as a distinct ontological category. A statue’s
agency differed from one case to another and, likely, from one onlooker to the
next.90
To reflect the perfection of the gods, their statues depicted them with ide-
alised human bodies. This, as we have seen, allowed for beautiful people to be
mistaken for embodiments of the divine. Written sources show how through-
out Roman history, those who wished to compliment the beauty of rulers or
lovers likened them to statues of the gods.91 Thus, the splendour of monarchs
and beauty of private people kept statues of the gods and living humans in
close vicinity, inviting the transfer of attributes from one media to another.
Around the turn of the millennium, the capacity of living bodies to function as
cult statues turned from a rhetorical artifice into a reality.
Physical characteristics that had been given to the gods in their statues – e.g.,
beauty, stature, symmetry of features, and luminosity – came to be sought in
humans who claimed or were suspected of toeing the line between the human
and divine. With these features also came the gestures traditionally used for
statues, as we have seen in the cases of Prohaeresius, Psyche, and Callirhoe.
Because the notion that humans can become images of the divine developed
at different rates in the various cultural areas of the Roman world, we find

89 See the hierarchy in Lucianus (d. ca. 180), Z.t. 7–12 (A.M. Harmon [ed. / trans.], Lucian.
Vol. 2: The Downward Journey or The Tyrant. Zeus Catechized. Zeus Rants. The Dream or The
Cock. Prometheus. Icaromenippus or The Sky-man. Timon or The Misanthrope. Charon or
The Inspectors. Philosophies for Sale, LCL 54, Cambridge 1915). On non-anthropomorphic
xoana, see A.A. Donohue, Xoana and the Origins of Greek Sculpture, ACS 15, Atlanta 1988.
90 On the agency of statues, see R. Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean
World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine, London 1986, 102–105;
H. Belting, Bild und Kult: Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem. Zeitalter der Kunst, Munich
1990; P. Chuvin, Chronique des derniers païens. La disparition du paganisme dans l’Empire
romain, du règne de Constantin â celui de Justinian, Paris 1990, 246; G.L. Hersey, Falling in
Love with Statues: Artificial Humans from Pygmalion to the Present, Chicago 2009; Stewart,
2003; id., Gell’s Idols and Roman Cult, in: R. Osborne / J. Tanner (eds.), Art’s Agency and Art
History, Oxford 2007, 158–178; J.N. Bremmer, The Agency of Greek and Roman Statues from
Homer to Constantine, in: Opuscula 6 (2013), 7–21; J. Rüpke, Representations or Presence?
Picturing the Divine in Ancient Rome, in: ARelG 12 (2010), 181–196.
91 E.g., Lucianus, im. 1–8 (A.M. Harmon [ed. / trans.], Lucian. Vol. 4: Anacharsis or Athletics.
Menippus or The Descent into Hades. On Funerals. A Professor of Public Speaking. Alexander
the False Prophet. Essays in Portraiture. Essays in Portraiture Defended. The Goddesse of
Surrye, LCL 162, Cambridge 1925, 256–270), where the author likens the lover of Emperor
Lucius Verus (r. 161–169) with several famous statues. On the practice, see Francis, 2006.
24 Chapter 1

organic and staged forms of iconic living coexisting. The former were repre-
sented by contexts who were developing the concept ex novo, as we have seen
in the case of Cicero and Stoicism, for example. The latter involved staging
iconicity by using the experience of contexts who had developed the concept
earlier. This book focuses on the latter scenario, which is better documented by
extant sources and easier to reconstruct, but we must keep in mind that such
mises-en-scène would not have been successful if the concept they embodied
had not been popular among their audiences.
Thus, the successful impersonation of the divine by emperors, martyrs, ini-
tiates, bishops, and ascetics – the categories we will focus on – is rooted in the
popularity of the anthropological model they embodied. During the first three
centuries, Romans witnessed several types of individuals who claimed to func-
tion as living containers and images of the divine. While those in the capital
had the privilege of seeing the emperor, other communities interacted with
religious specialists who accustomed them with the idea that a human could
function as an image of the divine. As we will now see, these had various ways
of claiming to represent their gods.
Reliefs from a third-century tomb in the necropolis of Isola Sacra at Ostia
depict a priest of the goddess Cybele.92 (see Fig. 7) The man is shown wearing a
large bracelet decorated with the image of the goddess that covers most of his
right forearm. Bust images of the goddess and of her divine consort, Attis, are
featured also on the crown of the tomb-owner.93 Our priest represents a popu-
lar category, namely Romans who enriched their identities through the service
of a deity. In his case, this is indicated by the combination of the toga with
the symbols of his priesthood. Both honorary and de facto priesthoods and
other clerical functions were used in early imperial society as a source of social
prestige. Even Petronius (ca. 27–66) had Trimalchio – his imagined parvenu –
mention in his epitaph a priesthood in the imperial cult.94 In a social context
where, as put by Diane Favro, “to be, was to be seen,” the right to distinctive
garb and to impressive insignia such as our priest’s crown and bracelet con-
stituted important social advantages.95 The practice caught such momentum

92 On the reliefs, see A. Klöckner, Tertium genus? Representations of Religious Practitioners in

the Cult of Magna Mater, in: R.L. Gordon / G. Petridou / J. Rüpke (eds.), Beyond Priesthood:
Religious Entrepreneurs and Innovators in the Roman Empire, Berlin 2017, 343–384.
93 Such a gold-plated bronze crown, dated ca. 300, was found in Latium and is now in the
Antikensammlung der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin (inv. no. 8169).
94 Petron., s. 71.12 (M. Heseltine [ed. / trans.], Petronius. Satyricon, LCL 15, London 1925, 140).
95 D. Favro, The Festive Experience: Roman Processions in the Urban Context, in:
S. Bonnemaison / C. Macy (eds.), Festival Architecture, London 2008, 10–42 (14). On the
look of priests in the period, see S. Schrenk / K. Vössing / A. Wieczorek / M. Tellenbach
Setting the Stage 25

Figure 7 Funerary relief of high priest (archigallus) of Cybele shown sacrificing to the
goddess. Marble, 0,62 x 0,40 m, 3rd century, from the Isola Sacra necropolis, Ostia.
Museo Archeologico, Ostia. (Photo: Sailko – Wikipedia, CC BY 3.0)
26 Chapter 1

that buyable priesthoods became a common phenomenon, forcing the state to

intervene and regulate the practice.96
We can safely assume that most Romans who took up clerical functions
adopted this type of relationship, in which the religious office was part of
their public persona rather than the totality of it. This allowed them to dis-
play themselves with insignia that “make the god sacramentally present in
the priest who wears it.”97 Some of these religious specialists literally “put on”
their gods during ritual celebrations. A first-century fresco from Herculaneum
shows a man wearing what appears to be a mask of the Egyptian god Bes.98
(see Fig. 8) Standing at the top of a flight of stairs, in the monumental entrance
to a sanctuary, the man performs a dance, a part of a ritual identified as Isiac.
Around him are men and women depicted in various stances. Kneeling and
extending their hands in supplication, the figures seem to recognise the priest
as a surrogate for the god; or, rather, the purpose of the fresco was to establish
the performer as the god’s embodiment.99
A similar but better documented case is that of the anubophoroi; Isiac cler-
ics who impersonated the dog-headed god Anubis. Depictions and extant
masks teach us how these persons “put on” the god.100 In a scene stamped on
a terracotta vase, the anobophoros leads a procession whose focus is a priest
standing on a decorated chariot, holding what appears to be the symbol, cult

(eds.), Kleidung und Identität in religiösen Kontexten der römischen Kaiserzeit, Regensburg
2012. On regulating the look of priests during processions, see E. Stavrianopoulou, The
Archaeology of Processions, in: R. Raja / J. Rüpke (eds.), A Companion to the Archaeology of
Religion in the Ancient World, Hoboken 2015, 349–361 (357).
96 C.P. Jones, Processional Color, in: Bergmann / Kondoleon (eds.), 1999, 247–257 (248–249).
97 A. Brent, Ignatius of Antioch. A Martyr Bishop and the Origin of Episcopacy, London
2007, 75.
98 R.K. Ritner, Osiris-Canopus and Bes at Herculaneum, in: R. Jasnow / K.M. Cooney (eds.),
Joyful in Thebes: Egyptological Studies in Honor of Betsy M. Bryan, Atlanta 2015, 401–406;
E.M. Moormann, Ministers of Isiac Cults in Roman Wall Painting, in: Gasparini / Veymiers
(eds.), 2018, 366–383 (367–371), with discussion of previous interpretations.
99 On dancers/actors who imitated the gods during initiations, see N. Deshours, Les Mystères
d’Andania. Étude d’épigraphie et d’histoire religieuse, Bordeaux 2006, 135–136; A. Chaniotis,
Θεατρικότητα καὶ δημόσιος βίος στὸν ἑλληνιστικὸ κόσμο, Iraklion 2009, 34. On priests imper-
sonating gods for initiates, see Paus., Hell. pell. 8.15.3 (W.H.S. Jones [ed.], Pausanias.
Description of Greece. Vol. 3: Books 6–8.21 (Elis 2, Achaia, Arcadia), LCL 272, Cambridge
1933, 420); P. Martzavou, Isis Aretalogies, Initiations and Emotions: The Isis Aretalogies as
a Source for the Study of Emotions, in: A. Chaniotis (ed.), Unveiling Emotions: Sources and
Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World, Stuttgart 2012, 267–291 (279).
100 V. Gasparini, Negotiating the Body: Between Religious Investment and Narratological
Strategies. Paulina, Decius Mundus and the Priests of Anubis, in: R.L. Gordon / G. Petridou /
J. Rüpke (eds.), Beyond Priesthood. Religious Entrepreneurs and Innovators in the Roman
Empire, Berlin 2017, 385–416 gathers the evidence.
Setting the Stage 27

Figure 8 Masked priest performs a dance under the monumental threshold of a sacred
precinct. Fresco, 1st century, Herculaneum. Museo Archeologico Nazionale,
Napoli (inv. 8919). (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici, su concessione del Ministero della
Cultura - Museo Archeologico di Napoli)

vessel, or image of Isis. In this instance, the function of the anubophoros seems
to have been to draw attention to the group through his exotic appearance.101
Those whom I called “chosen vessels” embodied this iconic state perma-
nently, rather than for specific rituals. A third-century bust from Rome shows
a follower of the Syrian goddess Atargatis.102 (see Fig. 9) The man’s feminine
garb, jewellery, long hair, and hairless face emphasise his status as a eunuch.
The main jewellery piece, a large medallion with the bust image of Atargatis,

101 For such Inszenierungen in the cult of Isis, see V. Gasparini / Richard Veymiers (eds.),
Individuals and Materials in the Greco-Roman Cults of Isis, 2 vols., RGRW 187, Leiden 2018.
102 On the portrait, see Klöckner, 2017.
28 Chapter 1

Figure 9 Bust portrait of follower of Atargatis. Marble, 0,48 × 0,45 m, 3rd century, unknown
provenance. Roma, Musei Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini (inv. S 2971)
(Photo: © Roma, Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali)

hangs from a thick torque with lion heads. The goddess wears a mural crown
and a round medallion. A flying putto points to the goddess’s medallion, thus
drawing attention to it. Thanks to the medallions they wear, the man and the
goddess are placed in a mise-en-abîme dynamic that establishes the priest as
an image of the goddess. Through physical alterations, garments, and insig-
nia, the priest had been “conformed to the image” of his god, as Paul claimed
the apostles of Christ had been through divine intervention.103 The radical

103 Rom 8:29 συμμόρφους τῆς εἰκόνος τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ. See also 2 Cor 3:18, on the followers of
Christ. See V. Rabens, Pneuma and the Beholding of God: Reading Paul in the Context of
Philonic Mystical Traditions, in: J. Frey / J.R. Levison (eds.), The Holy Spirit, Inspiration, and
Setting the Stage 29

physical transformation drew attention to the person and attested to the god-
dess’s power.104
By renouncing all elements that signalled individual identity – e.g., gender,
garments, jewellery, and behaviour – such persons could now state, as Paul
did, that they no longer live and it is their god who lives through them.105 Their
bodies, therefore, functioned like cult statues because they became anthropo-
morphic images of their gods. The relationship these “chosen vessels” had with
the images of their gods fuelled the analogy further. Typically, such individuals
displayed the deity’s image in prominent fashion.
Dated to the late second century, the statue of a worshipper of Cybele now
hidden in the deposits of the Capitoline Museums in Rome depicts the person
carrying a large plaque across his chest.106 On the plaque, two standing males
flank Cybele, shown under the reclining figure of Attis. Such objects survive in
important numbers and depict eastern deities like Cybele or Mithras.107 The
plaque does not adorn the person as a piece of jewellery would, but rather
makes its carrier look like the human billboards from modern U.S. cities.
The Roman poet Martial (ca. 40–ca. 102) helps us complete the picture by
describing the busy streets of early imperial Rome like an ancient Manhattan,
where the human advertisement of Cybele fits right in: “On this side the
money-changer idly rattles on his dirty table Nero’s coins, on that the ham-
merer of Spanish gold-dust beats his well-worn stone with burnished mallet;
and Bellona’s [scil. a deity with self-immolating followers] raving throng does
not rest …”108 Unfortunately, the statue’s head was lost, making it impossible
to assess the relationship between the person’s physiognomy and that of his

the Cultures of Antiquity: Multidisciplinary Perspectives, Berlin 2014, 293–330 on these pas-
sages and their meaning.
104 Klöckner, 2017, 361 and J.A. Latham, Roman Rhetoric, Metroac Representation: Texts,
Artifacts, and the Cult of Magna Mater in Rome and Ostia, in: MAAR 59 (2014/2015), 51–80
pointed out that the purpose was not to cancel the initial gender, but rather to draw
attention to the transformation. On the reification of living and dead human bodies and
on bodily modifications in general, see Y. Hamilakis / M. Pluciennik / S. Tarlow (eds.),
Thinking Through the Body: Archaeologies of Corporeality, London 2002.
105 Gal 2:20, quoted above, p. 18 n. 71.
106 Musei Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini, Rome (inv. MC 3047). On the statue, see
Latham, 2014/2015; Klöckner, 2017.
107 On the plaques, see E.D. Reeder, The Mother of the Gods and a Hellenistic Bronze Matrix,
in: AJA 91 (1987), 423–440.
108 Mart., epig. 12.57.7–11 (W.C.A. Ker [ed. / trans.], Martial. Epigrams. Vol 2, LCL 95, London
1920, 358–359) hinc otiosus sordidam quatit merisam Neroniana nummularius massa, illinc
paucis malleator Hispaniae tritum nitenti fuste verberat saxum; nec turba cessat entheata
Bellonae.
30 Chapter 1

goddess, but his feminine garb points to a dynamic of identification similar to

that found in other contemporary representations.
Such odd appearances were likely a means to strike-up a conversation and
to introduce their gods, as well as to show their devotion and attest to the
power of the deity who could convince humans to renounce worldly desider-
ates and dedicate their lives to them. In addition, the prominent display of the
deity’s image and the peculiar looks of the priests could have established a
visual analogy between the person and the deity.
Some found solutions that did not require bodily alterations and combined
the functions with the aesthetic of statuary. Alexander of Abonouteichus
(d. ca 170), the founder of the cult of the serpent god Glykon, staged reveals of
one of his thighs – which was painted golden – and had his lover impersonate
the moon goddess and descend during a ritual to kiss him.109 The intimate
interaction with the goddess attested to Alexander’s quasi-divine status and
his gilded thigh established his iconicity.
Thus, we find in early imperial society clerics who made themselves into
ambulant bearers of their deity’s image; clerics who brought their gods to life
with the use of masks during rituals; and clerics who claimed for themselves
the status of image of their gods. In all instances, analogies with cult statues
enabled them to construct themselves as living images of their gods. The
instrumental role played by cult statues within this phenomenon is confirmed
by the fact that, as we will see in Chapter 3, even the image of Christian martyrs
was eventually adapted to fit the splendid, luminous model of the golden cult
statue. Paul’s image, too, was retouched to fit this model. In the last years of the
second century, a presbyter offered Christians the Paul they wanted by rewrit-
ing his vita to give him the typical attributes of iconic persons.110 In these imag-
ined Acta, Paul’s presence exerts a type of hypnotic effect that other iconic
figures of the time were credited with stimulating. Furthermore, the Moses-like
luminosity desired by the Corinthians was now ascribed to the Apostle, whose
face was said to glow like that of an angel. The text became an immediate best-
seller, which attests to contemporary Christians longing for spiritual leaders
whose bodies translated their power in the usual ways mentioned by Celsus,

109 Lucianus, Alex. 39–40 (A.M. Harmon [ed. / trans.], Lucian. Vol. 5: The Passing of Peregrinus.
The Runaways. Toxaris or Friendship. The Dance. Lexiphanes. The Eunuch. Astrology.
The Mistaken Critic. The Parliament of the Gods. The Tyrannicide. Disowned, LCL 302,
Cambridge 1936, 224–227).
110 A. Paul. (C. Schmidt [ed.], Acta Pauli aus der Heidelberger koptischen Papyrushandschrift
Nr. 1, Leipzig 1904). On the text, see J. Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thecla: A Critical
Introduction and Commentary, WUNT 2.270, Tübingen 2009.
Setting the Stage 31

just as their first-century predecessors did. This resilience of the splendid

iconic model during the golden age of Christian martyrs – which seemed to
confirm the opposing, suffering model proposed by Paul – attests to its popu-
larity in Roman society of the time.
The credibility of such living persons as images of the divine was likely
increased by other types of ‘living statues’ that Romans could enjoy. The grow-
ing popularity of theatrical spectacles caused impersonations of the gods to
become very common.111 In addition, new ways of staging myths were intro-
duced. Among these were the so-called “fatal charades,” that is performances
in which déclassés were made to interpret famous moments that ended in the
protagonists’ deaths.112 Death instilled meaning in the impersonations, with
the result that the spectacles actively blurred the lines between myth and
reality.113
Pantomime, a new type of danced theatrical performance that had a single
actor silently impersonate the characters of a play, proposed yet another type
of ‘living statues.’114 An ode to the body’s expressive potential, pantomime
owed its allure, I believe, to the actors’ capacity to escape the constraints of
physiognomy. Their ability to quickly slip from one character into another
transgressed the law underlying social interaction and rendered them fasci-
nating to people whose lives were, in a sense, ruled by their physiognomies.
In texts of the time, pantomimes were praised for their capacity to “animate

111 On spectacles, see B. Bergmann / C. Kondoleon (eds.), The Art of Ancient Spectacle, New
Haven 1999, with bibl.
112 On fatal charades, see Plu., s.n.v. 9 cf. Mor. 554B (P.H. De Lacy / B. Einarson [eds. / trans.],
Plutarch. Moralia. Vol. 7: On Love of Wealth. On Compliancy. On Envy and Hate. On Praising
Oneself Inoffensively. On the Delays of the Divine Vengeance. On Fate. On the Sign of
Socrates. On Exile. Consolation to His Wife, LCL 405, Cambridge 1959, 216); K. Coleman,
Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments, in: JRS 80 (1990),
44–73; T. Wiedemann, Emperors and Gladiators, London 1992, 86–89; D.G. Kyle, Spectacles
of Death in Ancient Rome, New York 1998, 53–55.
113 B. Bergmann, Introduction, in: Bergmann / Kondoleon (eds.), 1999, 9–35 (20); A. Bell,
Spectacular Power in the Greek and Roman City, Oxford 2004, 174. See P. Zanker, Roman
Art, Los Angeles 2010, 82, on the games’ capacity to make fantasy real.
114 On pantomime, see Tac., ann. 1.77.4 (C.H. Moore / J. Jackson [eds. / trans.], Tacitus.
Histories: Books 4–5. Annals: Books 1–3, LCL 249, Cambridge 1931); R. Webb, Rhetorical and
Theatrical Fictions in Choricius, in: S.F. Johnson (ed.), Greek Literature in Late Antiquity:
Dynamism, Didacticism, Classicism, Aldershot 2006, 107–126; ead., Demons and Dancers:
Performance in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2008; M.-H. Garelli, Danser le mythe. La panto-
mime et sa réception dans la culture antique, Louvain 2007; E. Hall / R. Wyles (eds.), New
Directions in Ancient Pantomime, Oxford 2008; E. Hall, Pantomime: Visualising Myth in the
Roman Empire, in: G. Harrison / V. Liaps (eds.), Performance in Greek and Roman Theatre,
Leiden 2013, 451–473.
32 Chapter 1

statues,” possibly on account of their silence, which provided the illusion that
a statue had come to life when they played a character the audience knew from
art.115
Finally, gladiators and a new type of cavalry corps, the cataphractarii, accus-
tomed Romans to seeing statue-like people perform in their arenas and parade
their streets. Completely covered in metallic armours with gilded elements
that likened them to the statues of the gods, certain types of gladiators and
cataphracts created yet another intermediary category that bridged living per-
sons with statues.116
In the following chapters, I discuss the iconicity of a select number of
instances. Each owed its iconic quality to different circumstances, but they all
emerged out of this late Republican/early Imperial culture of self-presentation
that produced carefully orchestrated public personae, as well as imperson-
ations that imitated the aesthetic and borrowed the subjects of statuary. Belief
in the correspondence between character and body was essential for this phe-
nomenon. After all, the gods had manifested through living persons through-
out Antiquity. Oracles and prophets allowed the divine to flow into the human
world without their bodies being transformed by it.117 On the contrary, in the
first six centuries CE, a characteristic of the phenomenon is the insistence on
the transformative effect that cohabitation with a divine spirit or a deified soul
had on bodies. As a result, the ideal human became one who embodied, dis-
played, and performed the divine for others to see and interact with. Jesus was
said by John to reproduce the things he had seen God the Father do and to have
functioned as the Father’s image.118 Similarly, Philo of Alexandria (d. ca. 50)
argued that Moses “beheld what is hidden from the sight of mortal nature, and,
in himself and his life displayed for all to see, he has set before us, like some

115 Lib., or. 64.116–120 (R. Foerster [ed.], Libanii Opera, Vol. 4: Orationes LI–LXIV, Leipzig
1908, 495–498); Lucianus, salt. 35 (Harmon [ed.], 1936, 246); Webb, 2008, 69–70.77;
I. Lada-Richards, Mythôn eikôn: Pantomime Dancing and the Figurative Arts in Imperial
and Late Antiquity, in: Arion 12 (2004), 111–140.
116 On such armours, see Hist. Aug.: Pertinax 8.1–5 (D. Magie [ed. / trans.], Historia Augusta,
Vol. 1: Hadrian. Aelius. Antoninus Pius. Marcus Aurelius. L. Verus. Avidius Cassius.
Commodus. Pertinax. Didius Julianus. Septimius Severus. Pescennius Niger. Clodius Albinus,
LCL 139, Cambridge 1921, 330); Wiedemann, 1992, 14.
117 Plu., P.or. 398AB (S. Schröder [ed.], Plutarchs Schrift De Pythiae oraculis: Text, Einleitung
und Kommentar, Berlin 2015, 87) on the oracle of Apollo at Delphi being a monthly incar-
nation of the god in a mortal body.
118 John 5:19, 12:45, and 14:9.
Setting the Stage 33

well-wrought picture, an artefact beautiful and godlike, a model for those who
are willing to copy it.”119
Written in the period when Emperor Caligula (r. 37–41) attempted to install
his statue in the Temple in Jerusalem, Philo’s text avoids nominating stat-
ues as the type of artefact embodied by Moses. A generation later, Plutarch
(ca. 46–ca. 120), did not shy away from the analogy and argued that “the ruler
is the image of God who orders all things. Such a ruler needs no Pheidias nor
Polycleitus nor Myron to model him, but by his virtue he forms himself in the
likeness of God and thus creates a statue most delightful for all to behold and
most worthy of divinity.”120

1.4 Conclusions

As this short overview showed, social interaction in Roman cities and towns
became increasingly theatrical during the first centuries, with the result that
public personae gained a staged, statue-like quality in a world where the divine
was rendered present and visible through various types of anthropomorphic
images, whether material or living. Actors and emperors adopted the look
of the gods; sages displayed their bodies as artefacts chiselled through virtu-
ous living; religious specialists showcased their gods’ images or symbols; and
religious overachievers sought corporeal conformation to their gods, whether
through an aesthetic of luminosity that referenced theophanies and gilded
statues or through physical alterations and suffering.
When the sources are considered together, it emerges that during the first
three centuries, Romans came to accept the idea that “heaven exists in their
very beings and each human is an example of God in a small-scale image.”121

119 Ph., v.M. 1.28.158 (F.H. Colson [ed. / trans.], Philo. On Abraham. On Joseph. On Moses,
LCL 289, Cambridge 1984, 358–359) καθάπερ τε γραφὴν εὖ δεδημιουργημένην ἑαυτὸν καὶ τὸν
ἑαυτοῦ βίον εἰς μέσον προαγαγὼν πάγκαλον καὶ θεοειδὲς ἔργον ἔστησε παράδειγμα τοῖς ἐθέ-
λουσι μιμεῖσθαι.
120 Plu., p.i. 3 cf. Mor. 780 (H.N. Fowler [ed. / trans.], Plutarch. Moralia, Vol. 10: Love Stories.
That a Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Men in Power. To an Uneducated Ruler.
Whether an Old Man Should Engage in Public Affairs. Precepts of Statecraft. On Monarchy,
Democracy, and Oligarchy. That We Ought Not to Borrow. Lives of the Ten Orators. Summary
of a Comparison Between Aristophanes and Menander, LCL 321, Cambridge 1960, 58–59)
ἄρχων δ’ εἰκὼν θεοῦ τοῦ πάντα κοσμοῦντος, οὐ Φειδίου δεόμενος πλάττοντος οὐδὲ Πολυκλείτου
καὶ Μύρωνος, ἀλλ’ αὐτὸς αὑτὸν εἰς ὁμοιότητα θεῷ δι’ ἀρετῆς καθιστὰς καὶ δημιουργῶν ἀγαλμά-
των τὸ ἥδιστον ὀφθῆναι καὶ θεοπρεπέστατον.
121 Man. (1st ct.), a. 4.893–895 (G.P. Goold [ed. / trans.], Manilius. Astronomica, LCL 469,
Cambridge 1977, 292–295, amended) quid mirum, noscere mundum si possunt homines,
quibus est et mundus in ipsis exemplumque dei quisque est in imagine parva?
34 Chapter 1

George van Kooten has shown that the Greek world underwent a similar pro-
cess during the Classical period, when “the notion of the image of God appears
to occur on a sliding scale from identification of this image with the ruler,
through identification with the wise and virtuous, to recognition, similar to
that in Jewish thought, that every human being is, in principle, an image of
God.”122
Having developed the concept earlier, societies and cults in the provinces
on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean offered several civic and reli-
gious strategies for expressing iconicity. Thus, Roman emperors adopted their
Hellenistic predecessors’ practice of “playing the god” during staged public
appearances, and cults from the east won adepts across the empire by offer-
ing iconic status to neophytes. One of these cults would gain prominence and
its notion of iconicity – or, rather, a hybrid variant resulted from its mingling
with other motifs – became the dominant one. Christianity appeared in a con-
text where Near Eastern, Hellenistic, and Roman notions regarding the iconic
potential of human bodies met and merged. By the time Jesus was born, var-
ious Jewish groups read the story of Adam’s creation “in the image” of God
in iconic terms. While some of these groups ascribed iconic status to bibli-
cal patriarchs or the High Priest of the Temple in Jerusalem, others sought to
attain the status themselves and become living images of YHWH’s glory.123 As
a divine being who took a human body and lived among humans, Jesus per-
tained to the phenomenon explored within this book.124 Early sources on Jesus
establish his iconicity in various ways. The moment of the Transfiguration
referenced luminous theophanies of gods in the Graeco-Roman and Ancient
Near Eastern traditions, as well as the iconic status of figures such as Moses. In
addition, by having Jesus claim that “whoever has seen me has seen the Father,”
Paul and John established his human form – rather than the transfigured one
revealed on Tabor – as the anthropomorphic image of God.125

122 Van Kooten, 2008, 96 cf. the notion found in Manilius, just quoted.
123 See Schüle, 2005; S.L. Herring, A ‘Transubstantiated’ Humanity: The Relationship Between
the Divine Image and the Presence of God in Gen. 1.26f, in: VT 58 (2008), 480–494; Orlov,
2022.
124 See B. Blackburn, Theios Anër and the Markan Miracle Traditions: A Critique of the Theios
Anër Concept as an Interpretative Background of the Miracle Traditions Used by Mark,
WUNT 40, Tübingen 1991, who despite placing unwarranted accent on the Jewish tradi-
tion, proves Jesus’ belonging to both the Hellenistic and the Jewish traditions of iconic
individuals.
125 John 14:9 ὁ ἑωρακὼς ἐμὲ ἑώρακεν τὸν πατέρα. cf. Col 1:15 ὅς ἐστιν εἰκὼν τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ἀορά-
του, πρωτότοκος πάσης κτίσεως / “who is the image of the invisible God, first-born of all
creation.”
Setting the Stage 35

In the following centuries, Christian leaders combined the passages in

Genesis that established Adam’s iconicity with those in the Gospels regarding
Jesus’s iconic status, Paul’s notion of “putting on” Christ, and other traditions
to promise similar status to those who joined the faith. Despite its conciseness,
the statement quoted in the opening of this book attests to this willingness to
interweave distinct traditions of iconic living by referring to humans as God’s
πλάσμα – the term Hesiod used to describe Pandora, whom the gods created as
a living statue – and God’s εἰκὼν, as in Genesis.126
In writing to the Christians in Rome to “put on” Christ, Paul used one of
his favourite rhetorical strategies, that is he borrowed a motif specific to the
community he addressed in order to support his argument. In this case, he
referenced the practice of embodying one’s god, with which those living in the
city of Rome during the rule of Nero (r. 54–68) had been familiarised by the
priests of various deities who roamed the streets of the capital, by actors, and
by emperors who, as we will see in the following chapter, “put on” the gods in
complex ways. The imperial case to which I will now turn represents the old-
est, most versatile, and visually consequential instance of this phenomenon.

126 Hes., Th. 570–584 (G.W. Most [ed.], Hesiod. Theogony. Works and Days. Testimonia, LCL 57,
Cambridge 2006, 48–50); J.A. Francis, Metal Maidens, Achilles’ Shield, and Pandora: The
Beginnings of “Ekphrasis”, in: AJP 130 (2009), 1–23.
 Chapter 2

Emperors

In the wake of the Battle of Ankara (1402), when the Ottoman ruler Bayezid I
(r. 1389–1402) was brought in shackles before Tamerlane (1336–1405), the latter
supposedly burst into laughter and pointed out that Allah has a great sense of
humour if he entrusted the fate of the world to such deformed men.1 Bayezid
was blind in one eye, while the Mongol was called “The Lame” due to his many
injuries. At that time, the Byzantine state was living its last years, yet its impe-
rial concept still set the rule, and since as early as the sixth century, corporeal
integrity had been a sine qua non requirement for acceding to the throne. The
strange requirement was related to the Byzantine emperor’s function as living
image of God. Since God was perfect, the ruler, too, had to be physically per-
fect in order to fulfil his function as the “living and moving statue of the King
above.”2
Byzantine rulers, thus, were iconic par excellence. This status was the result
of a process with roots in the Roman monarchy that preceded the Republic,
with debts to Hellenistic, Ancient Near Eastern, and Sassanian imperial ide-
ologies, but displayed in Christian guise. In the period between the reigns of
Octavian Augustus and Justin II, iconicity was a constant yet evolving feature
of rulers. Their carefully constructed iconicity first referenced Jupiter, then Sol
and, eventually, Christ. Despite changes in heavenly counterpart, the same
strategies were used to establish rulers as images of these gods.3

1 M.I. Ivanin, On the Art of War and the Conquests of the Mongol-Tatars and Central Asian
Peoples Under Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, St. Petersburg 1875, 315.
2 Michael Ital., l.b., writing to Manuel I Komnenos (r. 1143–1180) (P. Gautier [ed.], Michel Italikos:
Lettres et Discours, Paris 1972, 294; trans. P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos,
1143–1180, New York 1993, 437) Τοῦ δ’ ἄνω βασιλέως καὶ σὲ βασιλεύσαντος ἄγαλμα περινοστεῖς
ἐνταῦθα, βασιλεῦ, ἔμπνουν τε καὶ κινούμενον καὶ οὐκ οἶδα εἴ τις τούτῳ γέγονε τῶν ἐπὶ γῆς ὁμοιό-
τερος. On this aspect of Byzantine rulership, see G. Dagron, Empereur et prêtre. Étude sur le
“césaropapisme” byzantin, Paris 1996; M. Hatzaki, Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium:
Perceptions and Representations in Art and Text, New York 2009, esp. 52–58.
3 Imperial self-presentation is one of the most studied aspects of Roman culture. Expressed
through media ascribed in modern scholarship to diverse research fields, the imperial
image has been studied from several perspectives. Closest to my focus here are H.S. Versnel,
Triumphus. An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman-Triumph,
Leiden 1970, on Roman triumph; Bardill, 2012, on Constantine’s self-presentation; Bell, 2004,
who draws a parallel between the staging of one’s public self in fourth-century BCE Athens
and in Republican Rome; Alföldi, 1970, who analyses the imperial ‘look’; and M. Bergmann,
Die Strahlen der Herrscher. Theomorphes Herrscherbild und politische Symbolik im Hellenismus

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_003

38 Chapter 2

The divinity of Roman rulers is a phenomenon on whose many facets hun-

dreds of publications appeared in the last decades. These studies indicate that
imperial self-presentation functioned as a barometer and a catalyst of a grow-
ing tendency to credit living humans with an iconic potential. In what follows,
I first discuss the origin of the ruler’s divine status, then the main strategies
emperors used to construct themselves as iconic, before finally considering the
evolution of imperial iconicity in the context of a Christian empire.

2.1 Negotiating Divinity in Rome

The imperial case occupies a special place within the phenomenon we are
following here because rulers were the first credited with the ability to func-
tion as a living image of the divine. Developed both in ancient Mesopotamia
and Egypt, this concept of kingship reached the Greek world in the Hellenistic
period.4 Hellenistic rulers indulged in what Henk Versnel called “playing the
god,” with them using theatre props to adopt the outward appearance of cer-
tain gods and mimicking their behaviour in public ceremonies.5 Roman gen-
erals, governors, and emperors were introduced to this practice when they
conquered the lands on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean. Local com-
munities found it useful to praise their conquerors in the same terms, thus
nourishing a gusto that was difficult to resist.6 While Cicero claims to have

und in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Mainz 1998, on imperial associations to Sol. The relation-
ship between imperial representations, built space, and ritual in ancient Rome was studied
through the prism offered by concepts developed in sociology and anthropology. See the
summary by B.C. Ewald / C.F. Noreña (eds.), The Emperor and Rome: Space, Representation,
and Ritual, YCS 35, Cambridge 2010, with bibl. How imperial self-presentation changed in
the fourth century, partly due to Christian influence, is discussed in Miller, The Corporeal,
2009; ead., On the Edge, 2009; H.A. Drake, Topographies of Power in the City, in: C. Rapp /
H.A. Drake (eds.), The Classical and Post-Classical World: Changing Contexts of Power and
Identity, New York 2014, 217–239.
4 N. Brisch (ed.), Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World and Beyond, OIS 4,
Chicago 2008.
5 H.S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology, RGRW 173, Leiden
2011, 439–492 cf. A. Chaniotis, The Divinity of Hellenistic Rulers, in: A. Erskine (ed.), A
Companion to the Hellenistic World, Oxford 2003, 431–445. On the strategies that were used,
see, e.g., Alföldi, 1970; R.R.R. Smith, Hellenistic Royal Portraits, Oxford 1988; D. Svenson,
Darstellungen hellenistischer Könige mit Götterattributen, Frankfurt 1995; H. von Hesberg, The
King on Stage, in: Bergmann / Kondoleon (eds.), 1999, 65–75; Bell, 2004, 114–151; C.H. Hallett,
The Roman Nude: Heroic Portrait Statuary 200 B.C.–A.D. 300, Oxford 2005, 57; Bardill, 2012.
6 Several statues of Emperor Claudius (r. 41–54) in the guise of Zeus survived, which seem to
have been dedicated to him while alive. See Hallett, 2005, 168–172.
Emperors 39

rejected such offerings while acting as governor of Cilicia in Asia Minor, his
predecessor Appius Claudius Pulcher took pride in having a temple dedicated
to him and pressured Cicero to supervise its completion.7
Future Emperor Vespasian’s experience in Egypt exemplifies how the notion
of divine kingship present in the eastern provinces contributed to the image of
Roman emperors.8 During his visit of Alexandria, two men asked him to heal
their infirmities. Tacitus (58–120), our source, notes Vespasian’s reticence to
attempt such an endeavour, as well as the successful healing of the two with
his touch and saliva.9 Possibly staged by local priests, the episode captures the
divergence between local and Roman concepts of rulership. The Alexandrians
approached the ruler as an epigeios theos, a god on earth, who could perform a
range of activities commonly associated with gods and people held to function
as their embodiments, as attested by the fact that around the same date Mark
presented Jesus as capable of healing with his touch and saliva.10
In Rome, imperial subjects also recognised the divinity of their ruler, but
understood it to manifest in the form of authority rather than as the power
to perform miracles. As shown by Ittai Gradel, it was the difference between
regular and imperial authority that made emperors godlike in the capital’s cul-
ture.11 Following this logic, Augustus and those who followed him on the throne
“burst out of the top of the social structure, into the level of the gods.”12 Just
like Antonius Musa had become a human embodiment of the divine power
of healing and the human correspondent of Aesculapius, emperors embodied
Jupiter’s authority.
This notion was not new in Rome, where for centuries victorious gener-
als had been temporarily identified with Jupiter. Dressed in a purple garment
inherited from the Tarquinian dynasty that preceded the Republic, return-
ing generals paraded the streets of the capital with their faces painted red.13

7 Cic., fam. 3.7 (W.G. Williams [ed. / trans.], Cicero: The Letters to His Friends. Vol. 1, LCL 205,
Cambridge 1957, 188–190) cf. also Cic., Att. 5.21 (E.O. Winstedt [ed. / trans.], Cicero. Letters
to Atticus. Vol. 1, LCL 7, Cambridge 1912, 404); Price, 1984, 48.
8 See M. Beard / J. North / S. Price, Religions of Rome, 2 vols., Cambridge 1998, vol. 1, 140–149
on how organically developed phenomena and borrowed practices contributed to the
divinisation of late Republican generals.
9 Tac., ann. 4.81 (J. Jackson [ed. / trans.], Tacitus. Annals: Books 4–6, 11–12, LCL 312, Cambridge
1937, 158–160).
10 On the date of the Gospel of Mark, see J.R. Donahue / D.J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark,
Collegeville 2002, 41–46.
11 Gradel, 2002, 27–53.
12 Ibid., 101.
13 Plin. (23–79), h.n. 33.36 (H. Rackham [ed. / trans.], Pliny. Natural History. Vol. 9: Books 3–35,
LCL 394, Cambridge 1961, 84).
40 Chapter 2

The paint referenced Jupiter’s terracotta statue in Rome’s main temple on the
Capitoline Hill. The procession ended at the temple as a symbolic statement of
Jupiter’s return home from war. The celebration rendered generals iconic, with
their bodies prepared to visually match the statue of the god they represented.
Divinity was not on the table at this time and a servant stood behind the gen-
eral during the procession and whispered in his ear to not forget his human
nature.14 Thus, early Roman emperors inherited a ritual that placed the accent
on their capacity to function as a surrogate for the statue of Jupiter.15
This celebration was presented in modern scholarship as either an Etruscan
element that survived or as an eastern import; thus, something ultimately alien
to Roman culture.16 This is likely because the dossier of imperial divinity was
distorted by the phenomenon’s description by Roman historians. Reproducing
the view of the aristocracy, written sources criticised those who claimed divine
status as a way to expand their authority over peers.17 In an attempt to discour-
age and discredit it, authors presented imperial divinity as an eastern, deca-
dent motif: Tacitus’s graeca adulatio.18 Nevertheless, the triumph celebration
that rendered generals alike to Jupiter’s statue had been a defining aspect of
Roman culture. As shown by Diane Favro, the triumphal procession shaped the
outlook of the capital, with the urban structure eventually revolving around
the Via Triumphalis.19 Thus, long before the Julio-Claudians seized power,
Rome had developed its own notion of iconicity and a complex ritual to confer
it. Early imperial efforts to establish rulers as divine are, as argued by Alföldi,
best understood as attempts to render permanent this temporary status.20

14 Tert., apol. 33.4 (T.R. Glover / G.H. Rendall [eds. / trans.], Tertullian: Apology. De Spectaculis.
Minucius Felix: Octavius, LCL 250, Cambridge 1931, 156).
15 On the triumphator as statue, see J. Rüpke, Triumphator and Ancestor Rituals: Between
Symbolic Anthropology and Magic, in: Numen 53 (2006), 251–289.
16 Versnel, 1970, with discussion of the various theories.
17 See C. Witschel, Verrückte Kaiser? Zur Selbststilisierung und Außenwahrnehmung nonkon-
former Herrscherfiguren in der römischen Kaiserzeit, in: C. Ronning (ed.), Einblicke in die
Antike. Orte – Praktiken – Strukturen, Munich 2006, 87–129 on the ‘bad press’ of the so-
called ‘crazy emperors.’
18 Tac., ann. 6.18 (J. Jackson [ed. / trans.], Tacitus. Annals: Books 4–6, 11–12, LCL 312, Cambridge
1937, 184).
19 D. Favro, Rome. The Street Triumphant: The Urban Impact of Roman Triumphal Parades,
in: Z. Çelik / D. Favro / R. Ingersoll (eds.), Streets. Critical Perspectives on Public Space,
Berkeley 1994, 151–164.
20 Alföldi, 1970. Koortbojian, 2013 instead sees Hellenistic models of divine monarchy as the
main catalyst of Julius Caesar’s and Octavian Augustus’ divinisation.
Emperors 41

The extraordinary feats of late Republican generals and of Octavian

Augustus supported a claim to divine status, which was later institutionalised
in the imperial office. Some of Augustus’s successors further reinforced the
claim through their accomplishments. Some turned to artifices that made their
bodily presence more godlike; others enriched imperial iconicity with that of
philosophers or religious specialists; finally, some rejected the divine honours
offered to them, stalling the process. The constant negotiation between rulers
and other members of the Roman elite regarding the divinity of the former, as
well as of what type of authority it conferred over the latter was intrinsically
related to the staging of imperial iconicity. Nevertheless, as several strategies
for deification were becoming popular among Romans, those who contested
imperial divinity grew fewer. In what follows, I will focus on the main strategies
emperors used to establish themselves as living images of the divine.

2.2 Constructing Iconicity

While related to the issue of imperial divinity, imperial iconicity is less prob-
lematic because, regardless of where a community placed the emperor on the
continuum between humanity and the utmost divine, his privileged relation-
ship with the divine was expected to manifest corporeally. Auctoritas principis
was not associated with a specific bodily feature but signalled by the insignia
of the supreme gods, namely Jupiter’s lightning bolt and Sol’s radiant crown.21
Nevertheless, those who carried these symbols were supposed to showcase
one or more of the physical features Celsus mentioned: above-average stat-
ure, strength, or beauty. Rulers obliged and carefully constructed their physical
images and staged their public appearances. As a result, the emperor became
one of the most common images of the divine and, consequently, the iconic
Roman par excellence. Three visual media emerge as essential to this process:
representations of the gods, imperial portraits, and imperial performances.
The first medium established the looks of the gods, thus allowing rulers to
adopt them.22 In addition, by altering the representations of the gods to match

21 Ph., ad G. 13.93–14.105 (F.H. Colson [ed. / trans.], Philo. On the Embassy to Gaius. General
Indexes, LCL 379, Cambridge 1962, 46–52); Alföldi, 1970; G. Benedetti, Quando gli attributi
travalicano il signum. Riflessioni sull’identità visuale degli dèi a Roma, in: ARYS 17 (2019),
105–137.
22 Cic., n.d. 1.81 (H. Rackham [ed. / trans.], Cicero. On the Nature of the Gods. Academics,
LCL 268, Cambridge 1933, 78) pointed out that people learned from statues how the gods
look like.
42 Chapter 2

their own – i.e., by showing gods in imperial attire, fulfilling imperial activi-
ties, or with the facial features of the rulers – emperors could stress the divine
dimension of their office and the revelatory quality of their personae.23 Finally,
symbolic statements could be made through art, such as Emperor Trajan (r.
98–117) having Jupiter hand him the lightning bolt in a relief on the Arch
of Beneventum (ca. 104).24 (see Fig. 10) The success or failure of one’s reign
decided whether such gestures had been indicators of hubris or correct assess-
ments of his virtues, with damnatio memoriae or apotheosis closing the case
by either erasing the public memory of the ruler or by allowing him to join the
Olympians, respectively.
The second medium – the emperor’s own portraits – confirmed and rein-
forced the ruler’s identification with specific gods by showing him wearing the
gods’ insignia or fulfilling activities traditionally associated with them.25 In
addition, by having themselves represented as exceedingly beautiful or with
physiognomic features that indicated virtues, rulers supported their claim to
divine status.26 Such strategies can be seen in all types of media. Travelling
far and reaching all, coins were an extremely efficient way of popularising

23 Kantorowicz, 1961; D. Shotter, Gods, Emperors, and Coins, in: GaR 26 (1979), 48–57; J. Pollini,
Man or God: Divine Assimilation and Imitation in the Late Republic and Early Empire, in:
K.A. Raaflaub / M. Toher (eds.), Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus
and his Principate, Berkeley 1990, 333–363 (355); Hallett, 2005, 238–240; E. Rosso, Des
empereurs aux traits isiaques? Images et contextes, in: Gasparini / Veymiers (eds.), 2018,
539–567 (552–554).
24 On the Arch, see K. Fittschen, Das Bildprogramm des Trajanbogens zu Benevent, in:
Archäologischer Anzeiger 4 (1972), 742–788.
25 On imperial images, see S. Sande, The Icon and its Origin in Graeco-Roman Portraiture,
in: L. Rydén / J.O. Rosenqvist (eds.), Aspects of Late Antiquity and Early Byzantium,
Stockholm 1993, 75–84 (80–84); A. Eastmond, Between Icon and Idol: The Uncertainty of
Imperial Images, in: A. Eastmond / L. James (eds.), Icon and Word: The Power of Images in
Byzantium. Studies Presented to Robin Cormack, Aldershot 2003, 73–85; Francis, Verbal,
2009; M. Kahlos (ed), Emperors and the Divine – Rome and its Influence, Helsinki 2016.
On borrowing the look of the gods, see Kantorowicz, 1963; Alföldi, 1970; G.H. Halsberghe,
The Cult of Sol Invictus, Leiden 1972; Bergmann, 1998; M. Radnoti-Alföldi, Bild und
Bildersprache der römischen Kaiser. Beispiele und Analysen, Mainz 1999; Hallett, 2005;
Bardill, 2012; Koortbojian, 2013, 211–226. For a critique of the view that such portraits were
supposed to assimilate rulers to the respective gods, see A. Dimartino, Settimio Severo e il
“Serapistypus”: forme di autorappresentazione del potere imperiale, in: F. De Angelis (ed.),
Lo sguardo archeologico. I normalisti per Paul Zanker, Pisa 2007, 129–148 (129–130).
26 E.g., D. Boschung, Die Bildnisse des Augustus. Das römische Herrscherbild, vol. 1.2, Berlin
1993. Concurrently, members of the elite went through pains to underline the rulers’ phys-
ical defects and thus anchor them firmly into humanity. See Hist. Aug.: L. Verus. 10.6–7
and Comm. 17.3 (Magie, 1921, 230 and 304); Trimble, 2014; V. Neri, The Emperor as Living
Image in Late Antique Authors, in: Bacci / Ivanovici (eds.), 2019, online.
Emperors 43

Figure 10 Relief showing the Capitoline Triad (Jupiter, Juno, Minerva) along with Hercules
(left) and Mercury (right) welcoming Emperor Trajan. Jupiter is handing Trajan
(represented on the facing panel) the symbol of his power, i.e., the lightning bolt.
Parian marble, ca. 104, Benevento. (Photo: Anca Cezarina Fulger)

the identification of a ruler with a certain god or deified virtue.27 Coins often
showed the ruler on one side with the god on the other, or showed the ruler
together with a god, thereby as equals.28 (see Figs. 15a, 15c, 15d) Paintings, reliefs,
and statuary groups allowed for more complex iconographies. The portrait of
the ruling emperor was, as put by Marcus Cornelius Fronto (d. ca. 168), “any-
where and everywhere.”29 Public squares, markets, baths, shops, and private

27 Shotter, 1979.
28 Kantorowicz, 1963; Alföldi, 1970; Halsberghe, 1972; Radnoti-Alföldi, 1999; Bardill, 2012.
29 Fronto, e. 4.12.4 (C.R. Haines [ed. / trans.], Fronto. Correspondence. Vol. 1, LCL 112,
Cambridge 1919, 206) in omnibus argentariis mensulis pergulis tabernis protectis vestibulis
fenestris usquequaque ubique imagines vestrae sint volgo propositae; Grabar, 1936, 4–30;
P. Zanker, Prinzipat und Herrscherbild, in: Gym. 86 (1979), 353–368 (361); C. Ando, Imperial
44 Chapter 2

residences displayed the figure of the ruler. A recently discovered (and stolen)
mosaic depicted the thermae of Apamea on the Orontes, in Syria.30 (see Fig. 11)
Above the entrance a clipeus with the bust image of the emperor is displayed,
as was customary. A woman and her daughter (or servant) look up toward the
portrait and raise their hands in a gesture that was used for both reverence and
worship, while others enjoy a waterslide.31 The two women likely represent the
local community, who is shown expressing its gratitude for the imperial gift of
the baths, recognition of the ruler’s divinity, or both. This ambiguity that impe-
rial portraits prompted also existed within private contexts.
A third-century medallion from Alexandria in Egypt, now in the Cleveland
Museum of Art, contains a coin with the laureate bust of Emperor Commodus
(r. 180–192). The medallion hangs on a gold collar, next to several pendants
with Isis-Fortuna and other figures, possibly characters related to her cult. (see
Fig. 12) Jewellery pieces that included coins with ruler portraits were common
in Late Antiquity.32 It is difficult to establish with certainty the function(s) of
the imperial image in such cases, whether it was a political statement, a reli-
gious one, or both. In addition, upon his death the ruler joined the ranks of
the gods through apotheosis, which changed the implications of his image.
Nevertheless, Vespasian’s adventure in Alexandria, discussed above, indicates
that it might not have been essential to the object’s owner if Commodus was
alive or dead when they commissioned the piece. This ontological ambiguity

Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire, CCT 6, Berkeley 2000, 207–273. On
their number, see C. Machado, Building the Past: Monuments and Memory in the Forum
Romanum, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 3 (2006), 157–192; K. Fittschen, The Portraits of Roman
Emperors and their Families: Controversial Positions and Unsolved Problems, in: Ewald /
Noreña (eds.), 2010, 221–246 (221).
30 See: https://www.interpol.int/News-and-Events/News/2012/INTERPOL-calls-for-vigilance-
on-looting-of-ancient-mosaics-in-Syria (accessed 28.6.2022).
31 On people saluting benefactors of the city with raised hands, see Chrys., i.g. 4–5
(A.-M. Malingrey [ed.], Jean Chrysostome. Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants,
SC 188, Paris 1972, 74–79). On praying with raised hands, see Plin. m., ep. 6.20.15 (B. Radice
[ed. / trans.], Pliny the Younger. Letters. Vol. 1: Books 1–7, LCL 55, Cambridge 1969, 444);
V. Fyntikoglou / E. Voutrias, Das römische Gebet, in: J. Balty (ed.), Thesaurus Cultus et
Rituum Antiquorum 3, Los Angeles 2006, 151–179 (161–162). On private devotion towards
emperors, see Pacatus, pan. 12(2)6.4 (C.E.V. Nixon / B.S. Rodgers / R.A.B. Mynors [eds. /
trans.], In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, Berkeley 1994, 650);
Price, 1984, 120–121; Gradel, 2002, 140–161; C.F. Noreña, Imperial Ideals in the Roman West:
Representations, Circulation, Power, New York 2011, 203 n. 45.209–210.303–304.456 n. 26.
32 K. Weitzmann (ed.), The Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to
Seventh Century, exh. cat., New York 1979, 318–319; A.M. Stout, Jewelry as a Symbol of Status
in the Roman Empire, in: Sebesta / Bonfante (eds.), 1994, 77–100 (78–79).
Emperors 45

Figure 11 Detail from floor mosaic depicting the history of Apamea on the Orontes. Syria,
4th century. Discovered in illegal dig and sold on the black market in 2011.
(Photo: Interpol)

of the imperial persona and its images was bred by the state through the impe-
rial cult.
In temples identical to those of the gods, the emperor’s genius (i.e., personal
spirit) received worship through its statues.33 Along with the setting and aes-
thetic, also the clerical orders and worship gestures were borrowed from tradi-
tional cults, thus stimulating the identification of the emperor with a god. Few
communities outside the capital seem to have bothered to make the distinc-
tion between worship of the emperor and his divine spirit.34 In the eastern
provinces, the praising of an individual as divine was common practice. In the

33 On the imperial genius, see S.G. MacCormack, Roma, Constantinopolis, the Emperor, and
his Genius, in: Class. Q. 25 (1975), 131–150; Gradel, 2002.
34 Outside the capital and especially in the eastern provinces where, as noted by N. Russel,
The Doctrine of Deification in the Greek Patristic Tradition, Oxford 2004, 18, the distinction
between deus and divus was missing, the rulers’ divinity was accepted without problems.
On Rome, see R. Lim, In the ‘Temple of Laughter’: Visual and Literary Representations of
Spectators at Roman Games, in: Bergmann / Kondoleon (eds.), 1999, 342–365 (343). On the
imperial cult in the West, see D. Fishwick, The Imperial Cult in the Latin West, Studies in the
46 Chapter 2

Figure 12 Collar with medallion and pendants. The medallion is set

around a coin with the laureate bust of Emperor Commodus
(r. 180–192) while the pendants represent Isis-Fortuna and
possibly characters related to her cult. Gold, 3rd century,
Alexandria, Egypt. Cleveland Museum of Art (inv. no. 1948.419)
Emperors 47

western regions, recognition of certain persons’ godliness also became increas-

ingly common.
Already the Republican general Marius had been given divine honours
while alive, and the images of the Gracchi brothers – assassinated in 133 BCE
for their support of the plebs – received a treatment alike to those reserved to
statues dedicated to the gods.35 Pompey, Julius Caesar, and Octavian Augustus
stimulated these tendencies, as did the rulers who followed. To further blur
the boundaries between his living person, his statue in his temple in Rome,
and the gods, Caligula (r. 37–41) altered an existing temple to serve as entrance
to his residence and had servants match the daily outfit of his statue with his
own.36 Through these and other visual strategies, rulers established themselves
as images of the specific gods whose look they borrowed, as well as living coun-
terparts of their own cult images.
The third medium, namely the rulers’ physical appearance and behaviour,
reinforced the confluence of their bodies, statues, and the statues of the gods.
Rulers wore garments, jewellery, hair dye, and gold speckles to reproduce the
look and aesthetic of statuary, while also performing actions associated with
certain gods.37 Emperors could choose whether to stress their divinity or their
humanity, the ways in which to do it, and whether to seek identification with a
single god or with several. Like the religious specialists discussed in the previ-
ous chapter, emperors could also decide for episodic ‘putting on’ of a god or
attempt a permanent identification with one.
Some asserted their godlike auctoritas by adopting a behaviour as capricious
as that of the Olympians. Caligula, we are told, practiced savage expressions in
front of a mirror at home, while Caracalla’s (r. 198–217) angry frown became
the mark of his official portraits.38 As a result, those around rulers turned
to physiognomics to assess their characters and moods, with them ‘reading’

Ruler Cult of the Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, 3 vols., Leiden 1987–2005. For a
study of the imperial cult in an eastern province, see Price, 1984.
35 Plu., v.p.: Marius 27.5 (B. Perrin [ed. / trans.], Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 9: Demetrius and Antony.
Pyrrhus and Gaius Marius, LCL 101, Cambridge 1959, 538) and Caius Gracchus 18.2
(B. Perrin [ed. / trans.], Plutarch. Lives. Vol. 10: Agis and Cleomenes. Tiberius and Gaius
Gracchus. Philopoemen and Flamininus, LCL 102, Cambridge 1959, 238).
36 C.D., h.r. 59.28.5 (E. Cary [ed. / trans.], Dio Cassius: Roman History. Vol. 7. Books 56–60,
LCL 175, Cambridge 1955, 352) information on the palace was confirmed by archaeologi-
cal finds cf. J. Sanford, Did Caligula Have a God Complex?, in: Stanford Report, Sept. 10,
2003.
37 On imperial beauty, its symbolism, and staging, see Neri, 2004, 109–218.
38 Suet., v.c.: Calig 50.1 (Rolfe [ed.], 1979, 480).
48 Chapter 2

on their faces the fate of the day and of the state.39 These fickle, Olympian
personalities were performed in spaces that reproduced the aesthetic of the
gods’ mythical palaces and borrowed the architectural setting of cult statues.40
Nero’s residence aligned with his claimed iconic status. On the space between
the Palatine and the Esquiline hills in Rome, Nero had the world reproduced in
small scale. Overlooking this artificial Earth was his palace, decorated with lus-
trous surfaces and lavishly lit to imitate Sol’s heavenly palace.41 In case anyone
missed the reference, a colossal statue depicting Nero as Sol rose in front of the
palace, at the centre of this fantasy land.
Other emperors chose different strategies. Hadrian (r. 117–138) and Marcus
Aurelius combined their auctoritas with the virtus and dignitas that derived
from a philosopher’s life and adopted the outward appearance of sages.42 In
contrast, Commodus used the arena’s power to collapse myth and reality:

Before entering the amphitheatre he would put on a long-sleeved tunic of silk,

white interwoven with gold, and thus arrayed he would receive our greetings;
but when he was about to go inside, he put on a robe of pure purple with gold
spangles, donning also after the Greek fashion a chlamys of the same colour,
and a crown made of gems from India and of gold, and he carried a herald’s
staff like that of Mercury. As for the lion-skin and club, in the street they were
carried before him, and in the amphitheatres they were placed on a gilded chair,
whether he was present or not. He himself would enter the arena in the garb of
Mercury, and casting aside all his other garments, would begin his exhibition
wearing only a tunic and unshod.43

39 Amm. Marc., r.g. 15.8.15–16 (J.C. Rolfe [ed.], Ammianus Marcellinus. History. Vol. 1: Books
14–19, LCL 300, Cambridge 1935, 172); P. Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity:
Towards a Christian Empire, Madison 1992, 59–60.
40 On the Domus Flavia, see Stat., silv. 4.2.18–37 (J.H. Mozley [ed. / trans.], Statius. Vol. 1:
Silvae. Thebaid, books I–IV, London 1928, 212–214). On the palace in Constantinople, see
S.G. MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity, TCH 1, Berkeley 1981; M.C. Carile,
The Vision of the Palace of the Byzantine Emperors as a Heavenly Jerusalem, Spoleto 2012;
H.A. Drake, Topographies of Power in the City, in: C. Rapp / H.A. Drake (eds.), The Classical
and Post-Classical World: Changing Contexts of Power and Identity, New York 2014, 217–239.
41 H.P. L’Orange, Likeness and Icon: Selected Studies in Classical and Early Mediaeval Art,
Odense 1973, 278–297; E.J. Champlin, God and Man in the Golden House, in: Horti Romani 6
(1998), 333–344.
42 Roller, 2001.
43 C.D., h.r. 73.17 (E. Cary / H.G. Foster [eds. / trans.], Dio Cassius: Roman History. Vol. 9. Books
71–80, LCL 177, Cambridge 1927, 106–107) ἐνέδυνε δέ, πρὶν μὲν ἐς τὸ θέατρον ἐσιέναι, χιτῶνα
χειριδωτὸν σηρικὸν λευκὸν διάχρυσον (καὶ ἐν τούτῳ γε αὐτὸν τῷ σχήματι ὄντα ἠσπαζόμεθα),
ἐσιὼν δὲ ὁλοπόρφυρον χρυσῷ κατάπαστον, χλαμύδα τε ὁμοίαν τὸν Ἑλληνικὸν τρόπον λαμβάνων,
καὶ στέφανον ἔκ τε λίθων Ἰνδικῶν καὶ ἐκ χρυσοῦ πεποιημένον, κηρύκειόν τε τοιοῦτον φέρων
ὁποῖον ὁ Ἑρμῆς. ἡ γὰρ λεοντῆ τό τε ῥόπαλον ἔν τε ταῖς ὁδοῖς προεφέρετο αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐν τοῖς
Emperors 49

Thus, rulers exploited the symbolic affordances of various settings, both pri-
vate and public, to establish themselves as iconic.44 Roman public and private
settings were typically designed to confer authority to the person at their cen-
tre.45 Inside Roman houses, images depicted on the walls, on the furniture, and
on small objects, together with the statues, herms, statuettes, servants, clientes,
friends, and family members represented as many symbolic layers. The pater
familias brought these elements together in various ways through his outward
appearance, actions, and speech.46 Public spaces were similarly layered stages,
with buildings, shrines, statues, and a hierarchically structured audience fram-
ing the person at the centre.
A relief decorating the Arch of Constantine in Rome (ca. 315) shows
the emperor’s adlocutio (speech) in the Forum. (see Fig. 13) In the relief,
Constantine stands at the centre of a symmetrical space created by the Rostra –
i.e., a podium from which official announcements were made – the Arches of
Septimius Severus and Tiberius, and the Basilicas Aemilia and Julia. Flanking
the ruler are statues of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius, both exemplary rulers.
Behind, statues of the initial tetrarchs and of Jupiter, the latter aligned with
Constantine, stand atop columns. The senators and other Romans in the audi-
ence are displayed hierarchically on both sides of the ruler. As pointed out by
Tonio Hölscher, the people are an integral part of this layered image.47 Thus,
while the setting invested Constantine with the prestige of the Republican,
Augustan, Hadrianic, Severan, and tetrarchic state, the audience placed him at
the top of the social hierarchy, where humanity and the divine met.

θεάτροις ἐπὶ δίφρου ἐπιχρύσου, εἴτε παρείη εἴτε καὶ ἀπείη, ἐτίθετο· αὐτὸς δὲ ἐν τῷ τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ
σχήματι ἐσῄει τε ἐς τὸ θέατρον, καὶ ἀπορρίψας τὰ ἄλλα οὕτως ἐν τῷ χιτῶνι ἀνυπόδητος ἔργου
εἴχετο.
44 On “relational space”, see M. Löw, Raumsoziologie, Frankfurt 2001. On this in Rome, see
Hölscher, 2018, ch. 1.
45 As argued by J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph: The Art of the Roman Empire
AD 100–450, Oxford 1998, 25–114, both at home and in public spaces, art and architecture
created a backdrop against which individuals negotiated their identity.
46 On art and power dynamics inside the domus, see A. Wallace-Hadrill, Houses and Society
in Pompeii and Herculaneum, Princeton 1994; Elsner, 1998, 44–50; M. Grahame, Material
Culture and Roman Identity: The Spatial Layout of Pompeian Houses and the Problem of
Ethnicity, in: R. Laurence / J. Berry (eds.), Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire, London
1998, 156–178; S. Hales, The Roman House and Social Identity, Cambridge 2003; K. Cooper,
Closely Watched Households: Visibility, Exposure and Private Power in the Roman ‘Domus’,
in: PaP 197 (2007), 3–33; P. Stewart, The Social History of Roman Art, Cambridge 2008;
H. Platts, Multisensory Living in Ancient Rome: Power and Space in Roman Houses, London
2020.
47 Hölscher, 2018, 58–59.
50 Chapter 2

Figure 13 Sculpted tondi from the reign of Hadrian showing boar hunt (left) and sacrifice
to Apollo (right), integrated above newly sculpted marble relief showing Emperor
Constantine’s (r. 306–337 CE) adlocutio from the tetrarchic rostra. Arch of
Constantine, ca. 320, Rome. (Photo: ‘Following Hadrian’ – CC BY-SA 2.0)

The capacity to create coherent mises-en-scène inside one’s home or to add

to communal ones by gifting public buildings played a central role in one’s
public image. Nevertheless, equally important was one’s capacity to master
such stages, whether self-commissioned or inherited. Trimalchio’s ignorance
caused him to pair scenes from the Iliad and the Odyssey with representations
of gladiator fights in his atrium, and to mix up his mythological references
over dinner.48 One was expected not to simply afford such mechanisms of self-
affirmation, but to ‘own’ them. Thus, orators commonly included elements
from their surrounding in their speeches – whether by referencing historic
moments that had taken place on that spot or by calling upon a deceased pub-
lic figure whose statue was in sight – to attest to their erudition and support
their argument. Constantine’s decision to address the people from the layered
space of the old Forum both attested to his respect for Roman customs and
legitimised his rule with the authority the space conferred.
Fora, amphitheatres, basilicas, and palaces were such complex mechanisms
in which the architecture, aesthetic, decoration, performance, and audience
came together to invest authority into the person (or group of people) at the

48 Petron., s. 29.9 (Heseltine [ed.], 1925, 42).

Emperors 51

centre. In ancient Rome, the tradition of using public buildings as backdrop

seems to have started with temples, as the triumphator displayed himself in
front of the temple of Jupiter and the Senate convened inside temples, in
front of the gods’ statues.49 As emperors gained unprecedented control over
resources, they orchestrated their iconicity in increasingly coherent ways
that included shaping their outward appearance to mirror the gods’, having
depictions of the gods match their own countenances, setting up their own
cult images, and designing for themselves spaces that resembled temples. Due
to its use of the aesthetic and mise-en-scène of cult statues, the result of this
multifaceted strategy was similar to that of the triumph: the living emperor
appeared as if a god’s statue had come to life.
Efforts to popularise the rulers’ iconicity went hand in hand with other phe-
nomena particular to early imperial society. When Commodus was performing
Hercules in the Flavian amphitheatre, the cults that allowed their members to
‘put on’ their gods were gaining momentum across the empire.50 By the third
century, the iconicity of emperors and, more generally, the divine potential
of humans were well established across Roman society.51 As a result, emper-
ors of the period appear convinced of their own divinity rather than using it
as a political strategy, in the manner of their predecessors.52 In a rather short
period of time, the throne was occupied by a believer in astrology, convinced
of his divine predestination to rule over humanity (Septimius Severus, r. 193–
211); a priest of the Syrian sun god who attempted to spawn “godlike children”
with a vestal (Elagabalus, r. 218–222); and the son of a priestess of Sol (Aurelian,
r. 270–275).53 Ruler biographies of the period emanate a sense of divine elec-
tion that, rather than being “striking,” as one scholar put it, reflects the reli-
gious Zeitgeist of a period when people, regardless of social status, sought to
achieve their divine potential.54
Imperial iconicity received a coherent form towards the end of the third
century. During the reign of Diocletian (r. 284–305), the aesthetic of the
ruler’s body, the protocol surrounding it, and the spaces used by emperors
were adapted to reflect a now uncontested divine status. Rather than being a

49 On the Senate, see Hölscher, 2018, 55.

50 See below, Chapter 4.
51 On divinisation becoming a common topic, see Russel, 2004, 102. See also above, p. 12
n. 37.
52 According to Suet., v.c.: Aug. 99 (Rolfe [ed. / trans.], 1979, 280–281), on his deathbed
Augustus had asked those present if he had put on a believable performance.
53 C.D., h.r. 80.9 (Cary / Foster [eds. / trans.], 1927, 458) θεοπρεπεῖς παῖδες.
54 J. Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century, Oxford 2000, 3–4.
52 Chapter 2

conceptual turning point, this reform appears to be an update of the visual and
ritual aspects of the imperial office, meant to catch up with the ruler’s divinity.
Diocletian and his fellow rulers of the initial tetrarchy – i.e., the co-rule of
four emperors that Diocletian introduced to deal with the numerous problems
the state faced at the time – displayed themselves as luminous presences by
monopolising purple and porphyry – considered to be the most luminous hue
and material, respectively – and by wearing gold and jewels. The palace of
Diocletian at Spalathos (Split) and panegyrics of the time allow us to recon-
struct how the emperor’s physical presence was staged. At Split, the palatial
complex is set around a rectangular courtyard (ca. 27 × 13.5 m) where the
retired ruler seems to have received important guests.55 (see Fig. 14) The long
sides of the courtyard open towards areas that contain a temple of Jupiter and
two shrines on one side, and Diocletian’s mausoleum on the other. One of the
short sides opens towards the intersection of the complex’s main streets, the
other towards the interior of the palace. The threshold between the courtyard
and the palace was shaped like the facade of a tetrastyle temple.56 This type of
framing would rapidly become a favourite of Roman rulers, who used it for pal-
ace gates, circus balconies, and their official portraits. Whether they sat or stood
underneath such frames, they appeared akin to a god’s statue in a temple.57
Typically present on coins, representations of temple entrances framing the
statues of their gods were the most common image in the Roman world, which
assured the recognisability of the imperial Inszenierung. (see Fig. 15a)
Formal speeches praising the ruler’s qualities and accomplishments allow
us to relate material settings such as the one in Split with the ceremonies for
which they were built. Such panegyrics reflect court culture and shed light on
the desired effect of imperial settings.58 A recurrent motif in panegyrics of the
fourth century is the ruler as a deus praesens whose power exceeds that of tra-
ditional gods.59 This concept was embedded in the design of the palace at Split,

55 On the space and its various interpretations, see S. McNally, Introduction: State of
Scholarship, in: S. McNally / J. Marasović / T. Marasović (eds.), Diocletian’s Palace,
Minneapolis 1989, 3–43 (17–21).
56 The oculus in the dome of the space behind the entrance, which creates an analogy with
the Pantheon in Rome, is considered a later addition cf. J.J. Wilkes, Diocletian’s Palace,
Split: Residence of a Retired Roman Emperor, Exeter 1993, 50–56.
57 On the lintel’s cultic implications, see B. Kiilerich, Representing an Emperor: Style
and Meaning in the Missorium of Theodosius I, in: M. Almagro Gorbea (ed.), El disco di
Teodosio, Madrid 2000, 273–280; H.W. Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City: Architecture
and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Cambridge 2015, 51.
58 As with ekphraseis of late antique buildings, these texts were meant to educate their audi-
ences on the ‘correct’ way to perceive what was described.
59 E.g., Stat., silv. 5.2.170 (Mozley [ed. / trans.], 1928, 302) proximus ille deus; Pacatus, pan.
12(2)4.5 (Nixon / Rodgers / Mynors [eds.], 1994, 649) deum […] quem uidemus.
Emperors 53

Figure 14 Reception courtyard of Emperor Diocletian’s (r. 284–305 CE) palace, with view of
the prothyron. 4th century, Split. (Photo: Stefan Pijanowski)

where the emperor’s mausoleum is more than twice the size of the temple of
Jupiter in front of it. In addition, a text describing Diocletian’s interaction with
subjects in the palace in Mediolanum (Milan) allows us to glean the effect of
his appearance under the temple-like threshold of his palace and see the cen-
tral role played by statuary in shaping the iconicity of late Roman rulers:

What a sight did your piety grant to us, when in the palace of Milan you [scil.
Diocletian and his co-ruler Maximian] were both beheld by those who were
given admission to adore your sacred countenances, and when of a sudden by
the fact of your holy presence being twofold you bewildered our custom of ven-
erating one divinity at a time! […] And this secret worship rendered to you, as it
were within the innermost sanctuary, stunned and amazed the minds of those to
whom their rank granted access.60

60 Pan. Lat. 11(3)11.1–5 (Nixon / Rodgers / Mynors [eds.], 1994, 538; trans. MacCormack, 1981,
25–26) Quale pietas vestra spectaculum dedit, cum in Mediolanensi palatio admissis qui
sacros vultus adoraturi erant conspecti estis ambo, et consuetudinem simplicis venerationis
geminato numine repente turbastis! Nemo ordinem numinum solita secutus est disciplina;
omnes adorandi mora restiterunt duplicato pietatis officio contumaces. Atque haec quidem
54 Chapter 2

d
Figure 15a Coin with portrait of Philip the Arab (r. 244–259) wearing the crown of Sol on the
obverse and with the temple of Zeus Katabaites on the reverse. Bronze, 244–249,
29 mm diameter, Syria. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin
Preußischer Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18259953. (Photo: Bernhard Weisser, in the
public domain)
Figure 15b Coin with portraits of Diocletian (left) and Maximian (right) on the obverse, and
the two emperors in an elephant-drawn chariot on the reverse. Gold, 287, 30 mm
diameter, Italy. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin Preußischer
Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18200802 (Photo: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke, in the public domain)
Figure 15c Coin with portrait of Hadrian on the obverse and of Sol on the reverse. Gold, 117,
20 mm diameter, Italy. © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin Preußischer
Kulturbesitz, inv. no. 18200596 (Photo: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke, in the public domain)
Figure 15d Coin showing portrait of Hadrian on the obverse. The reverse shows Hadrian and
his wife Sabina meeting Isis and Serapis in front of an altar. Hadrian and Serapis
shake hands while Sabina raises her hand in salutation of Isis who holds the
sistrum. Gold, ca. 130, 19 mm diameter, Rome. Bibliothèque nationale de France
(inv. no. FRBNF41982443)
Emperors 55

As the living emperors took the place of cult statues and became the main
points of physical and visual interaction with the divine in the Roman world,
their representation changed.61 The role of individual facial and corporeal
features was reduced, and the focus shifted to representing the ruler with
the characteristics that society needed in the moment. Thus, when the state
faced military attacks, emperors were represented with large, muscular bod-
ies. Later, during the Tetrarchy, their facial features were morphed together to
stress their harmony as co-rulers. (see Fig. 15b) With the ruler’s divinity now
uncontested, his form could be adapted to make complementary statements.
This announced the further instrumentalisation of the rulers’ bodies in the
following centuries.
In Diocletian’s time, three centuries of constructed analogies between living
emperors and cult statues were put in a coherent form with the result that pal-
aces became temple-like; emperors became statue-like; and subjects turned
into worshippers. The iconicity of emperors would continue in the following
period. Nevertheless, the growing popularity of Christianity – religion which
the rulers came to adopt – would shape the way in which their iconicity was
conceptualised and expressed. Paradoxically given that statues had been a
symbol of idolatry in early Christianity, it was the ruler’s statue-like quality
that survived.

2.3 From Image of Jupiter to Image of Christ

The Roman emperors’ adoption of the Christian faith in the fourth century
caused them to lose their divinity. This did not prevent them from expecting
to be worshipped by individuals, on account of them being images of God.62
Monotheistic, the religion did not recognise gods apart from Christ but had
a tradition of revering iconic persons. In addition, during the fourth century,
Roman society became increasingly hierarchical, with it striving towards a
pyramidal structure that reflected how most cults of the time had come to
imagine the structure of the cosmos and heavens.63 This alignment of the

velut interioribus sacrariis operta veneratio eorum modo animos obstupefecerat quibus adi-
tum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis.
61 On scenes that attest to the theophanic quality of tetrarchic emperors, see MacCormack,
1981, 22–33.
62 On the Constantinians and Theodosians inviting the worship of their persons, see
Nixon / Rodgers / Mynors, 1994, 456 n. 26.
63 A. Winterling, Aula Caesaris: Studien zur Institutionalisierung des römischen Kaiserhofes
in der Zeit von Augustus bis Commodus (31 v.Chr.–192 n.Chr.), Munich 1999; P. Eich, Zur
Metamorphose des politischen Systems in der römischen Kaiserzeit: Die Entstehung
56 Chapter 2

human and divine communities allowed the identification of the imperial

court with the upper part of the pantheon and of the emperor with the domi-
nant god. As Christianity was adopted by increasingly more Romans and soci-
ety came to dress its imaginative structures in Christian garb during the fourth,
fifth, and sixth centuries, the emperor in Constantinople officially became a
living image of Christ; a feature that would define his identity throughout the
Byzantine period.64
In the space of two centuries – from the edict of Milan of 313 that legalised
Christianity to the death of Anastasius I (r. 491–518) – being the living image of
the Christian God became the main feature of the imperial office. In 518, upon
Anastasius’s death, the eunuchs in charge of the imperial bedroom blocked
the proclamation of a new emperor by withholding the imperial insignia.65
Therefore, people recognised as ruler the one who wore the insignia, rather
than a specific person. A few years later, during the riot of 532, Justinian I (r.
527–565) refused to leave the city because losing control of the palace would
have forfeited his chances of retaining the throne.66 Like imperial garments,
the symbolic spaces of the palace were essential in establishing the ruler as
a living image of God. Both examples prove that imperial iconicity had been
transferred to specific material settings and props, and the ruler’s identity had
become secondary. There had to be a ruler in Constantinople whose body
functioned as a living image of the Christian God in order to make Byzantine
society into a human replica of Christ’s court, but his iconicity was conferred

einer ‘personalen Bürokratie’ im langen dritten Jahrhundert, Berlin 2005; V. Ivanovici,

Pseudo-Dionysius and the Staging of Divine Order in Sixth-century Architecture, in:
F. Dell’Acqua / E. Mainoldi (eds.), Pseudo-Dionysius and the Origins of Christian Visual
Culture, London 2020, 177–210.
64 Eus., l.C. 3 (I.A. Heikel [ed.], Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei
Jahrhunderte, Leipzig 1902, 201), for Constantine. Agap., exp. cap. adm. 21 (R. Riedinger
[ed.], Agapetos Diakonos. Der Fürstenspiegel für Kaiser Iustinianos, Athens 1995, 38); for
Justinian I. Cor., in laud. 2.427–428 (A. Cameron [ed. / trans.], Flavius Cresconius Corippus.
In Laudem Iustinii Augusti Minoris, London 1976, 60); for Justin II. See Grabar, 1936;
Kantorowicz, 1963, 151; A. Carile, Produzione e usi della porpora nell’impero bizantino, in:
O. Longo (ed.), La porpora: Realtà e immaginario di un colore simbolico: Atti del convegno
interdisciplinare di studio dell’Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti (Venezia 24–25
Ottobre 1996), Venezia 1998, 243–269; id., La prossemica del potere: spazi e distanze nei ceri-
moniali di corte, in: Uomo e spazio nell’alto medioevo, 2 vols., Spoleto 2003, vol. 1, 589–653;
Carile, 2012, 173–176.
65 Const. Porph., d. cer. 1.93 (A. Moffatt / M. Tall [ed. / trans.], Constantine Porphyrogennetos:
The Book of Ceremonies. With the Greek Edition of the Corpus Scriptorum Historiae
Byzantinae [Bonn, 1829], 2 vols., Canberra 2012, 426–428).
66 On the riot, see Proc. Caes., d.b. 1.24 (G. Wirth [ed.], Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia.
Vol. 1, Leipzig 1962, 123–134).
Emperors 57

by the imperial function and the spaces and accoutrements, rather than by his
character and actions. The process through which this change came into being
was complex, but extant sources allow us to identify its main stages.
Emperor Constantine and his successors used all three visual strategies we
discussed above to construct their iconicity, though they claimed to represent
Christ rather than Jupiter, Sol, or Hercules. Thus, Constantine’s portrait over
the gate of the imperial palace in Constantinople amounts to a reworking, in
Christian terms, of his self-presentation as the human counterpart of Sol in
the earlier part of his reign.67 According to Eusebius of Caesarea (ca. 265–339),
above the monumental palace gate, Constantine had himself depicted tread-
ing a snake, with a chi-rho appearing above him.68 By reproducing the god as
a symbol and showing the ruler as the one crushing the devil, the image indi-
cated Constantine as Christ’s long arm and human face. A similar relationship
between Christ and Constantine can be identified in the ruler’s desire to be
buried flanked by the tombs of the twelve apostles.69 The image on the gate
and his tomb point to Constantine using his body (both while alive and after
death) to fill the void left on Earth by the ascended body of Jesus.
In art, rather than adopting the poor garment of Jesus, Constantine and later
rulers lent him their own, purged now of the symbols of other deities. Thus, the
representation of Christ as a ruler with a throne, purple garments, and insignia
was added to his other looks and would soon take precedence over them.70
Concurrently, the members of his heavenly entourage were recast to mirror the
order and dress of the imperial court.71 (see Fig. 37) When it came to the mise-
en-scène of imperial personae, the aesthetic of light that referenced the divine
was used, but its effect was amplified through a more careful and less frequent
display of the ruler. Two instances emerge from the sources as fundamental for
imperial self-presentation in this period, namely the adventus and the ruler’s
appearance in the circus balcony.

67 On Constantine and Sol, see M. Wallraff, Christus verus Sol: Sonnenverehrung und
Christentum in der Spätantike, Münster 2001; Bardill, 2012.
68 Eus., v.C. 3.2–3 (F. Winkelmann [ed.], Eusèbe de Césarée, Vie de Constantin, SC 559, Paris
1955, 354); Carile, 2012, 16.
69 M.J. Johnson, The Roman Imperial Mausoleum in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2009, 119–129.
70 On Christ as emperor in Roman art, see Grabar, 1936. On Christ as teacher, healer, and
philosopher, see T.F. Mathews, The Clash of Gods: A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art,
Princeton 1993.
71 See Grabar, 1936; C. Kelly, Emperors as Gods, Angels as Bureaucrats: The Representation of
Imperial Power in Late Antiquity, in: ARYS 1 (1998), 301–326.
58 Chapter 2

The adventus was an emperor’s arrival into a town. As pointed out by Sabine
MacCormack, the ceremony constituted a synthesis of late Roman society.72
During the arrival the population of a town could behold the uppermost part
of the human hierarchy, which reproduced the order of the heavenly court and
where the human and the divine met and merged in the person of the ruler.
Thus, the event was staged as a theophany, with the emperor as focus.73 As
such, the ceremony represents an ideal case for studying the staging of impe-
rial iconicity. Two texts allow us to catch a glimpse of the careful interplay of
spaces, garments, entourage, and ceremony. The first text discusses the ruler’s
image as he travels between towns, while the second deals with the entrance
proper.
Praising emperor Honorius’s (r. 393–423) consulship in 398, court poet
Claudian described the ruler’s procession through Liguria:

And also what robes, what wonderful procession did we see, when wearing the
Ausonian raiment [scil. the consular garment] you advanced, a more wonderful
sight than ever, among the peoples of Liguria, carried high among your troops
clad in white and carried upon the shoulders of chosen warriors who so proudly
upheld their godlike burden! ‘Tis thus that Egypt brings forth her gods to the
public gaze. The image issues from its shrine; small it is, indeed, yet many linen-
clad priests pant beneath the pole, and by their sweat testify that they bear a god;
[…] Borne upon the necks of youths go the golden chair and the god who sits
upon it, heavier now in his new finery.74

The image of a throne carried by men is reminiscent of the fercula (lit.: plat-
forms), which Romans traditionally used to carry cult statues during pro-
cessions.75 Nevertheless, to further stress the cultic dimension of the scene,
Claudian refers to the Egyptian custom of carrying the gods’ statues in aedic-
ulae. Known from representations – such as the first-century BCE statuette

72 MacCormack, 1981, 18.22–55. On the adventus, see also M. McCormick, Eternal Victory:
Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium, and the Early Medieval West, New
York 1986; P. Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, adventus Christi: Recherche sur l’exploitation
idéologique et littéraire d’un cérémonial dans l’antiquité tardive, Paris 1994.
73 As pointed out by Kantorowicz, 1944, 212–213; MacCormack, 1981, 17–18.28–36.
74 Claudian., IV cons. 564–585 (M. Platnauer [ed. / trans.], Claudian. On Stilicho’s
Consulship 2–3. Panegyric on the Sixth Consulship of Honorius. The Gothic War. Shorter
Poems. Rape of Proserpina, LCL 136, Cambridge 1922, 328–329, amended) Nunc quoque
quos habitus, quantae miracula pompae vidimus, Ausonio cum iam succinctus amictu per
Ligurum populos solito conspectior ires atque inter niveas alte veherere cohortes, obnixisque
simul pubes electa lacertis sidereum gestaret onus. sic numina Memphis in vulgus proferre
solet; penetralibus exit effigies, brevis illa quidem: sed plurimus infra liniger imposito suspi-
rat vecte sacerdos testatus sudore deum; […] portatur iuvenum cervicibus aurea sedes ornat-
uque novo gravior deus.
75 On fercula, see B. Madigan, The Ceremonial Sculptures of the Roman Gods, Leiden 2012.
Emperors 59

currently in the Badisches Landesmuseum in Karlsruhe – these litters were

temples made for the road in which the cult statue was enshrined during pro-
cessions. (see Fig. 16)

Figure 16 Two priests carrying a naiskos-shrine of Harpocrates. Clay, first

half of the 1st century BCE, 15,6 cm. Badisches Landesmuseum
Karlsruhe (inv. no. H 796). (Photo: Thomas Goldschmidt)
60 Chapter 2

The garment referenced by the poet, too, can be gleaned from extant sources.
As reigning emperor, Honorius was consul prior and wore the maiore toga.
Texts and representations indicate that this garment was covered in jewels.76
Depictions of the 354 consuls in the Calendar of Filocalus show Constantius II
(r. 337–361) as consul prior, wearing the maiore toga, and Gallus (326–354) as
his co-consul. Countless jewels stud the ruler’s garment, while embroidered
images adorn his cousin’s outfit. Thus, the consul prior’s garment combined
the purple and gold of the consular trabea with jewels. The combination
between the hues and materials considered to be most luminous and the light-
reflecting jewels rendered the ruler a luminous presence. (see Fig. 17) The con-
sular garment left little of the ruler’s body visible and, as pointed out by Bishop
Ambrose of Milan (sed. 374–ca. 397), during official processions, the audience
did not get to see the emperor’s face but rather the luminous splendour of his
garment, which they credited to his person.77 From now on, imperial costumes
hid the ruler’s body under several layers of gold- and jewel-clad garments and
insignia that enveloped him in a luminous haze. Such a glow was the mark of
theophanies and of cult statues set in the penumbra of temple cellae.78 The
procession, the litter, the aesthetic of the imperial person and, as will be dis-
cussed later, the ruler’s immobility created a systematic analogy between the
living emperor and a cult statue.
The interpretation of the imperial litter as an Egyptian cult statue aedicula
can be ascribed to Claudian’s polytheism. Nevertheless, even Honorius’s father,
the most Christian emperor Theodosius I (r. 379–395), had himself depicted in
the manner of a god (or god’s statue). The famous missorium of Theodosius (a
large silver plate) was made in an imperial workshop in Constantinople as a
gift for an important person from Hispania.79 On the plate, the ruler is depicted
as larger than life-size, haloed, and framed by the same architectural element
borrowed from temple facades that was at the centre of Diocletian’s palace;
all features adopted from representations of the gods. No Christian symbol is
present in the scene, but Tellus – the Roman personification of the Earth –
reclines in a lower register, surrounded by flying putti. A similar reliance on

76 See the analysis in V. Ivanovici, Iconic Presences. Late Roman Consuls as Imperial Images,
in: CONVI 6 (2019), 128–147.
77 Ambr., exp. Ps. CXVIII 8.19 (M. Petschenig [ed.], Ambrosius. Expositio psalmi CXVIII,
CSEL 62, Vienna 1913, 161–162). See also Chrys., hom. s. mart. 3 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae
cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 50, Paris 1862, coll. 650B; my trans) Ἱμάτιόν ἐστι βασιλι-
κὸν τὸ σῶμα τὸ δεσποτικόν./ “the garment is the emperor’s body.”
78 On theophanies of the old gods being luminous, see Platt, 2011.
79 On the missorium, see Kiilerich, 2000.
Emperors 61

Figure 17 Constantius II as consul of 354. Drawing after 17th-century copy of manuscript

illumination from the Calendar of Filocalus. MS Romanus 1, Barb. lat. 2154 fol. 13r
in the Biblioteca Vaticana. (Drawing by Vladimir Ivanovici)

polytheistic imagery to establish the iconicity of the imperial person is evident

in the best-known scene of adventus.
As pointed out by Peter Brown, Constantius’s II visit of Rome in 357 repre-
sented an encounter between the new, Constantinopolitan notion of rulership
62 Chapter 2

and the old capital.80 In Rome, the Senatorial aristocracy had restored many
of the city’s late Republican traditions after the emperors’ relocation.81 Thus,
Constantius’s arrival could have produced a clash between the polytheistic,
self-governing old capital and the autocratic, Christian ruler. Nevertheless, his
triumph-inspired performance made full use of Rome’s polytheistic landscape,
with the result that the hosts and guests were brought together by the ruler’s
iconicity.82 Late Roman emperors had abandoned the triumphator’s chariot in
favour of a cart (carpentum), similar to the ones used in the past for statues of
the goddess Cybele. Enthroned in the jewelled wagon, Constantius displayed
himself to a diverse audience.83 Wearing their ceremonial clothes, the Romans
had brought with them the portraits of their ancestors.84 They had probably
also dressed up the statues present on the path of the procession and opened
the gates of temples to allow the gods to see the emperor, a custom still visible
in the depiction of an adventus on the 303 Arch of Galerius in Thessaloniki.85
While these practices are also attested in triumphs, the bringing of the gods’
statues to the side of the street is particular to the adventus and made the same
point as panegyrists of the time and Diocletian’s architect at Split did: the liv-
ing emperor gained precedence over traditional gods and his living body over
cult statues.86 This audience – composed of persons, ancestor portraits, and
statues of the gods – was offered a marvellous sight as the statue-like emperor
advanced, surrounded by an entourage of seemingly animated statues:

80 P. Brown, The Making of Late Antiquity, Cambridge 1978, 115.

81 On the culture of the city in this period, see C. Machado, Urban Space and Power in Late
Antique Rome, Oxford 2006; id., Building the Past: Monuments and Memory in the Forum
Romanum, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 3 (2006), 157–192; id., Religion as Antiquarianism:
Pagan Dedications in Late Antique Rome, in: J. Bodel / M. Kajava (eds.), Dediche sacre nel
mondo greco-romano: diffusione, funzioni, tipologie, Rome 2009, 331–354; id., City as Stage:
Aristocratic Commemorations in Late Antique Rome, in: É. Rebillard / C. Sotinel (eds.), Les
frontières du profane dans l’antiquité tardive, Rome 2010, 287–317.
82 On the relationship triumph-adventus, see Dufraigne, 1994; Drake, 2014, 221–222;
F. Goldbeck / J. Wienand (eds.), Der römische Triumph in Prinzipat und Spätantike, Berlin
2017.
83 See the wagon depicted on the Arch of Constantine in Rome and on a recently discovered
tetrarchic relief from Nicomedia cf. T.Ş. Ağtürk, A New Tetrarchic Relief from Nicomedia:
Embracing Emperors, in: AJA 122 (2018), 411–426.
84 Cf. Amm. Marc., r.g. 16.10.5 (Rolfe [ed.], 1935, 244).
85 On the practice, see Pan. Lat. 5(8)4 (Nixon / Rodgers / Mynors [eds.], 1994, 278);
MacCormack, 1981.
86 Cf. also Pan. Lat. 8(5)19, 7(6)8.7–8, 12(11)7.5–7 and 19 (Nixon / Rodgers / Mynors [eds.],
1994).
Emperors 63

[scil. Constantius] sat alone upon a golden car in the resplendent blaze of
various precious stones whose mingled glitter seemed to form a sort of second
daylight. […] And there marched on either side twin lines of infantrymen with
shields and crests gleaming with glittering light, clad in shining mail; and scat-
tered among them were the full-armoured cavalry, all masked, furnished with
protecting breastplates and girt with iron belts, so that you might have supposed
them statues polished by the hand of Praxiteles, not men. […] And, as if the neck
were in a vice, he [scil. Constantius] kept the gaze of his eyes straight ahead, and
turned his face neither to the right nor to the left. Like a graven image of a man,
he neither allowed his head to shake when the wheel of the carriage jolted, nor
was he at any time seen to spit, wipe or rub his nose, or to move his hands.87

The living statues surrounding the emperor were the clibanarii, a cavalry corps
characterised by the armour that covered them and their horses completely,
like the cataphractarii we discussed in the previous chapter. The clibanarii
are recurrently mentioned as living statues in fourth-century descriptions
of adventus.88 Apart from them, whose prominence in the sources can be
ascribed to their recent addition to the Roman army, other members of the cav-
alry accompanying Constantius might have worn the metal masks mentioned
by Ammianus. As early as the first century, officers of the Roman cavalry wore
masks during training sessions and parades.89 Spectacular, these masks often

87 Amm. Marc., r.g. 16.10.2–10 (C.U. Clark [ed.], Ammiani Marcellini Rerum gestarum libri qui
supersunt, Berlin 1910, 244–246; trans. Elsner, 1998, 34) insidebat aureo solus ipse carpento,
fulgenti claritudine lapidum variorum, quo micante lux quaedam misceri videbatur alterna.
eumque post antegressos multiplices alios, purpureis subtegminibus texti, circumdedere
dracones, hastarum aureis gemmatisque summitatibus inligati, hiatu vasto perflabiles, et
ideo velut ira perciti sibilantes, caudarumque volumina relinquentes in ventum. et incede-
bat hinc inde ordo geminus armatorum, clipeatus atque cristatus, corusco lumine radians,
nitidis loricis indutus, sparsique catafracti equites (quos clibanarios dictitant) personati
thoracum muniti tegminibus, et limbis ferreis cincti, ut Praxitelis manu polita crederes simu-
lacra, non viros: quos laminarum circuli tenues, apti corporis flexibus ambiebant, per omnia
membra diducti, ut quocumque artus necessitas commovisset, vestitus congrueret, iunctura
cohaerenter aptata. Augustus itaque faustis vocibus appellatus, non montium litorumque
intonante fragore cohorruit, talem se tamque immobilem, qualis in provinciis suis visebatur,
ostendens. nam et corpus perhumile curvabat, portas ingrediens celsas, et velut collo munito,
rectam aciem luminum tendens, nec dextra vultum nec laeva flectebat, et (tamquam fig-
mentum hominis) nec cum rota concuteret nutans, nec spuens, aut os aut nasum tergens vel
fricans, manumve agitans visus est umquam.
88 E.g., Claudian., VI cons. 564–577 (Dewar [ed.], 1996, 38).
89 On Roman cavalry equipment, see M.C. Bishop / J.C. Coulston, Roman Military
Equipment from the Punic Wars to the Fall of Rome, London 2006. On masks cavalry, see
M. Kohlert, Zur Entwicklung, Funktion und Genesis römischer Gesichtsmasken in Thrakien
und Niedermösien, in: WZ(B) 25 (1976), 509–516; id., Bemerkungen zur Typologie und
Chronologie römischer Gesichtsmasken, in: AAH 29 (1981), 393–401; id., Maske als Porträt?
Funktionelle und ästhetische Besonderheiten der römischen Gesichtsmasken, in: WZ(B) 31
64 Chapter 2

reproduced physiognomic features and invited symbolic associations to stat-

ues. (see Fig. 18) Thanks to recent reconstructions of Roman armour and of the
chromatics of statuary, we can now better appreciate the similarities between
the two, especially in the case of armours that covered the face.90 Thus, the
immobile emperor sitting on the chariot appeared at the centre of a similarly
statuesque group with the scene creating, as put by Ramsey MacMullen, a tab-
leau vivant.91
A second key venue of self-presentation for Christian emperors was the cir-
cus balcony. The presence of the ruler in the balcony grew in importance over
time, as late Roman rulers tended to travel less and remain within the confines
of their palaces. The reason behind this reluctance to show themselves is given
by Synesius (d. ca. 414), a classically trained sophist who later became bishop
of Ptolemais in Cyrenaica, Libya.92 Writing to emperor Arcadius (r. 395–408),
Synesius pointed out that “since the ceremonial was introduced around emper-
ors, you hide like lizards that rarely come outside towards the heat of the sun,
so that you are not revealed as humans to other humans.”93 This self-isolation

(1982), 229–232; M. Junkelmann, Reiter wie Statuen aus Erz, Mainz 1996. On the parades,
see A. Busetto, War as Training, War as Spectacle: The hippika gymnasia from Xenophon
to Arrian, in: G. Lee / H. Whittaker / G. Wrightson (eds.), Ancient Warfare: Introducing
Current Research, Newcastle 2015, 147–171.
90 For the reconstructed aesthetic of statuary, see S. Haag / V. Brinkmann / U. Koch-Brinkmann
(eds.), Bunte Götter: Die Farbigkeit antiker Skulptur, Vienna 2012; V. Brinkmann, Art of
Many Colors: Classical Statues in their Original Appearance, in: S. Settis / A. Anguissola /
D. Gasparotto (eds.), Serial/Portable Classic: Multiplying Art in Greece and Rome, Milan
2015, 95–100; A. Skovmøller, Facing the Colours of Roman Portraiture, Berlin 2020. Armours
were reconstructed by various museums.
91 R. MacMullen, Some Pictures in Ammianus Marcellinus, in: ArtB 46 (1964), 435–455. On
“animate immobility” and its symbolism, see Miller, The Corporeal, 2009, 136–142.
92 On Synesius, see J. Bregman, Synesius of Cyrene: Philosopher-Bishop, TCH 2, Berkeley 1982.
93 Synes., regn. 15.7 (J. Lamoureux / N. Aujoulat [eds.], Synésios de Cyrène. Tome V: Opuscules
II. Collection des Universités de France, Paris 2008, 112–113; trans. C. Bordino) Νῦν οὖν ἆρ’
ἄμεινον πράττετε, ἀφ’ οὗ περὶ τοὺς βασιλέας ἡ τελετὴ συνέστη, καὶ θαλαμεύεσθε καθάπερ αἱ
σαῦραι μόλις, εἴ πῃ, πρὸς τὴν εἵλην ἐκκύπτουσαι, μὴ φωραθείητε ὑπὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ὄντες
ἄνθρωποι; cf. also Chrys., hom. I 1 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series
Graeca. Vol. 63, Paris 1862, coll. 469; trans. W. Mayer / P. Allen, John Chrysostom, London
2000, 87), who praises the empress that she joined the people of the capital during a
procession with relics and “she allowed herself to be seen by the crowd at the midst of the
vast spectacle – she upon whom it’s forbidden for even all the eunuchs who serve in the
imperial palace to gaze. Instead, her desire for the martyrs, the tyranny and flame of love
persuaded her to cast of all her masks …”/ καὶ ἐν μέσῳ θεάτρῳ τοσούτῳ φαινομένη δήμῳ, ἣν
οὐδὲ εὐνούχοις ἅπασι τοῖς ἐν ταῖς βασιλικαῖς στρεφομένοις αὐλαῖς θέμις ἰδεῖν; Ἀλλ’ ὁ τῶν μαρτύ-
ρων πόθος καὶ ἡ τυραννὶς καὶ ἡ τῆς ἀγάπης φλὸξ ἅπαντα ταῦτα τὰ προσωπεῖα ῥῖψαι ἀνέπεισε,
καὶ γυμνῇ τῇ προθυμίᾳ τὸν ζῆλον ἐπιδείξασθαι τὸν περὶ τοὺς ἁγίους μάρτυρας.
Emperors 65

Figure 18 Cavalry mask with protomes showing two men and three women pertaining to
the cult of Bacchus. Iron and bronze with silver veneer, late 1st century, Nijmegen.
Collection Valkhof Museum, Nijmegen, on loan from the Cultural Heritage
Agency of the Netherlands (Photo: Thijn van de Ven)

invested moments of public appearance with a theophanic quality that was

catalysed through the careful staging of each detail of the performance. Older
practices – such as the coming to the circus loggia dressed in purple and with
an entourage wearing white for contrast – were now perfected.94 As a result,

94 On this strategy in late Republican/early imperial times, see C.P. Jones, Processional Color,
in: Bergmann / Kondoleon (eds.), 1999, 247–257, 249.
66 Chapter 2

early Byzantine emperors wore an increasingly peculiar costume, in both form

and chromatic, and utilised guards wearing white for contrast, selected on
account of their beauty for a “cheerleader effect.”95
The loggias in the main circuses (or hippodromes) in Rome and
Constantinople are known from several representations. These indicate that
the imperial balconies borrowed the outlook of temples, with them framing
the ruler in a similar manner to Diocletian’s palace in Split, thus putting him
in the position of a cult statue. In Rome, the imperial balcony grew out of the
platform on which statues of the gods had traditionally been placed to witness
the games. Remade by Trajan, the pulvinar was shaped like a tetrastyle tem-
ple.96 The Constantinopolitan counterpart, the kathisma, lacked the triangular
pediment but retained its framing quality.97 (see Fig. 19) Connected directly
to the imperial palace, the kathisma allowed emperors to display themselves
to the people gathered in the hippodrome, who, throughout Byzantine his-
tory, praised the ruler’s appearance as a ‘sunrise’, thus as a sort of luminous
theophany reminiscent of the ruler’s impersonation of Sol during the early
centuries CE.98
As we have just seen, two of the main venues of imperial self-presentation
of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries – the adventus and the circus balcony –
had the ruler appear as a sort of animated cult statue, framed by spaces that
imitated temples and enveloped in an aesthetic of light that spoke of revela-
tion. Such strategies rendered the ruler statue-like over time and made interac-
tion with him a mainly visual experience. This is best noticeable in Justin II’s
(r. 565–574) reception of foreign emissaries.99 Sitting on a golden throne placed

95 On the beauty of the guards, see Synes., regn. 16.6–7 (Lamoureux / Aujoulat [eds.], 2008,
116); Cor., in laud. 3.194–205 (Cameron [ed.], 1976, 66–67). Fol. 16 in the sixth-century
Vienna Genesis (Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, cod. theol. gr. 31) shows the
Philistine King Abimelech in the guise of a Byzantine emperor of the time, with blonde
guards in splendid attire. On the “cheerleader effect” that makes individuals appear
more attractive when displayed together with attractive people, see D. Walker / E. Vul,
Hierarchical Encoding Makes Individuals in a Group Seem More Attractive, in: Psychol.
Sci. 25 (2013), 230–235; Y. van Osch / I. Blanken / M.H.J. Meijs / J. van Wolferen, A Groups
Physical Attractiveness is Greater Than the Average Attractiveness of Its Members: The
Group Attractiveness Effect, in: PSPB 41 (2015), 559–574.
96 On the pulvinar’s history and cultic implications, see C. Van Den Berg, The ‘Pulvinar’ in
Roman Culture, in: TAPA 138 (2008), 239–273.
97 On it, see L. Safran, Points of View: The Theodosian Obelisk Base in Context, in: GRBS 34
(1993), 409–435.
98 On this chant, see Kantorowicz, 1963, esp. 155.
99 Described by Cor., in laud. 3.194–205 (Cameron [ed.], 1976, 66–67) and discussed by
A. Cameron, The Artistic Patronage of Justin II, in: Byz. 50 (1980), 62–84; M. Featherstone,
The Great Palace as Reflected in De Ceremoniis, in: F.A. Bauer (ed.), Visualisierungen von
Emperors 67

Figure 19 Relief at the base of the Obelisk of Theodosius showing Theodosius (r. 379–395)
in the Hippodrome loggia in Constantinople next to Valentinian II (to his left)
and his sons and future emperors of the West and East, Honorius and Arcadius
(to his right). Members of the guard, court, and high society are depicted around,
while representatives of barbarian tribes kneel below bringing tribute. Marble,
390, Constantinople. (Photo: © The Byzantine Legacy)

under a canopy, wearing gold and purple, and surrounded by beautiful guards,
Justin neither flinched nor addressed the Avar embassy.100 The reception was,
in fact, the privilege of gazing at the ruler, displayed in the Chrysotriklinos as
a living image of the divine.101 Thus, at least for some people, the palace in
Constantinople had come to function in the same way as ancient temples did,
namely as a place where access to the cella and sight of the anthropomorphic,
animated image of the divine represented the apex of the experience.

Herrschaft: frühmittelalterliche Residenzen, Gestalt und Zeremoniell. Internationales

Kolloquium 3./4. Juni 2004 in Istanbul, Istanbul 2006, 47–60 (50–55); Carile, 2012, 173–176.
100 On emperors under ciboria and the symbolism of the stance, see G. Hornbostel-Hüttner,
Studien zur römischen Nischenarchitektur, Leiden 1979, 51–52.
101 On the audience as a theophany replete with cosmic analogies, see Carile, 2012, 175.
68 Chapter 2

Established through personal merits in the early centuries CE and expanded

through carefully choreographed displays, the iconicity of living rulers became
fully institutionalised at the dawn of the Byzantine era. In the process, the
iconic quality passed from the person of the ruler to the artifices that gave
his body its revelatory quality. Seeking to preserve this effect, early Byzantine
rulers backed themselves into a corner, with their isolation and reliance on
strategies eventually annulling their individuality, as we have seen from the
events following the death of Anastasius.102 Few would manage to work their
way out of this corner, with Justinian’s II adventure showing both determina-
tion and ingenuity in ‘working the system.’103 His gold nose reflected imperial
iconicity even better than his flesh one, thus his mutilation could not be held
against him.
Over time, iconicity came to play such a central role in Byzantine ruler-
ship that Manuel Komnenos (r. 1143–1180) imprisoned Andronikos Komnenos
(r. 1183–1185) due to “his constant outspokenness and the fact that he excelled
most men in bodily strength; his perfect physique was worthy of empire.”104 As
our source goes on to point out:

Should there exist someone endowed with the beauty of a statue and the lyrical
eloquence of a nightingale in song, gifted, moreover, with ready wit, then the
wearer of the crown can neither sleep nor rest, but his sleep is interrupted, his
voluptuousness suppressed, his appetite for pleasure lost, and he is filled with
grave apprehensions; with wicked tongue he curses the creator nature for fash-
ioning others suitable to rule and for not making him the first and last and the
fairest of men.105

102 See Dagron, 1996; S. Elm, Eutropius the Eunuch – An Icon of Ugliness, in: Bacci / Ivanovici
(eds.), 2019, online. MacMullen, 1964, 439 spoke of emperors being “increasingly forced
into an ideal impersonal mold.”
103 See above, p. xxv n. 1.
104 Nik. Chon. (d. 1217), h. 3 (J.L. van Dieten [ed.], Nicetae Choniatae Historia. Pars Prior:
Praefationem et textum continensed, Berlin 1975, 103; trans. H.J. Magoulias [trans.], O, City
of Byzantium: Annals of Niketas Choniates, Detroit 1984, 59) οὐδὲν δὲ ἧττον τὸ ἐλευθεροστο-
μεῖν ἀεὶ καὶ τὸ τῇ ῥώμῃ τῶν πολλῶν διαφέρειν καὶ ἡ εὖ ἔχουσα πλάσις τοῦ σώματος ἀξία οὖσα
τοῦ τυραννεῖν καὶ τὸ τοῦ φρονήματος ἀταπείνωτον.
105 Ibid., 4 (Van Dieten [ed.], 1975, 143; Magoulias [trans.], 1984, 81) κἂν εἴη τις τὸ κάλλος ἀγαλ-
ματίας καὶ τὴν γλῶτταν ὡς ὄρνις μουσηγέτης ἐστόμωται, κἂν τὸ ἦθος ὁρῷτο εὐτράπελος, οὐκ ἐᾷ
καθεύδειν τὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ στέφους οὐδ’ ἠρεμεῖν, ἀλλὰ γίνεται τούτῳ τῶν ὕπνων ἐγκοπή, τῆς τρυφῆς
ἀνατροπή, ἡδονῆς ὑφαίρεσις, φροντίδων ὑπόθεσις· καὶ κακῶς λέγων εὐλογεῖ τὴν φύσιν τὴν πλά-
στριαν, ὅτι καὶ ἑτέρους εἰς τὸ ἄρχειν ἐπιδόξους ἐπαλαμήσατο καὶ μὴ πρῶτον αὐτὸν καὶ ὕστατον
κάλλιστον ἀνθρώπων ἐφύτευσεν.
Emperors 69

Thus, in the eastern continuation of the Roman Empire, physical beauty, stat-
ure, and eloquence continued to recommend one for the throne since one of
the main functions of the ruler was to be Christ’s statue on Earth.
At this point, a question arises. How could this quality of rulers, which
drew directly on polytheistic worship mediated by statues, appear legitimate
for them as images of Christ? The answer appears related to the way in which
Romans of the fourth century came to envision the divine. During this cen-
tury of transition, the image of the divine came to be given by rulers rather
than by statues.106 This is indicated by imperial panegyrists praising rulers as
more powerful than the gods; by Diocletian’s mausoleum dwarfing the temple
of Jupiter in Split; by the gods’ statues being brought to the side of the Via
Triumphalis to ‘see’ the living rulers; and by Christ’s ‘adoption’ of the imperial
look. The immobile but living emperor became the more credible image of
the divine, with the reified bodies of rulers gaining precedence over animated
statues. Assimilated into the ruler’s performance, the statue motif was carried
into the hybrid Roman-Christian culture that began to form in the fourth cen-
tury. In addition, since as early as the third century, living Christians came to
be likened to statues, as we will see in the following chapters.

2.4 Conclusions

Roman emperors gradually permanentised the iconicity that Republican gen-

erals enjoyed during triumphal celebrations. While the Republican reference to
Jupiter was maintained, other forms of the divine – Sol, Hercules, Christ – were
added over time to the imperial repertoire. Along with this diversification of
divine counterparts, the ways in which rulers obtained their divinity also multi-
plied. To the Homeric, achievement-rooted way of attaining divinity, emperors
added divine election and the embodying of deified virtues. Throughout this
process, which would lead to rulers becoming images of Christ, the analogy
to statues remained essential. The red body paint used by Republican gener-
als to look like Jupiter’s cult statue was replaced by more complex mises-en-
scène that, nevertheless, functioned in the same manner, with them likening
the emperor to statues. From palaces that imitated the shape and aesthetic
of temples, emperors emerged in the guise of the gods. Their audiences, thus,
could catch a glimpse of the splendour that the myths and stories had attrib-
uted to the Olympians and which, for the longest time, cult statues had repro-
duced in the human world. Like their Hellenistic predecessors, Roman rulers

106 As argued already by Brown, The World, 1971, 101.

70 Chapter 2

“played the god” in increasingly complex performances. These both reflected

and stimulated the theatricalisation of Roman social interaction that we dis-
cussed in the previous chapter.
All this is old news. Already in 1963, Ernst Kantorowicz was pointing out that
“The Christian emperor – the supreme God’s hyparchos [scil. prefect] on earth,
next to Christ as God’s hyparchos in heaven – became the christomimetes [scil.
imitator of Christ] above all others, that is, the one imitating and impersonat-
ing, even ceremoniously staging, Christ, the ruler of the universe.”107 What I
tried to show in this sketch of imperial self-presentation was that the iconic
quality of Roman and early Byzantine rulers was shaped by statue worship,
that their image-like quality had ancient roots, and that the iconic quality of
emperors had become natural to Romans.
The complementarity existing between private and imperial representations
in forma deorum – with private individuals avoiding to show themselves in the
guise of Jupiter or Sol, the rulers’ preferred associations – attests to imperial
iconicity being one aspect of a wider cultural phenomenon.108 By providing a
coherent, omnipresent, and durable expression of iconicity, emperors cham-
pioned a process that characterised the whole of Roman society.109 It is safe
to assume that the various manifestations taken by this belief in the human
potential to embody the divine reinforced, legitimised, and influenced each
other. Thus, each context where iconicity manifests should be studied against
the wider background represented by self-presentation in Roman culture and
in relation to the imperial expression of the phenomenon, which represented
its most visible and coherent image across the empire. I will now turn to a for-
mula of iconic living that was closely related, if aesthetically opposed, to the
imperial one, namely that of early Christian martyrs.

107 Kantorowicz, 1963, 151.

108 On private persons, see Wrede, 1981, 160–164; A. Alexandridis, Die Frauen des römischen
Kaiserhauses. Eine Untersuchung ihrer bildlichen Darstellung von Livia bis Iulia Domna,
Mainz 2004, 83.
109 J. Rüpke, Pantheon: A New History of Roman Religion, Princeton 2018, 211 pointed out the
relationship between imperial religious actions and popular ones.
 Chapter 3

Martyrs

For inasmuch as the Apostle Paul says again, ‘Know you not that you are the
temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?’ – even although love
urged us less to bring help to the brethren, yet in this place we must have consid-
ered that it was the temples of God which were taken captive, and that we ought
not by long inactivity and neglect of their suffering to allow the temples of God
to be long captive, but to strive with what powers we can, and to act quickly by
our obedience, to deserve well of Christ our Judge and Lord and God. For as the
Apostle Paul says, ‘As many of you as have been baptized into Christ have put on
Christ,’ Christ is to be contemplated in our captive brethren.1

This chapter argues that the establishing of the imperial cult stimulated the
development of a particular type of iconic individual within Christian com-
munities. By having those living within the confines of the empire sacrifice to
the gods for the welfare of the emperor, the state forced Christianity’s radicali-
sation. Those who refused to sacrifice and were therefore punished through
imprisonment and torture (i.e., confessors), or death (i.e., martyrs), became
iconic through suffering, as indicated by Paul. Their struggles were seen as
mirroring those of Jesus, with martyrs putting on a performance that allowed
other Christians to witness his sufferings.2 In this, martyrs gained a perfor-
mative iconic quality. In addition, since it was believed that the Holy Spirit

1 Cypr., ep. 62.3 (W. de Hartel [ed.], S. Thasci Caecili Cypriani Opera Omnia. Vol. 3, CSEL 3/2,
Vienna 1871, 699; trans. ANF 5, 200) Nam cum denuo apostolus Paulos dicat: nescitis quia
templum Dei estis et spiritus Dei habitat in vobis? etiamsi caritas minus adegerit ad opem fra-
tribus ferendam, considerandum tamen hoc in loco fuit Dei templa esse quae capta sunt, nec
pati nos longa cessatione et neglecto dolore debere ut diu Dei templa captiva sunt, sed quibus
possumus elaborare viribus et velociter gerere ut Christum iudicem et Dominum Deum nostrum
promereamur obsequiis nostris. Nam cum dicat Paulus apostolus: quotquot in Christo baptizati
estis, Christum induistis, in captivis fratribus nostris contemplandus est Christus … Cyprian
refers here to Christians kidnapped by barbarian tribes and seeks to mobilise communities
to donate for their ransom. To this end, he identifies the prisoners as confessors and summa-
rizes the reasons why confessors were to be appreciated.
2 On imitatio christi in early Christianity and martyrdom, see M. Pellegrino, L’imitation du
Christ dans les actes des martyrs, in: La Vie Spirituelle 98 (1958), 38–54; M. Franzmann,
Imitatio Christi: Copying the Death of the Founder and Gaining Paradise, in: Z. Rodgers /
M. Daly-Denton / A. Fitzpatrick McKinley (eds.), A Wandering Galilean: Essays in Honour of
Seán Freyne, SJSJ 132, Leiden 2009, 370–372; C.R. Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in
Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom, New York 2010; M. Taveirne, Das Martyrium als
imitatio Christi: Die literarische Gestaltung der spätantiken Märtyrerakten und passionen nach
der Passion Christi, in: ZAC 18 (2014), 167–203.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_004

72 Chapter 3

inhabited confessors and Christ inhabited martyrs, they came to be perceived

as material vessels of the divine, akin to temples and cult statues. The fragment
I quoted in the beginning of this chapter attests to both the iconic and vessel-
like quality ascribed to confessors, as well as to the central role Paul’s writings
played in shaping the image of martyrs as living temples and persons who “put
on” Christ.
Although in functioning as material images and vessels of the divine mar-
tyrs drew close to cult statues, Christians writing before 313 preferred the anal-
ogy of the ‘temple’ because of the central role statues played in the sacrifices
the martyrs refused to perform. Despite a reluctance to compare martyrs to
statues, their presentation as living temples and insistence that they display
the divine created an obvious association.
Christian martyrdom provides a clear expression of the iconic phenomenon
because it documents the competition between cult statues and living per-
sons, the crediting of the latter with mediatory functions of the former, and
the transfer of those functions from living bodies to other forms of interaction
with the divine (in this case, relics).3 After discussing Paul’s concept of iconic
living, which shaped the perception of martyrs during the first three centuries,
I address why martyrs were seen as images of the divine and how their iconic-
ity manifested. Finally, I argue that after 313, the martyrs’ iconicity was trans-
ferred to other types of Christian overachievers and to relics.4

3 H.D. Betz, Hero Worship and Christian Beliefs: Observations from the History of Religion on
Philostratus’s Heroikos, in: E. Bradshaw Aitken / J.K. Berenson Maclean (eds.), Philostratus’s
Heroikos: Religion and Cultural Identity in the Third Century C.E., Atlanta 2004, 25–47;
J.P. Hershbell, Philostratus’s Heroikos and Early Christianity: Heroes, Saints, and Martyrs, in:
Bradshaw Aitken / Berenson Maclean (eds.), 2004, 169–179; J.C. Skedros, The Heroikos and
Popular Christianity in the Third Century CE, in: Bradshaw Aitken / Berenson Maclean (eds.),
2004, 181–193 analysed martyrs in relationship with the notion of “divine men.”
4 For an overview of early Christian martyrdom, the cult of martyrs, and relics, see H. Delehaye,
Les origines du culte des martyrs, Brussels 1933; V. Saxer, Morts martyrs reliques en Afrique
chrétienne aux premiers siècles: les témoignages de Tertullien, Cyprien et Augustin à la lumière
de l’archéologie, Paris 1980; L. Grig, Making Martyrs in Late Antiquity, London 2004; Moss,
2010. I focus here on pre-313 accounts because later ones reflect a new dynamic between
Christianity and Roman society.
Martyrs 73

3.1 Paul’s Concept of Iconic Living

As mentioned previously, Christians in Corinth complained about how Paul’s

feeble body did not suggest that he was the representative for an omnipotent
god. Since, after all, he preached about the same god who had given Moses his
luminous face, Paul was asked by some of the Corinthian Christians to show-
case similar corporeal signs. The Apostle’s response to the Corinthians would
shape the early Christian definition of iconicity: “He [scil. Christ] said to me,
‘My grace is enough for you, for My power in infirmity is perfected;’ most gladly,
therefore, will I rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of the Christ may
rest on me.”5
Similar to priests of Atargatis, Cybele, or Isis, who altered their bodies to
proclaim their devotion, Paul’s scarred body attested to the power of his god.
Contravening Jewish and Graeco-Roman religious practices, which required
physical integrity for priestly functions, this new type of iconicity was rooted
in a rhetoric of power, where a follower’s willingness to suffer for their faith
attested to the power of the deity.6 By identifying resistance to suffering as
the marker of Christ’s indwelling presence, Paul created the conditions for an
iconic appreciation of the martyrs who followed.
Because Jesus had suffered, undergoing sufferings for their righteousness
likened Christians to their god. As Paul put it, his sufferings resulted in him
being “co-crucified with Christ.”7 Paul’s iconicity was not solely a performative
matter because his troubles left traces on his body, which he identified as “the
marks of Jesus.”8 Since he introduced Jesus as “the image of the invisible God,”9
his imitation of Jesus turned Paul into an image of the image, with Paul thus
claiming a function that was not unlike that of a cult image.

5 2 Cor 12:9 καὶ εἴρηκέν μοι· Ἀρκεῖ σοι ἡ χάρις μου ἡ γὰρ δύναμις μου ἐν ἀσθενείᾳ τελειοῦται ἥδιστα
οὖν μᾶλλον καυχήσομαι ἐν ταῖς ἀσθενείαις μου· ἵνα ἐπισκηνώσῃ ἐπ’ ἐμὲ ἡ δύναμις τοῦ Χριστοῦ.
6 On corporeal integrity, see Lev 21:17 and Plu., q.r. 73 (F.C. Babbitt [ed. / trans.], Plutarch.
Moralia. Vol. 4: Roman Questions. Greek Questions. Greek and Roman Parallel Stories. On the
Fortune of the Romans. On the Fortune or the Virtue of Alexander. Were the Athenians More
Famous in War or in Wisdom?, LCL 305, Cambridge 1962, 110), respectively.
7 Gal 2:20, quoted above, p. 18 n. 71.
8 Gal 6:17 Τοῦ λοιποῦ κόπους μοι μηδεὶς παρεχέτω, ἐγὼ γὰρ τὰ στίγματα τοῦ Ἰησοῦ ἐν τῷ σώματί
μου βαστάζω. / “Let no one give me trouble, for I bear the scars of the Lord Jesus in my body.”
On Paul’s and others’ stigmata hiera, see S. Elm, Pierced by Bronze Needles: Anti-Montanist
Charges of Ritual Stigmatization in their Fourth-century Context, in: JECS 4 (1996), 409–439;
C. Rainier (ed.), Ancient Marks: The Sacred Origins of Tattoos and Body Marking, San Rafael
2004.
9 Col 1:15 εἰκὼν τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ἀοράτου.
74 Chapter 3

Towards the end of the first century, the author of Revelations confirmed the
extraordinary status of those who suffered and died for the faith. In stating that
martyrs will share Christ’s throne in heaven, he promised martyrs a status like
that of the Son of God, which confirmed Paul’s earlier claim that he no longer
lives, and instead, Christ lives inside him.10
Nevertheless, Paul’s notion of iconicity was not restricted to those who suf-
fered. By presenting Jesus as the second Adam and identifying baptism as the
mechanism through which one “put on” Christ, the Apostle extended Jesus’s
iconic status – as the human image of God – to his baptised followers.11 This
“putting on” occurred by imitating his behaviour in daily life, which estab-
lished Christianity as a “mimetic movement.”12 Tribulations were signs of one’s
successful imitation since Jesus, too, had suffered. For this reason, Paul’s suffer-
ings were “his pride.”13
Those who did not get to know Jesus during his life on Earth could ‘see’ him
in his imitators. These had initially been the apostles who, Paul said, had been
“conformed to the image of the Son.”14 Their audiences were required to imi-
tate them on account of their own imitation of Jesus. Paul’s call to “imitate me,
just as I imitate Christ” – a leitmotif of the writings attributed to him – created
what Van Kooten called a “mimetic chain.”15 The human links in this perfor-
mative chain were, I argue, iconic, as they became living images of God both
through their daily lives and, especially, through their sufferings. Rather than
symbolic, Paul’s references to the body and its relationship with the divine

10 Rev 3:21. See also A. Phil. (A.A.R. Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], Atti e Passioni dei Martiri, Milan
1987, 308). Unless otherwise indicated, all martyr Acta references are from the edition by
Bastiaensen et al., 1987.
11 On baptism, see Gal 3:27. On its effects, see 1 Cor 15:22; J.D.G. Dunn, Christology in the
Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation,
London ²1989, 114–121. Paul’s decision to extend the iconic status of Jesus to His followers
fits a process M. Weber, The Theory of Social and Economic Organization, New York 1947
called “the routinization of charisma.”
12 Van Kooten, 2008, 214. See Ign., Eph. 1.1 (P.-T. Camelot [ed.], Ignace d’Antioche, Polycarpe
de Smyrne, Lettres, Martyre de Polycarpe, SC 10bis, Paris 1969, 56, my trans.) μιμηταὶ ὄντες
θεοῦ / “You are imitators of God”; Mart. Lugd. 2.2 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 90, my
trans.) ζηλωταὶ καὶ μιμηταὶ Χριστοῦ / “[martyrs are] emulators and imitators of Christ.”.
13 2 Cor 12:9–10; M.J. Gorman, Inhabiting the Cruciform God: Kenosis, Justification, and
Theosis in Paul’s Narrative Soteriology, Grand Rapids 2009, 92; V. Rabens, Pneuma and
the Beholding of God: Reading Paul in the Context of Philonic Mystical Traditions, in:
J. Frey / J.R. Levison (eds.), The Holy Spirit, Inspiration, and the Cultures of Antiquity:
Multidisciplinary Perspectives, Berlin 2014, 293–330 (321–322).
14 Rom 8:29 συμμόρφους τῆς εἰκόνος τοῦ Υἱοῦ; Rabens, 2014.
15 1 Cor 11:1 cf. also 4:16, 1 Thes 1:6; 2 Thes 3:7; 1 Tim 1:16; Phil 3:17. See Van Kooten, 2008, 214.
Martyrs 75

were ‘technical’, with recent researchers emphasising the literalness of his

statements regarding the body.
Jane Heath demonstrated that the Apostle’s concept of conformation to
God’s image was based on contemporary belief in the power of the gaze to
transform one into the object of sight.16 By keeping one’s gaze fixed on Christ
(or on his imitators) and imitating his behaviour, “we all, with unveiled face,
the glory of the Lord beholding in a mirror, to the same image are being trans-
formed, from glory to glory.”17 Self-transformation through the contemplation
of exemplary figures was a key principle of paideia, which Paul adapted for
Christian use by substituting exempla with Jesus and his imitators. As we have
seen, this process of spiritual conformation was supposed to reflect through
one’s body. Nevertheless, as indicated by his terminology, Paul did not expect
one to become a doppelgänger of Jesus. By using εἰκών rather than μορφή when
describing the type of image of the divine Christians would become, Paul con-
ceded a loose visual correspondence, as μορφή denoted bodily shape while
εἰκών stood for a generic notion of image.
This flexible notion of Christ-like living allowed Paul to liken his tribula-
tions to the Crucifixion and establish as iconic the persons suffering for the
faith. Thus, Paul called Christians to become performative images of Christ by
imitating his behaviour, like the religious overachievers of other contemporary
cults, thus establishing Christianity as a mimetic movement where one’s suc-
cessful imitation of their god was indicated by sufferings. Roman authorities
gave Paul’s concept of iconic living a wider spread than the Apostle could have
hoped. By persecuting the followers of Jesus and targeting the heads of their
communities, Roman authorities allowed the martyrs to complete their imita-
tion by dying.

3.2 Performing Christ in the Arena

Being executed for worshipping Christ shifted one’s iconic quality from perfor-
mative to theophanic. As martyrs were “co-crucified with Christ” in imperial
arenas, miracles such as superhuman resistance to pain, an otherworldly light,
or a heavenly odour manifested through their bodies.18 This turn towards the

16 J.M.F. Heath, Paul’s Visual Piety: The Metamorphosis of the Beholder, Oxford 2013.
17 2 Cor 3:18 ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντες ἀνακεκαλυμμένῳ προσώπῳ τὴν δόξαν κυρίου κατοπτριζόμενοι
τὴν αὐτὴν εἰκόνα μεταμορφούμεθα ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν καθάπερ ἀπὸ κυρίου πνεύματος. See
Rabens, 2014, with bibl.
18 The notion of resistance is recurrent in martyr Acta. On luminosity, see Mart. Pion. 4.2,
22.3; Pass. Perp. 18.1; Mart. Mar. 9.2 (H. Musurillo [ed. / trans.], The Acts of the Christian
76 Chapter 3

miraculous in Christian accounts of martyrdom might have been imposed by

the need to counteract the debasing ways in which most of them were put to
death.
Roman authorities controlled how martyrs died. Many Christians were
executed as noxii – the lowest category of prisoner – and thus not allowed to
interact with the audience.19 Some of the ways in which they were executed
included being dressed in tar-covered garments and burned, as well as being
tied to poles to be consumed by animals.20 (see Fig. 20) These ways to die were
considered degrading and prevented Christians from showcasing courage. The
rare opportunity to interact with the audience was also problematic because,
while it allowed martyrs to stress the Christ-like dimension of their sufferings
through the imitation of Jesus’s gestures and words, freedom of movement
would have also implied active involvement in the games.21 Given the polythe-
istic component of the spectacles and their reliance on the victims’ coopera-
tion, martyrs needed to make clear their refusal to participate. Even courage
had to be expressed in ways that contravened the models accepted by Romans
so as not to be mistaken for playing along. Thus, martyrs often displayed what
Romans considered to be dishonouring behaviour: refusing to perform or to
defend themselves, or seeking out a quick death.22 To compensate, Christian
communities developed their own perspective on the phenomenon and
taught their members to recognise the martyrs’ behaviour as courageous and
Christ-like.23 The focus fell on what could be embellished, namely resilience
to pain and divine manifestations, elements that were ultimately in the eye of
the beholder.
As a result, Christians and non-Christians in the audience ‘saw’ different
events. While non-Christians witnessed the punishing of religious fanatics who
behaved in a contemptible manner, Christians held martyrdom to be organised
by God. According to Christian authors of the time, God used Roman authori-
ties as a tool to ensure that these overachievers could complete their imitation
of Jesus in front of an audience composed of their communities, angels, and

Martyrs, Oxford 1972, 206); Mart. Mont. 4.2 (Musurillo [ed.], 1972, 216); A. Paul. 3.34
(Schmidt [ed.], 1904). On odour, see Mart. Poly. 15; Mart. Lugd. 1.35; Harvey, 2006, 11–21.
19 Kyle, 1998.
20 Tac., ann. 15.44.4 (M. Owen / I. Gildenhard [eds. / trans.], Tacitus, Annals, 15.20–23, 33–45.
Latin Text, Study Aids with Vocabulary, and Commentary, Cambridge 2013, 70).
21 On imitating Christ, see Acts 7:60 and Mart Lugd. 2.5 cf. Luke 23:34; Franzmann, 2009, 378.
22 Mart. Poly. 3.2; Mart. Pion. 6.3–4.; Pass. Perp. 18.4; Mart. Pion. 2.4, 6.3, 15.7 and 18.4.
23 E.g., Prud., perist. 2.381–388 (M.P. Cunningham [ed.], Aurelii Prudentii Clementis Carmina,
CCSL 126, Turnhout 1966, 270).
Martyrs 77

Figure 20 Pottery bowl with scene of damnatio ad bestias showing a man tied
to a pole and exposed to a male lion. Terra sigillata, ca. 350–430,
18.2 cm diameter, produced in north Africa. Badisches
Landesmuseum Karlsruhe (inv. no. 68/28). (Photo: Peter Gaul)

Himself.24 Blandina’s execution illustrates this idea. To non-Christians pres-

ent in the amphitheatre of Vienne (Lyon) in 177, the execution of the young
maid – where persecutors tied her to a pole in cruciform posture and exposed
her to animals – would have likely referenced Andromeda. According to leg-
end, Andromeda had been sacrificed to a sea monster and saved by Perseus in
the nick of time. A popular topic in early imperial art, the episode was often
represented as a young girl chained to a rock in cruciform pose, as depicted in
a splendid mural from Boscotrecase, now in the Metropolitan Museum in New
York. (see Fig. 21)

24 Pass. Perp. 10.8; Cypr., ep. 58.8 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 663–664); Mart. Lugd. 1.27; Mart.
Poly. 14; Gr. Nyss., mart. (O. Lendl [ed.], Gregory of Nyssa. Sermones. Pars II, GNO 10/1,
Leiden 1990, 137–142); E. Ferguson, The Early Church at Work and Worship. Vol. 2: Catechesis,
Baptism, Eschatology, and Martyrdom, Cambridge 2014, 271 n. 19.
78 Chapter 3

Figure 21 Mural showing Andromeda chained to a rock as Perseus and the sea monster
approach. Fresco, late 1st century, from the villa of Agrippa Postumus at
Boscotrecase. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (inv. no. 20.192.16)
Martyrs 79

In contrast to Roman perceptions, the Christians in Vienne had been taught to

recognise Christ in Blandina’s struggle:

She seemed to hang in there in the form of a cross, and by her fervent prayer she
aroused intense enthusiasm in those who were undergoing their ordeal, for in
their torment with their physical eyes they saw in the person of their sister Him
who was crucified for them …25

The editor of her Acta goes on to tell us that by “putting on Christ, that mighty
and invincible athlete,” Blandina became an inspiration for her brethren.26 Her
determination allowed the Christians in the audience to see “with their physi-
cal eyes” the Crucifixion of Jesus; as Paul’s sufferings in Galatia did for the local
Christians.27
Because imitation was credited in Antiquity with rendering one identical
to their model and because Christian worshippers believed martyrs to have
Christ inside their bodies (to be discussed later), it was difficult to assess where
the mortal person ended and the god began. Some communities took mea-
sures to distinguish between martyrs and Christ. In the opening of the Passio
of Polycarp of Smyrna (d. 155), the author stressed that “we revere [scil. Jesus]
as the Son of God, whereas we love the martyrs as the disciples and imitators
of the Lord.”28 Despite this formal separation between martyrs and Christ, the
presence of Christ inside martyrs during their final moments consecrated their
bodies and transformed their remains into relics. Concomitantly, cohabitation
with the Holy Spirit and Christ in one’s body added a different type of iconicity
to the performative one.

25 Mart. Lugd. 1.41 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 80; Musurillo [trans.], 1972, 75) ἣ καὶ διὰ τοῦ
βλέπεσθαι σταυροῦ σχήματι κρεμαμένη διὰ τῆς εὐτόνου προσευχῆς πολλὴν προθυμίαν τοῖς ἀγω-
νιζομένοις ἐνεποίει, βλεπόντων αὐτῶν ἐν τῷ ἀγῶνι καὶ τοῖς ἔξωθεν ὀφθαλμοῖς διὰ τῆς ἀδελφῆς
τὸν ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν ἐσταυρωμένον.
26 Mart. Lugd. 1.42 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 80; Musurillo [trans.], 1972, 75) μέγαν καὶ
ἀκαταγώνιστον ἀθλητὴν Χριστὸν ἐνδεδυμένη. By using the verb ἐνδύω, the editor attests to
the role played by Paul’s concepts in perceiving Blandina as iconic.
27 On Paul, see Gal 3:1; S.A. Cummins, Paul and the Crucified Christ in Antioch: Maccabean
Martyrdom and Galatians 1 and 2, SNTSMS 114, Cambridge 2001, 102.
28 Mart. Poly. 17.3 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 26; Musurillo [trans.], 1972, 17) τοῦτον μὲν
γὰρ υἱὸν ὄντα τοῦ θεοῦ προσκυνοῦμεν, τοὺς δὲ μάρτυρας ὡς μαθητὰς καὶ μιμητὰς τοῦ κυρίου
ἀγαπῶμεν.
80 Chapter 3

3.3 God’s Living Temples

And when they may lead you, delivering [scil. you] up, be not anxious beforehand
what you may speak, nor premeditate, but whatever may be given to you in that
hour, that speak, for it is not you who are speaking, but the Holy Spirit.29

In virtue of Jesus’s promise that the Holy Spirit will speak through his follow-
ers when persecuted, upon being arrested one was held to be inhabited by
the divine. Likewise, indifference to pain at the moment one was put to death
popularised the idea that Christ came down to inhabit the martyr during the
ordeal.30 As the young confessor Felicitas put it, “What I am suffering now [scil.
in childbirth], I suffer by myself. But then [scil. in the arena] another will be
inside me who will suffer for me, just as I shall be suffering for him.”31 Thus,
from the moment one was arrested and continuing through to their death,
one became a physical vessel of the divine; first of the Holy Spirit and later of
Christ. Identified as ‘living temples’ in Christian texts of the time, confessors
and martyrs were addressed as mouthpieces of God and, I argue, relics in spe.
The analogy between living bodies and temples originated in Paul’s epis-
tles, where the Apostle identified the believers’ bodies as temples in which
the Holy Spirit lived.32 Given its use in Jewish practice, the temple was less
problematic to Paul than the statue, which contradicted the second bibli-
cal commandment. The temple also better fit Paul’s concept of iconicity, as
a state revealed by the sturdiness of the body through sufferings, rather than
through its beauty. References to people as living temples are common in early
Christian texts, where they appeared alongside rejections of polytheistic tem-
ples. Historians of the Church focused on the latter aspect, which they held
to indicate a denial of the possibility to circumscribe the divine. By failing to
recognise that the promotion of Christians as living temples and the rejection
of built temples were different sides of the same argument, modern scholars
produced an image of early Christianity as a movement characterised by a

29 Mark 13:11 cf. Matt 10:19–20; Luke 21:14–15.

30 Mart. Poly. 2.2; Mart. Lugd. 1.23; Ign., Smyrn. 4.2 (Camelot [ed.], 1969, 136); Tert., de pud.
22 (C. Munier [ed.], Tertullien. La pudicité. Tome I, SC 394, Paris 1993, 275–280); Pass. Perp.
15.6 and 20.8; A. Paul. 7, 24, 40 (Schmidt [ed.], 1904). Contrastingly, torturers were ‘filled’
by the devil cf. Mart. Lugd. 1.27.
31 Pass. Perp. 15.6 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 136; Musurillo [trans.], 1972, 123–125) Modo
ego patior quod patior; illic autem alius erit in me qui patietur pro me, quia et ego pro illo
passura sum.
32 1 Cor 6:19 cf. 1 Cor 3:16 and 2 Cor 6:16.
Martyrs 81

“distaste for localised sanctity.”33 As a result, the adoption of the concept of

temple in the fourth century, when it was applied to churches, was seen as a
radical change in how the religion related to the material world.34 This view
of early Christianity hindered our recognition of the iconic dimension of its
holy individuals, as perfectly exemplified by Paul Corby Finney’s analysis of
the figure of the ideal Christian sketched by Clement of Alexandria. According
to Finney, for Clement the ideal Christian was “God-like, a kind of sacramen-
tal presence in the world, a temple, a divine image, a dwelling place of God”
but, Finney concludes, this state was somehow detached from spatial reality:
“Clement’s discussion of the Gnostic Christian as sacred topos and metatopos
borders on mystification and is as close as pre-Constantinian Christianity
comes to principled rejection of topos hieros, understood as real-world place
on the ground.”35
Working in parallel, theologians recognised the literalness of John’s identifi-
cation of the body of Jesus as the temple of God, and of Paul’s identification of
Christian bodies as temples of the Holy Spirit.36 The identification of confes-

33 V. Marinis, The Historia ekklesiastike kai mystike theoria: A Symbolic Understanding of the
Byzantine Church Building, in: ByzZ 108 (2015), 753–770 (756) cf. also A.-M. Yasin, Saints
and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult and Community,
Cambridge 2009, 16, who spoke of “an outright rejection of sacred space as hierophanic
‘center’ in the Eliadan sense.” The idea that pre-Constantinian Christianity was opposed
to localised devotion is a trope in modern scholarship. See P.C. Finney, Sacred Place Again,
in: Antigüedad y Cristianismo 21 (2004), 69–76 (69–74) for a summary.
34 R.A. Markus, How on Earth Could Places Become Holy? Origins of the Christian Idea of Holy
Places, in: JECS 2 (1994), 257–271 (259–261) spoke of a “volte-face” and “extraordinary
sea-change.”
35 Finney, 2004, 73. After identifying a process he calls “the personalisation of the hieros”
through which, as in the case of Jesus, the individual becomes “its own hieros topos” and
“a messiah becomes the primary topos of the holy”, Finney fails to recognise the spatial
and material dimension of the holy person’s body.
36 The relationship between the body of Jesus and the Temple was cast in terms of “spiri-
tualisation” (H. Wenschkewitz, Die Spiritualisierung der Kultusbegriffe Tempel, Priester
und Opfer im Neuen Testament, Leipzig 1932; B. Gärtner, The Temple and the Community
in Qumran and the New Testament: A Comparative Study in the Temple Symbolism of
the Qumran Texts and the New Testament, SNTSM 1, London 1965; R.J. McKelvey, The
New Temple: The Church in the New Testament, London 1969) and then “transference”
(G. Klinzing, Die Umdeutung des Kultus in der Qumrangemeinde und im Neuen Testament,
SUNT 7, Göttingen 1971; E. Schüssler-Fiorenza, Cultic Language in Qumran and in the New
Testament, in: CBQ 38 (1976), 159–177). Both concepts diluted the physical implications
of Jesus’ body as temple. More recently, M. Coloe, God Dwells with Us: Temple Symbolism
in the Fourth Gospel, Collegeville 2001, 115.219; A.R. Kerr, The Temple of Jesus’ Body: The
Temple Theme in the Gospel of John, JSNTS 220, Sheffield 2002, 6; P. Borgen, The Gospel of
John and Philo of Alexandria, in: J.H. Charlesworth / M.A. Daise (eds.), Light in a Spotless
Mirror. Reflections on Wisdom Traditions in Judaism and Early Christianity, Harrisburg
82 Chapter 3

sors and martyrs as temples by early Christian authors is made, I argue, along
the same lines. What ensues is that these authors contrasted built temples
with the living ones represented by good Christians, rather than rebutting the
concept of temple and, with it, the possibility to circumscribe the divine in
material vessels. The rejection of built temples was a “contrast imitation” – a
mechanism often used by followers of Christ during the first centuries to simul-
taneously rebut aspects of Jewish or Roman culture and assert the superiority
of the alternatives their faith proposed.37 Thus, the rejection of built temples
and the promotion of living ones was typical of the “dialectic of appropriation
and rejection” that characterised Christian-Roman relations in this period.38
Clement of Alexandria, Origen (184–253), Minucius Felix (d. ca. 250),
Tertullian (d. ca. 240), and Prudentius (348–ca. 410) – the sources usually cited
to support the view of early Christianity as opposed the possibility of holy
places – underlined in their writings the impossibility to enclose the divine
in structures “made by hands.”39 The formula “made by hands” referenced the
text of the Acts of the Apostles, where the Temple in Jerusalem was identified as
“made by hands” and, as such, denounced as idolatrous.40 In the same context,
the author of Acts presented the body of the proto-martyr Stephen as an alter-
native to the Temple. Just before his lapidation, Stephen’s body was “filled” by
the Holy Spirit – the same language used in the description of the Tabernacle

2003, 45–76; D. Lee, In the Spirit of Truth: Worship and Prayer in the Gospel of John and
the Early Fathers, in: VC 58 (2004), 277–297 (285) (for John) and R.H. Gundry, Soma in
Biblical Theology: With Emphasis on Pauline Anthropology, SNTSMS 29, Cambridge 1976,
77; G.D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, Grand Rapids 1987, 263–264 (for Paul)
argued that the bodies mentioned by John and Paul functioned in the same ‘locative’
manner as the Temple.
37 Term coined by A.A.R. Bastiaensen, Prudentius in Recent Literary Criticism, in: J. den Boef /
A. Hilhorst (eds.), Early Christian Poetry: A Collection of Essays, Leiden 1993, 101–134 (123).
38 On this dialectic, see R. Elior, On the Changing Significance of the Sacred, in: D.B. Capes
et al. (eds.), Israel’s God and Rebecca’s Children: Christology and Community in Early
Judaism and Christianity, Wako 2007, 277–302 (292).
39 Clem., str. 7.5 (A. le Boulluec [ed.], Clément d’Alexandrie: Les Stromates. Stromate VII,
SC 428, Paris 1997, 105–110); Or., Cels. 8.17 and 8.20 (Marcovich [ed.], 2015, 534–535.537–
538); Min. Felix., O. 32 (K.F. Halm [ed.], Firmicus Maternus: De errore profanarum religion-
orum. Minucius Felix: Octavius, CSEL 2, Vienna 1867, 45–47); Tert., de cor. 9 (E. Kroymann
[ed.], Tertulliani opera. Opera montanistica, CCSL 2, Turnhout 1954, 1052–1053); Prud.,
perist. 3.78 (Cunningham [ed.], 1966, 280) cf. also the less quoted ep. Barn. 16.1–2 and 16.7
(R.A. Kraft [ed.], Épître de Barnabé, SC 172, Paris 1971, 190 and 194).
40 Acts 17:24. On being “made by hands” denoting idolatry, see K. Derry, One Stone on
Another: Towards an Understanding of Symbolism in The Epistle of Barnabas, in: JECS 4
(1996), 515–528 (527); Finney, 2004, 72 C. Rowland, The Temple in the New Testament, in:
J. Day (ed.), Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel, London 2007, 469–483 (474).
Martyrs 83

and Temple when the Divine Presence took residence inside.41 A decade or two
later, John made the idea central to his gospel by associating the body of Jesus
with the itinerant tabernacle of Moses and contrasting it with the fixed stone
temple in Jerusalem.42 John’s Jesus was an itinerant vessel of God, who “tab-
ernacled” among humans. In the following centuries, Christian authors used
the same strategy, with them rebutting temples “made by hands” and contrast-
ing them with living Christians, whom they identified as ‘true’ temples. This
amounted not to a denial of the possibility to enclose the divine but rather to
a rejection of the way it was done outside Christianity, consequently allowing
for the promotion of living Christians as the ‘true’ temples.43
Martyrs and confessors represented the most extreme and visible expres-
sion of this anthropological model. As in other cults of the time, rather than a
binary division between priests and lay members, Christian communities con-
tained a variety of religious overachievers. Prophecy, the power to exorcise,
the receiving of premonitory dreams, and the speaking in tongues were gifts
ascribed to distinct individuals.44 These people, like martyrs and confessors,
had a vessel-type relationship with the Holy Spirit. Adopting the vocabulary
of polytheistic cults in yet another “contrast imitation”, early Christians cele-
brated their own christophoroi, theophoroi, naophoroi, and agiophoroi.45 Unlike
their polytheistic counterparts, who received their titles from the ritual objects
they carried during religious processions, these Christ-bearers, God-bearers,
temple-bearers, and sacred-bearers carried the divine inside their bodies. The
concept is discussed in detail by the author of the second-century Epistle of
Barnabas:

I find that a temple exists. […] When we received the remission of sins, and put
our hope on the Name, we became new, being created again from the beginning;
wherefore God truly dwells in us, in the habitation which we are. […] himself
prophesizing in us, himself dwelling in us, by opening the door of the temple
(that is the mouth) […] For he who desires to be saved looks not at the man, but

41 Acts 7:55 ὑπάρχων δὲ πλήρης πνεύματος ἁγίου cf. Ex 40:34; 2 Chr 7:1–2; 1 Kgs 8:10–11.
42 E.g., John 1:14.
43 On ‘true temples’, see Mart. Mar. 5.8 (Musurillo [ed.], 1972, 200); Cypr., ep. 62.3 (De Hartel
[ed.], 1871, 3/2, 699); A. Jo. 95.37–42 (E. Junod / J.-D. Kaestli [eds.], Acta Johannis, CCSA 1,
Turnhout 1983, 203); J.N. Rhodes, The Epistle of Barnabas and the Deuteronomic Tradition,
WUNT 2.188, Tübingen 2004, 149 n. 42.
44 E.g., 1 Cor 14; Brown, 1978, 66–67.
45 Ign., Eph. 9.1 (Camelot [ed.], 1969, 66); A. Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of
Church Order: Concepts and Images of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before
the Age of Cyprian, SVigChr 45, Leiden 1999, 210–250; P.A. Harland, Christ-Bearers and
Fellow-Initiates: Local Cultural Life and Christian Identity in Ignatius’ Letters, in: JECS 11
(2003), 481–499.
84 Chapter 3

at him who dwells and speaks in him, and is amazed at him, for he has never
either heard him speak such words with his mouth, nor has he himself ever
desired to hear them. This is a spiritual temple being built for the Lord.46

Barnabas’s Christian temples were spiritual not because they lacked physi-
cal reality, but because they indicated a spiritual state. Further confirma-
tion comes from Clement of Alexandria’s writings, where the Christians as
statues of God are contrasted with persecutors, whom Clement presents as
automata of the Devil.47 In the manner of Paul and the martyrs, who ‘gave’
their bodies to Christ, thus allowing him to manifest in the world, those who
persecuted Christians allowed the Devil to “walk along with us in the person
of men.”48 In this context, Clement introduced the statue as an analogy for liv-
ing Christians. Seeking a perfectly balanced and thus more effective contrast
between the Devil’s and God’s automata, he identified Christians as those who
“carry around the image of God in this living and moving statue – that is, in
our person.”49 According to him, perfected Christians, “who listen to the Lord,
and follow the prophecy given by him, will be formed perfectly in the likeness
of the teacher; a god going about in the flesh.”50 Clement thus combined the

46 ep. Barn. 16.7–10 (Kraft [ed.], 1971, 194; K. Lake [trans.], The Apostolic Fathers. Vol. 1: 1
Clement. 2 Clement. Ignatius. Polycarp. Didache. Barnabas, LCL 24, Cambridge 1965, 399)
Εὑρίσκω οὖν, ὅτι ἔστιν ναός. […] λαβόντες τὴν ἄφεσιν τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν καὶ ἐλπίσαντες ἐπὶ τὸ ὄνομα
ἐγενόμεθα καινοί, πάλιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς κτιζόμενοι· διὸ ἐν τῷ κατοικητηρίῳ ἡμῶν ἀληθῶς ὁ θεὸς κατοι-
κεῖ ἐν ἡμῖν. […] αὐτὸς ἐν ἡμῖν προφητεύων, αὐτὸς ἐν ἡμῖν κατοικῶν, τοὺς τῷ θανάτῳ δεδουλωμέ-
νους ἀνοίγων ἡμῖν τὴν θύραν τοῦ ναοῦ, […] Ὁ γὰρ ποθῶν σωθῆναι βλέπει οὐκ εἰς τὸν ἄνθρωπον,
ἀλλ’ εἰς τὸν ἐν αὐτῷ κατοικοῦντα καὶ λαλοῦντα, ἐπ’ αὐτῷ ἀλλ’ εἰς τὸν ἐν αὐτῷ κατοικοῦντα καὶ
λαλοῦντα, ἐπ’ αὐτῷ ἐκπλησσόμενος, ἐπὶ τῷ μηδέποτε μήτε τοῦ λέγοντος τὰ ῥήματα ἀκηκοέναι
ἐκ τοῦ στόματος μήτε αὐτός ποτε ἐπιτεθυμηκέναι ἀκούειν. Τουτέστιν πνευματικὸς ναὸς οἰκοδο-
μούμενος τῷ κυρίῳ.
47 Clement’s references to the statue-like quality of humans are gathered and discussed by
Nasrallah, 2008. See also B.G. Bucur, Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Clement of Alexandria
and Other Early Christian Witnesses, SVigChr 95, Leiden 2009, 48–49; A.C. Itter, Esoteric
Teaching in the Stromateis of Clement of Alexandria, SVigChr 97, Leiden 2009, 198–199.
48 Clem., str. 4.14.2 (A. van den Hoek / C. Mondésert [eds.], Clément d’Alexandrie: Les
Stromates. Stromate IV, SC 463, Paris 2001, 216; trans. ANF 2, 182) ἀντίδικος δὲ οὐ τὸ σῶμα,
ὥς τινες βούλονται, ἀλλ’ ὁ διάβολος καὶ οἱ τούτῳ ἐξομοιούμενοι, ὁ συνοδεύων ἡμῖν δι’ ἀνθρώπων
τῶν ζηλούντων τὰ ἔργα αὐτοῦ ἐν τῷ ἐπιγείῳ τῷδε βίῳ.
49 Clem., prot. 4.59.2 (C. Mondésert [ed.], Clément d’Alexandrie: Le Protreptique, SC 2bis,
Paris 1949, 123; trans. Nasrallah, 2008, 130) ἡμεῖς ἐσμὲν οἱ τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ θεοῦ περιφέροντες ἐν
τῷ ζῶντι καὶ κινουμένῳ τούτῳ ἀγάλματι, τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ, σύνοικον εἰκόνα.
50 Clem., str. 7.16.4(101) (Le Boulluec [ed.], 1997, 304; trans. Itter, 2009, 198) οὕτως ὁ τῷ κυρίῳ
πειθόμενος καὶ τῇ δοθείσῃ δι’ αὐτοῦ κατακολουθήσας προφητείᾳ τελέως ἐκτελεῖται κατ’ εἰκόνα
τοῦ διδασκάλου ἐν σαρκὶ περιπολῶν θεός.
Martyrs 85

mimetic iconicity preached by Paul with the motif of the statue and the paid-
eia notion of divinisation through the practice of virtues, arguing that by fol-
lowing Christian precepts one regained the statue state in which humankind
had been created.
The localisation of the divine and the ways to interact with it were central
issues to ancient communities. For Christians and sympathisers of the Christian
movement, the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 appeared to sup-
port the claim that traditional cult structures were obsolete, while persecu-
tions made confessors and martyrs a common presence, thus helping support
the notion that the divine inhabited living persons. As a result, Christian com-
munities addressed the bodies of confessors and martyrs as material contain-
ers of God and credited them with the capacity to impart divine power. I would
thus propose that the earliest de facto Christian sacred topography was made
of the living bodies of religious overachievers.
My analysis of the phenomenon contradicts the established view of early
Christianity as characterised by a denial of the notion of ‘holy place.’ It also
points to the living bodies of the confessors and martyrs as the origin of the
cult of relics.51 Even before his arrest, Polycarp of Smyrna had grown accus-
tomed to untying his sandals because members of his community were always
eager to touch his body.52 Consecrated by his holy life, his flesh eventually
became perfected through martyrdom, and after his death, the brethren care-
fully collected his “holy flesh.”53 Thus, in one of the earliest testimonies of relic
veneration, the living body had been treated as a relic in spe prior to the mar-
tyr’s death. Similar habits can been noted in Roman North Africa, where con-
fessors held a prominent position in the lives of Christian communities of the
third century. The brethren tended to the confessors’ needs while they were
imprisoned and sought their intermediation with God.54 Recurrently identi-
fied as “temples” by Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258), confessors appear aware of
their privileged status.55 Thus, Perpetua (d. 202) knew she would be successful
in asking God for a vision of heaven and the salvation of her dead brother’s

51 Delehaye, 1933, 42 pointed out the continuity existing between the ways in which the
living bodies of holy Christians and their relics were approached, but the matter was not
studied.
52 Mart. Poly. 13.2 cf. also Pass. Fruct. 3.4 (Musurillo [ed.], 1972, 180).
53 Mart. Poly. 17.1–2 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 24; Musurillo [trans.], 1972, 17) τῷ ἁγίῳ
αὐτοῦ σαρκίῳ.
54 Pass. Perp. 3.7 and 9.1–2; Cypr., ep. 15 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 513–516); Lucianus, Peregr.
12–13 (Harmon [ed.], 1936, 12–17); Tert., de pud. 22 (Munier [ed.], 1993, 275–280).
55 Cypr., ep. 6.1 and 62.3 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 480–481.699).
86 Chapter 3

soul.56 More important still for our purpose, confessors seem aware of the con-
secrated character of their own bodies, which they treat as living relics.57
Saturus, one of Perpetua’s companions, asked for his torturer’s ring, dipped
it in the blood running from one of his wounds and returned it to him as a
“pledge and reminder.”58 Whether or not the editor of the Acta invented the
episode, the act attests to a mindset found also in the account of the martyr-
dom of Pionius (d. ca. 250). As he descended unharmed from the pyre, the
old man realised “the holiness and dignity of his own body.”59 Such momen-
tary glimpses received a thorough contextualisation in the correspondence of
Cyprian of Carthage. Elected bishop only four or five years after his baptism
due to his potential to give the community its first bishop martyr, Cyprian hid
during a first wave of persecution.60 During the next wave, he fled again but
wrote to reassure the brethren that his flight was calculated so that he could be
executed in front of them rather than elsewhere. He had done so, he tells us,
in order to make sure that “the whole people should be glorified by the confes-
sion of their prelate in their presence.”61 Disconcerting to the modern reader,
this placid negotiation of the terms of one’s own death was grounded in a view
of the martyr’s body as the shared property of the community.
North African confessors who were not put to death and who returned
to their communities after being imprisoned had to preserve the sanctity of
their bodies by abstaining from intercourse (and likely from other practices

56 Pass. Perp. 4.1–2 and 7.1–10.

57 The martyrs’ awareness of their role is attested especially by the several cases when they
sought out martyrdom. See Mart. Poly. 4; Cypr., ep. 81.2 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 842);
P.L. Buck, Voluntary Martyrdom Revisited, in: JThS 63 (2012), 125–135.
58 Pass. Perp. 21.5 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 144; trans. Rizos, Cult of Saints, E01668)
Simulque ansulam de digito eius petiit, et vulneri suo mersam reddidit ei hereditatem, pig-
nus relinquens illi et memoriam sanguinis.
59 Mart. Pion. 21.2 (Bastiaensen et al. [eds.], 1987, 188; Musurillo [trans], 1972, 163) Εἶτα κατα-
νοήσας τὸ ἁγνὸν καὶ εὔσχημον τοῦ σώματος ἑαυτοῦ πολλῆς ἐπλήσθη χαρᾶς, ἀναβλέψας δὲ εἰς τὸν
οὐρανὸν καὶ εὐχαριστήσας τῷ τοιοῦτον αὐτὸν διατηρήσαντι θεῷ ἥπλωσεν ἑαυτὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ ξύλου.
Although imprecise, the translation captures the meaning of Pionius’s reaction to his own
body.
60 Pontius, v.C. 11–12 (W. de Hartel [ed.], Cyprianus (Pseudo-Cyprianus), Opera omnia (pars
3): Opera spuria. Indices. Praefatio, CSEL 3/3, Vienna 1871, ci–civ). Ordination of those
whose lives seemed to invite martyrdom is a characteristic of the community in Carthage
cf. Cypr., ep. 29, 38, 39 and 40 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2).
61 Cypr., ep. 81.1 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 841; trans. ANF 5, 843) eo quod congruat epis-
copum in ea civitate in qua ecclesiae dominicae praeest illic Dominum confiteri et plebem
universam praepositi praesentis confessione clarificare.
Martyrs 87

considered polluting).62 Thus, their bodies seem to have become living relics
that belonged both to God and to the community, with the confessors them-
selves designated to preserve them. The rest of the brethren sought to have
physical contact with them through touch, kiss, or even intercourse; a mindset
that conflicts with the notion of spiritual worship (as does contemporary inter-
est in relics).63 The executed confessors became martyrs and had the sanctity
of their bodies enhanced by the presence of Christ inside them during their
final moments. Their remains became proper relics.
As we have seen in the previous chapters, becoming a vessel for the divine
usually implied a change of the exterior of one’s body. Thus, accounts of early
martyrdom often mention ways in which the divine manifested through the
martyrs’ bodies. Along with non-visual effects – such as knowledge of divine
secrets or discharge of miraculous odour – the most common miracles were
the superhuman resistance to pain, preservation of corporeal integrity despite
numerous tortures, and the effusion of an otherworldly light. The latter is of
particular interest because it bridges the suffering iconic model introduced by
Paul with the statue-like one embodied by emperors. The precise source of
the light was not mentioned but it can be inferred that the presence of Christ
within the martyr became manifest, with it pervading and shining through the
human flesh.
Thus, Christians who imitated Jesus in their daily lives and became per-
formative images of him would have their iconicity confirmed through the
miracles that happened as they suffered and died. After 313, the two strains of
martyrial iconicity – that is, the performative one deriving from the imitation
of Jesus and the theophanic one resulting from the indwelling of Christ – were
passed on to other elements of the cult.

62 Cypr., ep. 13.5 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, 507–508; trans. A. Brent, Cyprian and Roman
Carthage, New York 2010, 253) qui Dei templa et post confessionem sanctificata et inlustrata
plus membra turpi et infami concubitu suo maculent, cubilia cum feminis promiscua iun-
gentes / “[scil. those] who defile the temples of God and the members of their bodies,
sanctified after making their confession, and made the more renowned by their vile and
disgraceful sleeping together, associating their beds with sexual activity with females.”
63 On intercourse, see above. On touching and kissing, see Cypr., ep. 6.1 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871,
3/2, 480–481).
88 Chapter 3

3.4 Preserving the Martyrs’ Iconicity: Relics

and all the multitude were seeking to touch him, because power
from him was going forth, and he was healing all.64

The desire to touch the confessors’ bodies continued after their deaths. Part
of the martyrs’ remains went into private possession; another part was buried
by communities and became the embryos of a fixed sacred topography.65 The
place of interment became the locus of the community’s veneration of the
martyr, usually through an annual celebration of their death.66 Most schol-
ars ascribe the beginning of the cult of relics to the fourth century.67 Then,
containers (i.e., reliquaries) and buildings (i.e., martyria) were made spe-
cifically to enclose relics, and Christians debated and clarified their status.68
Nevertheless, interest in the remains of martyrs can be seen as early as the Acts
of the Apostles and throughout the first three centuries.69 Available sources
do not clarify whether the desire to have access to the martyrs’ remains had

64 Luke 6:19 καὶ πᾶς ὁ ὄχλος ἐζήτει ἅπτεσθαι αὐτοῦ ὅτι δύναμις παρ’ αὐτοῦ ἐξήρχετο καὶ ἰᾶτο
πάντας.
65 On private possession, see Pass. Fruct. 6.1–2 (Musurillo [trans], 1972, 182); Test. XL Mart.
1.3; Optatus M., c.P. 1.16–17 (M. Labrousse [ed.], Optat de Milève. Traité contre les donatistes,
SC 412, Paris 1995, 208). On communal care of remains, see Ign., Rom. 4.1–2 (Camelot
[ed.], 1969, 112); Mart. Poly. 17.1–2, 18.2–3; A. Carpi 47; Pass. Fruct. 6.1–2 (Musurillo [ed.],
1972, 182–184); A. Cyp. 5 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, cix); Hieron. (ca. 347–420), c.Vigil. 5
(J.L. Feiertag [ed.], S. Hieronymi Presbyteri opera. Opera III. Opera polemica 5. Adversus
Vigilantium, CCSL 79, Turnhout 2005, 12).
66 Mart. Poly. 18.3; Mart. Pion. 2.1–3; A. Cyp. 4 (De Hartel [ed.], 1871, 3/2, cxiii); Vict., laud.s.
(R. Demeulenaere / J. Mulders [eds.], Foebadius, Victricius, Leporius, Vincentius Lerinensis,
Evagrius, Ruricius, CCSL 64, Turnholt 1985, 69–93); H. Delehaye, Les passions des martyrs
et genres littéraires, Brussels ²1966; V.M. Limberis, Architects of Piety: The Cappadocian
Fathers and the Cult of the Martyrs, New York 2011.
67 Delehaye, 1933; B. Kötting, Der frühchristliche Reliquienkult und die Bestattung im
Kirchengebäude, Köln 1965; Saxer, 1980; R. Wiśniewski, The Beginnings of the Cult of Relics,
Oxford 2018.
68 On reliquaries, see Hieron., c.Vigil. 5 (Feiertag [ed.], 2005, 12); G. Noga-Banai, The Trophies
of the Martyrs: An Art Historical Study of Early Christian Silver Reliquaries, Oxford 2008;
ead., Visual Rhetoric of Early Christian Reliquaries, in: D.K. Pettegrew / W.R. Caraher /
T.W. Davis (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, Oxford 2019,
221–236; E. Thunø, Reliquaries and the Cult of Relics in Late Antiquity, in: R.M. Jensen /
M.D. Ellison (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Early Christian Art, London 2018, 150–168.
On martyria, see A. Grabar, Martyrium. Recherches sur le culte des reliques et l’art chrétien
antique, 2 vols., Paris 1946; Yasin, 2009; ead., Reassessing Salona’s Churches: Martyrium
Evolution in Question, in: JECS 20 (2012), 59–112.
69 Acts 8:2; Pass. Poly. 17.1, 18.1–3; A. Carpi 47; A. Max. 3.4; Pass. Fruct. 6.1–2 (Musurillo [ed.],
1972, 182); Pass. Eupli (Lat. Rec. B) 3.3 (Musurillo [ed.], 1972, 318).
Martyrs 89

venerational, mnemonic, or apotropaic connotations. It is likely, though, that

this desire reflected a belief in the relic’s capacity to discharge divine power in
the same manner as the bodies of living confessors did, since touching relics
and their material setting is indicated as a way of accessing the power residing
inside them.70
The Scriptural passage quoted in the opening of this section and the ones
describing the healing of the woman with the blood loss established this
haptic principle among early followers of Jesus. The hemorrhoissa was said
to have been healed without Jesus’s intention, thanks to the power inhabiting
him, which was accessible through contact with his garment.71 Jesus’s healing
power was inherited by the apostles, with Paul’s aprons working miracles and
Peter’s shadow healing those it fell on.72
Belief that “the holy man is altogether holy, including his body, for if he has
received the bread, he will make it holy, or the cup or anything else that he
receives, purifying them” appears common in early Christianity.73 It is thus
likely that corporeal remains of martyrs were credited with the same power
ascribed to such living persons. Victricius of Rouen (d. 407) tells us that reli-
quaries functioned in the same manner as Christ’s garment healing the hemor-
rhoissa: “If the hem of the Saviour’s garment cured when lightly touched, it is
beyond doubt that the dwelling places of martyrdoms will cure when we take
them in our arms.”74

70 A. Thom. 170 (M. Bonnet [ed.], Acta apostolorum apocrypha. Vol. 2.2, Leipzig 1903, 286–
287); Vict., laud.s. (Mulders / Demeulenaere [eds.], 1985, 69–93); Bas., hom. Mart. Jul. 2
(J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 31, Paris 1857, coll.
241AB) and id., hom. in Ps. CXV (J. Garnier [ed.], In S. Basilii Opera. Vol. 1.2, Paris 1839, coll.
530B–531A). Wiśniewski, 2018, 12–13 considers the passage from the early third-century
Acts of Thomas an interpolation from ca. 355, which fits his thesis that the cult of relics
began over the fourth century.
71 Matt 9:20–22; Mark 5:25–34; Luke 8:43–48. This model of dispersion of grace through
physical contact was called “holy contagion” by J.G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study
in Magic and Religion, New York 1922, ch. 3.3. On “holy contagion” in Late Antiquity,
see G. Vikan, Art, Medicine, and Magic in Early Byzantium, in: DOP 38 (1984), 67–74;
Frankfurter, 2018, 94–96.
72 Acts 5:15–16 and 19:11–12, respectively.
73 Ev. Phil. 108 (W.C. Till [ed.], Das Evangelium des Philippus, Berlin 2011, 52–54; H.-M. Schenke
(trans.), The Gospel of Philip, in: W. Schneemelcher (ed.), New Testament Apocrypha. Vol. 1:
Gospels and Related Writings, Louisville 2003, 188–206 [201]), a second- or third-century
text preserved only in Coptic: ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲛ ⲓⲥ︦ ⲥⲟⲟⲩⲛ ⲙⲡⲧⲉⲗⲟⲥ ⲙ︦ⲡⲁⲉⲓ ⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ ϥⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ
ⲧⲏⲣϥ ̀ϣⲁ ϩ ⲣⲁï ⲉⲡⲉϥ ̀ⲥⲱⲙⲁ ⲉϣϫⲉ ⲁϥϫⲓ ⲅⲁⲣ ⲙ︦ⲡⲟ ⲉⲓⲕ̀ ϥⲛⲁⲁϥ ̀ⲉϥ ̀ⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ ⲏ ⲡⲡⲟⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ˙
ⲏ ⲡⲕⲉⲥⲉⲉⲡⲉ ⲧⲏⲣϥ ̀ⲉⲧϥϫⲓ ⲙ︦ⲙⲟⲟⲩ ⲉϥ ̀ⲧⲟⲩⲃⲟ ⲙ︦ⲙⲟⲟⲩ. See also Vict., laud.s. 2 (Mulders /
Demeulenaere [eds.], 1985).
74 Vict., laud.s. 2.12–13 (Mulders / Demeulenaere [eds.], 1985, 72; G. Clark [trans.], Victricius
of Rouen: Praising the Saints (Introduction and Annotated Translation), in: JECS 7 (1999),
90 Chapter 3

Usually made of reflective materials such as marble, gold, or silver deco-

rated with gilded elements or jewels, reliquaries reproduced the divine light
Christian authors claimed was surrounding the martyrs’ bodies.75 (see Fig. 22)
We find the concept depicted on the walls of the sixth-century cathedral in
Poreč. The mosaicist used lighter tesserae to create a dim, full-body halo for
certain figures, including Zachariah.76 Standing, the saint holds a lit censer in
his right hand and a reliquary in his left. Made of precious metal, decorated
with images in repoussé, and studded with jewels, the reliquary emanates the
same luminous shimmer as the prophet’s body. (see Fig. 23)

Figure 22 Late antique reliquary. Silver with traces of niello,

6.8 × 7.2 × 7.2 cm, early 5th century, from Kaper Koraon,
Syria. The Walters Art Museum (inv. no. 57.638)

365–399 [378]) Nam si curavit attacta leviter fimbria Salvatoris, procul dubio curabunt
amplexata, domicilia passionum.
75 On the visual functions of reliquaries, see C. Hahn, What Do Reliquaries Do for Relics?, in:
Numen 57 (2010), 284–316; J. Elsner, Relic, Icon and Architecture: The Material Articulation
of the Holy in East Christian Art, in: C. Hahn / H.A. Klein (eds.), Saints and Sacred Matter:
The Cult of Relics in Byzantium and Beyond, Washington 2015, 13–40.
76 On ‘Konturlicht’, see F.W. Deichmann, Geschichte und Monumente, Wiesbaden 1969, 252.
Martyrs 91

Figure 23 Zachariah holding a censer and reliquary. Mosaic, apse of the Basilica
Euphrasiana, Poreč, ca. 559. (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)

The visual effect of reliquaries was enhanced through the ways in which they
were displayed. Beginning in the fifth century, as the interior of churches grew
darker, the pairing of reliquaries with sources of artificial light focused the
audience’s gaze on them.77 As pointed out by Rico Franses, the combination
of reflective materials with a light source made it seem as if the light ema-
nated from within – an effect the designers of these settings knew, as testified

77 On churches in the West receiving less natural light beginning in the fifth century, see
F.A. Ladi, I finestrati laterali delle chiese di Roma dal IV al IX secolo, in: F. Guidobaldi /
A. Guiglia Guidobaldi (eds.), Ecclesiae urbis: Atti del congresso internazionale di studi sulle
chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), Vatican City 2002, 875–890.
92 Chapter 3

by Paulinus of Nola.78 A photograph taken in the Church of Vatopedi mon-

astery on Mount Athos reproduces the visual effect of these reliquaries dur-
ing evening liturgical services. Made of the same precious materials as late
antique reliquaries, an Athonite coal container is carried inside a church that
is lit exclusively by wax candles and oil lamps, as late antique churches were.
Like Zachariah in the Poreč mosaic, the deacon wears a purple and white gar-
ment with golden elements, censing with his right hand while holding the con-
tainer with his left one. The metal box glows dimly, like Zachariah’s body and
reliquary. (see Fig. 24) Thus, the materiality and mise-en-scène of reliquaries
allowed clergy members to preserve the luminosity of the martyrs and ‘sum-
mon’ it as needed.

Figure 24 Deacon carrying a coal container while censing. Nocturnal liturgical service,
Vatopedi Monastery, Mount Athos. (Photo: www.pemptousia.com)

Beginning in the fourth century, some relics were embedded in the very struc-
ture of shrines.79 Since Christians donated precious objects and perpetual

78 R. Franses, When All that is Gold Does Not Glitter: On the Strange History of Viewing
Byzantine Art, in: L. James / A. Eastmond (eds.), Icon and Word, Aldershot 2003, 13–24
(19). See Paul. Nol., c. 28.180–185 (W. de Hartel [ed.], S. Pontii Meropii Paulini Nolani Opera.
Vol. 2: Carmina, CSEL 30, Vienna 1894, 299).
79 On the embedding of relics in churches, see Yasin, 2009; ead., Sacred Installations: The
Material Conditions of Relic Collections in Late Antique Churches, in: C. Hahn / H.A. Klein
Martyrs 93

lights as thanks for the martyr’s help, one could assess the power of a shrine
by the amount of votives and lights present inside, which created a luminosity
reminiscent of heaven.80 Thus, the power of the relics reflected in the richness
and luminosity of the sanctuary.
The setting of relics helped transfer the iconicity of martyrs to their material
remains and allowed Christians to continue to see the divine light even after
state persecutions had ended. As a result, the relic became synonymous with
the martyr. Speaking about the relics arriving at Rouen, Victricius states that
“you are the body of Christ and it is God the Spirit who dwells in you.”81 Thus,
as in the case of cult statues, an anthropomorphic vessel – here the body of the
martyr – was consecrated by the indwelling presence of the divine and func-
tioned as a point of contact and screen of the divine. Relics allowed the martyr
to be present in multiple places at once, the same way statues multiplied the
presence of the gods. The analogy to statues would be completed in the ninth
century, when anthropomorphic reliquaries began to be made, as the memory
of ancient polytheistic practices faded.82
While the theophanic aspect of the martyr’s iconicity was transferred to
their remains through the aesthetic of their containers and setting, the per-
formative one deriving from their imitation of Christ was ascribed to other
categories of living overachievers.

3.5 Preserving the Martyrs’ Iconicity: People

For a mimetic movement such as early Christianity, the disappearance of those

whom for two centuries had been its main exemplary figures represented a
momentous change. As a result, after 313, other types of suffering for Christ
were recognised as martyrdom. Almsgiving, fasting, ascetic withdrawal from
the world, and celibacy came to be praised as similar to martyrdom.83 The

(eds.), Saints and Sacred Matter: The Cult of Relics in Byzantium and Beyond, Washington
2015, 133–151. On martyria, see above, n. 68.
80 h. Ch. et D. 9 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Latina. Vol. 121, Paris
1852, 673–682, coll. 676); C. Hahn, Seeing and Believing: The Construction of Sanctity in
Early-Medieval Saints’ Shrines, in: Spec. 72 (1997), 1079–1106 (1083).
81 Vict., laud.s. 1.35 (Mulders / Demeulenaere [eds.], 1985, 70; trans. Clark, 1999, 377) vos estis
corpus Christi, et spiritus divinus est qui habitat in vobis.
82 On early medieval anthropomorphic reliquaries, see B. Fricke, Fallen Idols, Risen Saints:
Sainte Foy of Conques and the Revival of Monumental Sculpture in Medieval Art, SVCMA 7,
Turnhout 2015.
83 On the liberalisation of the notion of martyrdom, see L. Canetti, Frammenti di eternità.
Corpi e reliquie tra antichità e medioevo, Rome 2002, 35–42. On ascetics as martyrs, see
94 Chapter 3

title carried with it part of the martyr’s iconic quality, as the struggles of these
overachievers reproduced versions of Jesus’s sufferings. Thus, while the lumi-
nous, theophanic dimension of martyrial iconicity was bequeathed to relics,
such living heirs inherited the suffering one. Nevertheless, the Church’s turn
towards the world after 313 stimulated the adoption of the splendid, statue-
like model of iconicity embodied by rulers. As a result, the iconicity of these
suffering types also acquired a beautiful, luminous dimension. Baptisands and
bishops (to be discussed in later chapters), as well as ascetics and consecrated
virgins, exemplified the phenomenon.
Georgia Frank dissected the imaginative process that was used to make
Christians see the bodies of desert ascetics as angelic and luminous.84 Thanks
to rhetorical artifices that shaped their perception of the desert fathers and
mothers, visitors could interpret the white hair covering the bodies of ascet-
ics as luminous, their emaciated bodies as angelic, and “recognise Christ in
each person.”85 One of many fragments dedicated to the matter in Christian
hagiography demonstrates a typical insistence on the Abba’s iconicity but is
exceptional in its use of several of the analogies authors of the time turned to
in order to present ascetics as iconic:

S. Elm, Pierced by Bronze Needles: Anti-Montanist Charges of Ritual Stigmatization in their

Fourth-century Context, in: JECS 4 (1996), 409–439 (435); Frank, 2000. On catechumens as
martyrs, see G.P. Jeanes, Baptism Portrayed as Martyrdom in the Early Church, in: StPatr 23
(1993), 158–176; V. Ivanovici, Manipulating Theophany: Light and Ritual in North Adriatic
Architecture (ca. 400–ca. 800), Berlin 2016, 39–41.
84 Frank, 2000 cf. also P.C. Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of
a Culture, Princeton 1994. Our main sources on hermits are the anonymous Historia
Monachorum in Aegypto (late fourth century), Palladius’ Historia Lausiaca (419–420), and
Theodoret of Cyrrhus’ Historia Religiosa (ca. 444). The literature on asceticism in Late
Antiquity is extensive. Key studies include D. Chitty, The Desert a City: An Introduction
to the Study of Egyptian and Palestinian Monasticism Under the Christian Empire, Oxford
1966; P. Rousseau, Ascetics, Authority and the Church in the Age of Jerome and Cassian,
Oxford 1978; S. Elm, “Virgins of God”. The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity, Oxford
1994; D. Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism, Oxford 1995; id., Demons and the
Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity, Cambridge 2006; J.E. Goehring,
Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism, Harrisburg 1999. A
bibliography of over 10.000 titles is available at: http://www.earlymedievalmonasticism.
org/bibliographymonasticism.htm (updated March 15, 2021).
85 One of the effects of prolonged fasting, hairiness was probably behind some of the
accounts documenting the luminosity of ascetics, in particular when the hair covered
the whole body and, due to the advanced age of the person, was white. See K. Upson-Saia,
Hairiness and Holiness in the Early Christian Desert, in: Upson-Saia / Daniel-Hughes /
Batten (eds.), 2014, 1–18. On “recognising Christ in each holy man”, see Hieron., e. 108.14
(I. Hilberg [ed.], Hieronymus. Epistulae 71–120, CSEL 55, Vienna 1912, 324) per singulos
sanctos Christum se uidere credebat.
Martyrs 95

They said the following about Abba Pambo: just as Moses received the image of
Adam’s glory when his face was glorified, so also did Abba Pambo’s face shine
like lightning, and he was like an emperor seated on his throne.86

This short fragment tells us a lot about the evolution of the iconic phenom-
enon. On the one hand, the comparison of the ascetic’s iconicity with the
emperor’s, despite the antithetical social condition and material setting of the
two, attests to imperial iconicity becoming the model of iconic living. Thus,
being a living image of the divine in the fourth and fifth centuries typically
meant wearing rich garments and jewellery that conferred a luminous aura.87
On the other hand, the fragment (and others like it) attests to Christians now
exploiting the biblical passages that could be interpreted in iconic terms, such
as the creation of Adam in the image of God and Moses’ luminous face; which
attests in my opinion to the popularity iconicity was gaining among Romans.88
Ascetic literature both attests to the Christians’ desire to see the divine
reflected in the features of a living person, and promoted the phenomenon
by recurrently mentioning the hermits’ iconicity and how some worshippers
travelled just to gaze upon their faces and catch a glimpse of the divine.89 Thus,
Pachomius (d. 346) – the ascetic credited with founding coenobitic monasti-
cism and one of the persons said to have become God’s living image – stated
that nothing is greater than to “see the invisible God in a visible man who is
his temple.”90

86 Apophth. Patr.: Pambo 12 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca.
Vol. 65, Paris 1864, coll. 372; trans. B.G. Bucur) Ἔλεγον περὶ τοῦ ἀββᾶ Παμβὼ, ὅτι ὡς ἔλαβε
Μωϋσῆς τὴν εἰκόνα τῆς δόξης Ἀδὰμ, ὅτε ἐδοξάσθη τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ οὕτως καὶ τοῦ ἀββᾶ
Παμβὼ ὡς ἀστραπὴ ἔλαμπε τὸ πρόσωπον, καὶ ἦν ὡς βασιλεὺς καθήμενος ἐπὶ τοῦ θρόνου αὐτοῦ.
Τῆς αὐτῆς ἐργασίας ἦν καὶ ὁ ἀββᾶς Σιλουανὸς, καὶ ὁ ἀββᾶς Σισόης. See W. Harmless, Desert
Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism, Oxford 2004; B.G. Bucur
/ V. Ivanovici, ‘The Image of Adam’s Glory’: Observations on the Early Christian Tradition of
Luminosity as Iconic Garment, in: Bacci / Ivanovici (eds.), 2019, online.
87 Brown, 2012, 255. It is indicative that the Devil appeared as an emperor to convince Saint
Martin that he is Jesus in Ven. Fort., v.M. 2.285–291 (M. Reydellet [ed.], Venance Fortunat:
Vie de Saint Martin, Paris 1996, 41).
88 Various traditions circulated also regarding the iconicity of patriarchs, with several of
them being presented as exceedingly beautiful, luminous, or as carrying the image of
God, like Adam. See A.A. Orlov, The Greatest Mirror: Heavenly Counterparts in the Jewish
Pseudepigrapha, Albany 2017, with bibl.
89 Frank, 2000.
90 V. Pach. (First Greek) 48 (A.N. Athanassakis [ed.], The Life of Pachomius: Vita Prima Graeca,
Missoula 1975, 70–71) τὸν ἀόρατον Θεὸν ἐν ὁρατῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ναῷ αὐτοῦ ἰδεῖν. See Frank, 2000,
esp. 85–91 on ascetics enabling a face-to-face encounter with God. On Pachomius, see
P. Rousseau, Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-century Egypt, TCH 6,
Berkeley ²1999.
96 Chapter 3

Consecrated virgins represented the urban and female counterpart of des-

ert asceticism.91 Christian authors and bishops constructed the iconicity of
these voluntary virgins through a complex strategy that included extolling
their purity and controlling their look, behaviour, and display.92 Playing on
their physical and spiritual purity, authors credited virgins with emanating
the serene glow of Roman sages which, as discussed in the first chapter, was
thought to indicate one’s partaking in the divine:

[…] show yourself so that your heavenly birth appears and your divine freeborn
status shines forth. Let there be in you an unusual gravity, admirable dignity,
and amazing reserve, astonishing submission, virginal gait, and the appearance
of true chastity, speech that is always measured and brought forth in its correct
time, so that whoever sees you will marvel, and say: What kind of dignity is this,
so unusual among people? […] This is not a human arrangement or a mortal dis-
cipline. Here, something heavenly glistens in a human body. I suppose that God
is dwelling in certain people.93

Keeping with the time’s view of female anatomy as a vessel for children, the vir-
gins’ bodies were likened to various containers of the divine – e.g., the Temple
in Jerusalem, the Holy of Holies, the Ark of the Covenant, or reliquaries.94
Their hollow bodies hid a soul consecrated by virtue. Like the bodies of martyrs
and the surface of reliquaries, consecrated virgins glowed from the indwell-
ing presence. Taught to abstain from social interaction and to live indoors,
these women were enveloped in precious garments and displayed inside late
antique churches where their pale, sun-deprived bodies appeared as ethereal

91 Just as desert asceticism was typically but not exclusively a male phenomenon, conse-
crated virgins were typically but not exclusively female.
92 On the phenomenon, see Brown, 1988; Elm, 1994; K. Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride:
Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 1996; T.M. Shaw, The Burden of the
Flesh. Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity, Minneapolis 1998; S. Undheim, Borderline
Virginities. Sacred and Secular Virgins in Late Antiquity, London 2018.
93 (Ps.)Hieron., e. 13.12 (K. Halm [ed.], Sulpicius Severus: Opera. Pseudo-Sulpicius Severus:
Epistulae, CSEL 1, Vienna 1866, 244–245; trans. K. Wilkinson, Women and Modesty in Late
Antiquity, Cambridge 2015, 96) Ita te exhibe, ut in te coelestis nativitas appareat, et ut divina
ingenuitas clarescat: sit in te nova gravitas, honestas admirabilis, et stupenda verecundia,
mira patientia, virginalis incessus, et verae pudicitiae habitus, sermo semper modestus, et
suo in tempore proferendus: ut qui te videtur, admiretur, et dicat: Quae est haec nova inter
homines gravitas? […] Non est ista humana institutio, nec disciplina mortalis. Coeleste hic
aliquid in corpore humano refulget. Puto quod habitet in quibusdam hominibus Deus.
94 V. Ivanovici / S. Undheim, Consecrated Virgins as Living Reliquaries in Late Antiquity, in:
Bacci / Ivanovici (eds.), 2019, online.
Martyrs 97

presences; a glow that bishops likened to the Virgin’s pregnant body, glowing
from the luminous presence of Christ.95

3.6 Conclusions

Early Christian martyrs embodied the notion of ‘tabernacling’ John the Apostle
had introduced to contrast the Temple in Jerusalem with the living, itinerant
body of Jesus. When placed in a wider context, John’s presentation of Jesus as a
living container of the divine emerges as another expression of the belief that
humans had the capacity to act as vessels and images of the divine. This vessel-
like state was established as iconic by Paul’s writings, which claimed that suf-
ferings for the Christian faith and the physical marks they left attested to the
indwelling presence of God. As martyrdom became a Mediterranean wide phe-
nomenon, followers of Christ had to ensure acknowledgment of the martyrs’
sanctity across communities with different traditions and values. Thus, the one
element all recognised as indicative of divinity, namely luminosity, became the
mark of iconicity.96 Therefore, the performative iconicity of martyrs, rooted
in their imitation of Christ, gained a theophanic quality. As anthropomorphic
vessels of the divine characterised by sturdiness and luminosity, martyrs drew
close to cult statues.
Martyrdom depended on the Roman authorities’ decision to persecute
Christians, with it almost disappearing after the edict of tolerance of 313. In
the following period, Christian communities redirected their gaze, seeking the
image of Christ in other individuals. Bishops, baptisands, consecrated virgins,
and desert ascetics inherited part of the martyrs’ iconicity and combined it
with their own types of performative iconicity, which they gained through
their different methods of imitating Jesus. Alongside this trend, relics legiti-
mised inanimate matter as a medium for interacting with the divine, thus
allowing for the recognition of churches and of places in Palestine as sacred.97

95 On the effect of their pale bodies, see Brown, 1988, 269. On their garments and display, see
Ivanovici / Undheim, 2019.
96 On light as a characteristic of theophanies in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, see Platt, 2011;
in early Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism, see A.A. Orlov (ed.), Jewish Roots of Eastern
Christian Mysticism, SVigChr 160, Leiden 2020; in Late Antiquity, see Ivanovici, 2016.
97 On the recognition of places in Palestine as holy, see P. Maraval, Lieux saints et pèlerinages
d’Orient: Histoire et géographie des origins à la conquête arabe, Paris 1985; P.W.L. Walker,
Holy City, Holy Places? Christian Attitudes to Jerusalem and the Holy Land in the Fourth
Century, Oxford 1989; B. Bitton-Ashkelony, Encountering the Sacred: The Debate on Christian
Pilgrimage in Late Antiquity, TCH 38, Berkeley 2005.
98 Chapter 3

The increased frequency and visibility of ascribing material things the capac-
ity to mediate interaction with the divine in the fourth century made scholars
propose a significant change in the Christian relationship with the material
world.98 Nevertheless, if one considers the continuity of attitudes existing via-
à-vis living bodies, their material remains, and the places they inhabited, the
process emerges as linear, if accelerated in the fourth century.
Emerging at the intersection of cultures that codified character and status
in physical appearance and deportment and held bodies capable of becom-
ing images of the divine, the Christian movement was set around the event of
the Incarnation, which established the living body of Jesus as the instrument
of humanity’s salvation. When considering the several types of sources avail-
able, we discover that there has never been a break in Christian tradition in the
belief that the living body has the capacity to enclose and impart the divine.
From the moment when the multitudes sought to touch the body of Jesus,
through Paul’s aprons, Peter’s shadow, Polycarp’s “holy flesh,” Fructuosus’s san-
dals, to the desert ascetics’ hairs and phlegm.99 Doubts arose only in the minds
of erudite individuals such as Origen, who nevertheless also had to admit the
body’s participation in the divine when faced with the reality of martyrdom.
Throughout this process, the ‘temple’ was preferred to the ‘statue’ as the anal-
ogy for the martyr’s body, but the notion of the human body as vessel and
image of God prepared the adoption of the statue as analogy. Proving that it
was the popularity of a splendid, imperial-like iconicity that led to the graft-
ing of luminosity on Paul’s notion of suffering iconicity is the role ascribed
to corporeal luminosity in Christian baptism; a ritual designed with a Roman
audience in mind.

98 E.g., P.C. Miller, Shifting Selves in Late Antiquity, in: D. Brakke / M.L. Satlow / S. Weitzman
(eds.), Religion and the Self in Antiquity, Bloomington 2005, 15–39 (23–24).
99 On the hairs and phlegm of ascetics, see below, Chapter 6.
 Chapter 4

Initiates

Sometime around the middle of the second century, Aelius Aristides (117–181),
an aristocrat from Asia Minor who studied rhetoric in Athens and rose to fame
in Rome, turned to the god Aesculapius for help with his many illnesses.1 The
god appeared to him in a dream, thus marking the beginning of a close rela-
tionship. Aristides, who documented his oneiric encounters with the god, tells
us that one night he saw a statue of himself that continued to change into a
statue of Aesculapius.2 Aristides’s subliminal desire to function as a statue of
his god was representative of the time. Attesting to this is the fact that several
cults that competed for the allegiance of Romans offered those who joined the
possibility to momentarily become living images of their gods. Because rituals
that mark one’s acceptance into the group are designed to attract outsiders,
they best encapsulate a period’s desired status. Recurrent promises of iconic
status and the use of strategies for corporeal staging that rendered one statue-
like point to many of Aristides’s contemporaries longing for the same status his
dream revealed.
The secrecy characterising such rituals limits the information we have on
them. Nevertheless, the scarcity of data is partially compensated by the fact
that an iconic status was promised in several of the known cases. In addition,
the recurrence of similar motifs and strategies across the various cults allows
us to use the better attested rituals to understand what the lesser-known ones
promised. Thus, after discussing how other cults conferred an iconic status
to their initiates, I turn to the conceptual, material, and ritual setting of the
best documented initiation of the time, namely Christian baptism. My analy-
sis of the baptismal experience shows that many of the references to initiates
as luminous and statue-like in Christian texts of the time – which have been
interpreted by modern scholars as metaphorical or as referencing the white

1 On Aristides, see W.V. Harris / B. Holmes (eds.), Aelius Aristides between Greece, Rome, and the
Gods, Leiden 2008.
2 Aristid., h.l. 1.17 (W. Dindorf [ed.], Aristides, Leipzig 1829, 401). On the meaning of his dream,
see P.C. Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of a Culture, Princeton
1994, 33–35.202–203; Elsner, 2007, 11 n. 25. On dreams and their interpretation in Antiquity
and Late Antiquity, see Miller, 1994; W.V. Harris, Dreams and Experience in Classical Antiquity,
Cambridge 2009.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_005

100 Chapter 4

garment received at baptism – described the baptisands’ bodies, rendered

iconic by the ritual.3

4.1 Visions, Ascensions, and Transformations in Late Antique

Initiations

Rituals that removed the fear of death by promising a happy afterlife in the
company of the gods had been staged since as early as the fifth century BCE.4
During the Common Era, such experiences were made available to all, not only
to the few who could travel to Eleusis, Samothrace, or other specialised sanctu-
aries. Followers of Mithras, Christ, and other deities promised similar results in
one’s hometown. Despite being offered by various cults, philosophical schools,
and individuals, such initiations emerge from the sources as surprisingly con-
sistent in imagery, promises, and corporeal effects in the timeframe we are
focusing on here. This coherence was given, I believe, by a common view of
the cosmic structure.
Ptolemy’s (d. ca. 170) geocentric cosmology, which postulated the existence
of a layered cosmos, where the Earth was at the centre and each planet rep-
resented an additional level, disseminated rapidly across the Roman world.
Both old and new cults adapted their views to it, with them locating the realm
of the gods in the upper cosmic levels and presenting salvation as an ascen-
sion through the lower levels. The zodiac constellations marked the border
between the two regions of the cosmos, with their circular pattern providing a
portal through which to ascend.
Writing to Emperor Valentinian II (r. 375–392) on account of the aristocracy
in Rome, Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (d. 402) pointed out that:

It is just that all worship should be considered as one. We look on the same stars,
the sky is common, the same world surrounds us. What difference does it make
by what pains each seeks the truth?5

3 I use ‘baptisand’ rather than ‘catechumen’ or ‘neophyte’ because the catechumenate could
take several years, and one was considered a neophyte for at least one year after baptism.
‘Baptisand’ indicates the person undergoing the ritual.
4 On ancient mysteria, see Bowden, 2010; Bremmer, 2014.
5 Symm., rel. 3.10 (R. Klein [ed.], Der Streit um den Victoriaaltar, Darmstadt 1972, 104–106; trans.
NPNF 2.10, 415) Aequum est, quidquid omnes colunt, unum putari. Eadem spectamus astra,
commune caelum est, idem nos mundus involvit. Quid interest, qua quisque prudentia verum
requirat?
Initiates 101

Like his ancestors, Symmachus had put his hopes in the worship of the old
gods and in the practice of virtues.6 Others chose to take the promises made
by the representatives of newer gods. Nevertheless, as Symmachus points out,
the same cosmic structure conditioned their path to the heavens, with only the
identity of the deity and life choices that allowed them to attain immortality
differing.
The eastern gods that grew popular among Romans in the imperial period
were often advertised as having created the cosmic path to salvation. Cutting
through the cosmic levels, these gods opened passages that their followers
claimed to control. As John Chrysostom (d. ca. 407) put it regarding Christ,
“[scil. he] cut a path through the midst of all the angels, archangels, thrones,
dominations, principalities, virtues, all those invisible powers, the cherubim
and seraphim, and set the thoughts of the faithful right before the very throne
of the King.”7 The concept was expressed visually through the depiction of the
god at the centre of the zodiac ring, as exemplified by a second-century relief
from Augusta Treverorum (Trier), which shows Mithras as a child in the act of
opening the cosmic passage with his right hand, while holding the sphere of
cosmic dominion in his left one.8 (see Fig. 25)
Private individuals used the same imagery to express their hope in salva-
tion. The main side of the early fourth-century Seasons Sarcophagus, now in
the Dumbarton Oaks collection in Washington, D.C., is the most famous scene
of this kind.9 On the main side of the sarcophagus, personifications of the
four seasons are represented standing, with the two central figures holding up
the ring of the zodiac. The ring functions as an oculus that reveals the upper
half of the bodies of a couple. The truncated image points to the man and
woman inhabiting a space distinct from that in which the personified seasons
are found. Just as the zodiac stood for the threshold between the upper and
lower regions of the cosmos, the seasons were commonly used in Roman art

6 See the ivory panel showing the apotheosis of Symmachus (or of one of his relatives), now in
the British Museum (inv. 1857,1013.1), where Sol takes his soul across the zodiac belt.
7 Chrys., ad illum. cat. 7.20 (A. Wenger [ed.], Jean Chrysostome: Huit catéchèses baptismales
inédites, SC 50bis, Paris 1957, 238–239; P.W. Harkins [trans.], John Chrysostom: Baptismal
Instructions, Westminster 1963, 112) Πάντας γὰρ διατεμὼν ἀγγέλους, ἀρχαγγέλους, θρόνους, κυρι-
ότητας, ἀρχάς, ἐξουσίας, πάσας τὰς ἀοράτους ἐκείνας δυνάμεις, τὰ χερουβίμ, τὰ σεραφίμ, παρ’ αὐτὸν
τὸν θρόνον τὸν βασιλικὸν ἔστησε τῶν πιστῶν τὰ φρονήματα.
8 On the stele, see M.J. Vermaseren, The Miraculous Birth of Mithras, in: Mn. 4 (1951), 285–301.
For other depictions of the zodiac, see H.G. Gundel, Zodiakos. Tierkreisbilder im Altertum.
Kosmische Bezüge und Jenseitsvor Stellungen im antiken Alltagsleben, Mayence 1992.
9 G.M.A. Hanfmann, The Season Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks, 2 vols., Cambridge 1951.
102 Chapter 4

Figure 25 Relief showing Mithras as a child opening a passageway through

the cosmos. The zodiac ring marks the threshold between the upper
and the lower cosmic regions, while the personified winds represent
the lower regions or Earth. Below, watching the god’s descent, are
characters of his myth. Limestone, 94 cm, second half of the 2nd
century. © Rheinisches Landesmuseum Trier. (Photo: Th. Zühmer)
Initiates 103

to symbolise the lower cosmic regions, which were characterised by continu-

ous change.10 Thus, the composition shows the couple in the upper cosmic
regions, beyond the zodiac ring.11 To confirm this is the woman’s billowing
cape, a visual formula commonly used in scenes of apotheosis to indicate cos-
mic ascension.12 (see Fig. 26) The scene on the sarcophagus encapsulates the
couple’s hope in joining the gods in the upper cosmic regions, thus adding to
the crowding of their realm that Lucian of Samosata ridiculed, as we have seen
in Chapter 1.

Figure 26 Frontal side of the Seasons Sarcophagus. Marble, 112 cm × 224 cm × 116 cm,
ca. 330, possibly from Rome. © Dumbarton Oaks, Byzantine Collection,
Washington, D.C. (inv. no. BZ.1936.65) (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)

Similar imagery adorned the settings of late antique initiations, which often
claimed to offer a vision of the god ruling over the cosmic path to salvation, or
to allow ritual participants to ascend while still in the body. To this end, various
artifices were used, along with ingenious ways of influencing the perception
of the experience. Apart from Christianity, for which a rich documentation
exists, the information available on other cults tends to reflect local practices.
Nevertheless, regardless of the cult and area, the iconic quality of the initiate

10 Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 1; A.M. McCann, Roman Sarcophagi in The Metropolitan Museum of
Art, New York 1978, 135–136.
11 Ivanovici, 2016, 75–76.
12 A. Strong, Apotheosis and After Life: Three Lectures on Certain Phases of Art and Religion in
the Roman Empire, London 1915, 177.
104 Chapter 4

emerges as central of the experience, which in my opinion points to iconicity

becoming a highly desired status.
The second-century novel Metamorphoses culminates with the initiation of
the main character into the cult of the Egyptian goddess Isis. The described
ritual seems to be a pastiche of initiations of the time, which could have played
a role in the text’s popularity.13 In the book, the hero’s life runs the full span of
human existence as envisioned in the period, from donkey-shaped person to
living statue of a god. As in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Lucius’s character dictated
his bodily form, with him being transformed into a donkey because of his mun-
dane interests. In the last section of the book, following a vision of the goddess
Isis, who instructs him to travel to Kenchreai (Corinth), Lucius is changed back
into human form, fasts in preparation of the ritual, and is eventually taken by
the priests to the temple’s most secluded chamber to be initiated. What hap-
pens inside is described in generic but telling terms:

I approached the boundary of death and treading on Proserpine’s threshold,

I was carried through all the elements, after which I returned. At the dead of
night, I saw the sun flashing with bright effulgence. I approached close to the
gods above and the gods below and worshipped them face to face.14

Often considered to be the only visible part of the upper heavens, the sun was
identified in the late antique period as the “uplifter of souls”, with several cults
claiming the subjection of Sol to their gods and having him assist believers
during the ascensions they staged.15 As a result, initiations were often held at
night or in dark settings, to allow the cult personnel to stage the apparition of
the sun through artifices.16 In the presence of the nocturnal sun, Lucius died,
ascended through the cosmic levels, encountered the gods face to face, and
returned a changed being. His new status was indicated by the costume he
received from the priests of Isis. The costume was made of twelve pieces – a
reference to the constellations of the zodiac – and included a lit torch and a
palm-leaf crown that, we are told, appeared as the radiant crown of Sol. Lucius’s

13 J. Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods. Myth, Salvation and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis
and Mithras, RGMW 165, Leiden 2008, 217–222.337.
14 Apul., m. 11.23 (Gaselee [ed.], 1924, 580; J.G. Griffiths [trans.], Apuleius of Madauros: The
Isis-Book (Metamorphoses, Book XI), Leiden 1975, 99) Accessi confinium mortis et calcato
Proserpinae limine per omnia vectus elementa remeavi; nocte media vidi solem candido
coruscantem lumine, deos inferos et deos superos accessi coram et adoraui de proximo.
15 Proclus, hymnus soli 34 (R.M. van den Berg [ed.], Proclus’ Hymns: Essays, Translations,
Commentary, Leiden 2001, 148).
16 See R. Merkelbach, Mithras: Ein persisch-römischer Mysterienkult, Wiesbaden 1998, esp.
figs. 55, 62, 87, 99, 134, 145, 164; Ivanovici, 2016, 19–108.
Initiates 105

iconicity was not left to interpretation but emphasised, with the priests plac-
ing him on a podium in the temple of Isis and revealing him from behind a
curtain. “Adorned like the sun and set up in the manner of a divine statue” – as
the author points out – Lucius stood for three days on the stage as testimony
of the goddess’s power to transform her followers.17 Thus, the hero of the novel
gained the status Aristides was longing for at the same time in Aesculapius’s
healing centre in Pergamon.
Mithraism offered similar status to its members. Our knowledge of the cult
is limited to the remains of mithraea, extant cultic artefacts, and information
provided by Christian authors. What can be determined indicates that the
followers of Mithras were organised in small groups, which allowed them to
identify each with a character of the god’s myth. After an initiation ceremony,
which at least in some cases was staged as a death and resurrection, the person
reached the first of seven levels, each corresponding to a mythological figure
and to a planet of our solar system.18 Later, as one advanced in the congre-
gation, they were identified with higher cosmic levels and more prominent
characters. Given that each level was associated with a planet, this advancing
within the cult involved one’s gradual ascension through the cosmos.19 The last
level of initiation allowed one to take on the guise of Mithras, wear the god’s
costume and play his part during the cult’s main ritual. The latter was a reen-
actment of the meal shared between Mithras and Sol after killing the primor-
dial bull and was held in the presence of fabricated suns and other luminaries
inside cave-like spaces. During the ritual, the followers of Mithras performed
their respective characters and fleshed out the solar system inside the space,
as indicated by written sources, depictions, the structure of mithraea, and cult
paraphernalia.
A sculpted relief from Konjica (modern Bosnia and Herzegovina) depicts
the impersonators of Mithras and Sol eating. Those who embodied Cautes and
Cautopates – the servants of Mithras – tend to them, while those who had
reached the levels of Crow (the planet Mercury) and Lion (the planet Jupiter)
are shown at the sides.20 While the impersonation of Mithras, Cautes, and

17 Apul., m. 11.24 (Gaselee [ed.], 1924, 582; Griffiths [trans.], 1975, 101) sic ad istar solis exor-
nato me et in vicem simulacri constituto, repente velis reductis, in aspectum populus errabat.
18 On the cosmic dimension of Mithraism, see R. Beck, The Religion of the Mithras Cult in the
Roman Empire, Oxford 2006; Alvar, 2008, 364–381.
19 On the levels, Or., Cels. 6.22 (Marcovich [ed.], 2015, 399–400); Hieron., e. 107.2 (Hilberg
[ed.], 1912, 291–292); M.J. Vermaseren / C.C. van Essen, The Excavations in the Mithraeum
of the Church Santa Prisca in Rome, Leiden 1965, 155–172; R.L. Gordon, Ritual and Hierarchy
in the Mysteries of Mithras, in: ARYS 4 (2001[2005]), 245–274.
20 On the relief, see M.J. Vermaseren, Mithras the Secret God, London 1963, 101–103.
106 Chapter 4

Cautopates was expressed visually through the wearing of these characters’

distinctive garments, those who ‘played’ the other ranks used props. As visible
in the Konjica and other reliefs, and is confirmed by material finds, masks were
used to assimilate believers to the Crow and Lion levels and radiate crowns to
allow them to impersonate Sol.21 (see Fig. 27) According to a Christian source
that mocked the ceremony, during the ceremony “some flap their wings like
birds, imitating the call of the raven; others roar like lions.”22 Thus, Mithraism
offered various levels of iconic status, allowing its members to be iconic during
the ritual, while also creating a hierarchy among them.

Figure 27 Relief showing followers of Mithras impersonating the god and the characters of
his myth during the celebration the ritual banquet. Limestone, 59 × 85 cm, likely
of the 4th century, Konjica. Zemaljski Muzej Bosne I Hercegovine / National
Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina

As we will now see, bishops used the interpretative potentialities of the bibli-
cal notion of a humanity created “in the image and after the likeness of God”

21 On the Mithras mask recently found in Turkey, see A.F. Erol / S.Y. Şenyurt, A Terracotta
Mask of Mithras Found at Camihöyük-Avanos, Cappadocia, Providing New Evidence of the
Mithraic Cult and Ritual Practices in Anatolia, in: Tüba-ar 14 (2011), 87–106. On other props,
see K. Kortüm / A. Neth, Mithras im Zabergäu: Die Mithräen von Güglingen, in: Imperium
Romanum – Römer, Christen, Alamannen – Die Spätantike am Oberrhein. Katalog der
Landesausstellung Karlsruhe 2005/06, Stuttgart 2005, 225–231; I. Siemers-Klenner,
Archäologie des Mithraskultes: Architektur und Kultpraxis am Beispiel der Tempel von
Güglingen, Kreis Heilbronn, Wiesbaden 2020.
22 Ambrosiast., quae. vet. nov. test. 114.11 (A. Souter [ed.], Pseudo-Augustini Quaestiones
Veteris et Novi Testamenti CXXVII, CSEL 50, Vienna 1908, 308; trans. R. Beck, Ritual, Myth,
Doctrine, and Initiation in the Mysteries of Mithras: New Evidence from a Cult Vessel, in:
JRS 90 (2000), 145–180 [146]) Alii autem sicut aves alas percutiunt vocem coracis imitantes,
alii vero leonum more fremunt.
Initiates 107

(Gen 1:26) to promise iconicity to all who joined the Church. To stress the neo-
phytes’ functioning as images of the Christian God, the Church Fathers refer-
enced statues, thus rendering explicit what had been obvious but remained
unexpressed since the first century, namely that Christianity was proposing its
own religious overachievers as alternatives to this mechanism of interaction
with the divine.

4.2 New Bishops for a New Church

Following the faith’s legalisation in 313, the Church turned towards the world.
Seeking to promote the faith among Romans, fourth-century bishops adapted
rhetorical, ritual, architectural, and decorating strategies that already existed
in Roman society. As pointed out by Dominic Janes, the adoption of common
motifs allowed the Church to communicate more efficiently and to persuade
more people to join.23 The artisans of this process were persons educated in the
tradition of paideia who rose to the episcopate. Over the fourth century, these
bishops enacted what Susanna Elm called “the most far-reaching intellectual
project” of the time, namely “the integration of the account of creation in
Genesis into a variety of Platonic and Neoplatonic cosmological traditions.”24
Part of this synthesis involved reading Adam’s creation “in the image” of God
in iconic terms drawn from late Roman society.
Modern scholars have advanced the idea that the passage from the book of
Genesis describing the creation of the first human was influenced by rituals
through which cult statues were animated in Ancient Near Eastern societies.25
Consequently, the biblical text would imply that “Adamic beings are animate
icons […] The peculiar purpose for their creation is ‘theophanic’: to represent
or mediate the sovereign presence of the deity within the central nave of the
cosmic temple, just as the cult-images were supposed to do in conventional
sanctuaries.”26 This idea appears in the third century in the ­writings of Clement

23 D. Janes, God and Gold in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 1998, 45.117–118.

24 Elm, 1994, 297.
25 E.g., D. Steenburg, The Worship of Adam and Christ as the Image of God, in: JSNT 39 (1990),
95–109; A. Goshen-Gottstein, The Body as Image of God in Rabbinic Literature, in: HTR 87
(1994), 171–195; Herring, 2008. F. Horst, Face to Face: The Biblical Doctrine of the Image of
God, in: Interpretation 4 (1950), 259–270 (259–260) pointed out that the words used in
Hebrew for ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ both mean ‘statue’ in the sense of sculpted idol.
26 S.D. McBride Jr., Divine Protocol: Genesis 1:1–2:3 as Prologue to the Pentateuch, in: W.P. Brown /
S.D. McBride (eds.), God Who Creates: Essays in Honor of W. Sibley Towner, Grand Rapids
2000, 3–41 (16). See also Schüle, 2005, 6 “[scil. humans] represent God in the created
world as the cultic image would do.”
108 Chapter 4

of Alexandria, who states that humans to have been set up as statues dedicated
to God.27 Over the following two centuries, the presentation of Adam and
ideal Christians as statues carrying the image of God that grew popular among
Christian authors. In the East, Methodius of Olympus (d. ca. 311) argued:

If anyone, therefore, will keep this beauty [scil. the image of God in humanity]
spotless and intact and just as it was when the Creator Artist Himself fashioned
it according to type, in imitation of that eternal and intelligible nature of which
man is the image and expression, then, becoming like some beautiful sacred
statue transported from this world to the city of the blessed in the heavens, he
will dwell there as within a temple.28

A century later, Theodore of Mopsuestia (d. 428) held that God, like an artisan,
“established humankind to serve as the image for his household, so that all
creation would by their care and veneration towards humans render the hon-
our due to God.”29 In the West, Zeno of Verona (d. 371) asserted that Adam had
been made as “a statue initially unaware of itself.”30 Later, Peter Chrysologus of
Ravenna (d. 450) identified Adam and his descendants as “visible likenesses”
that make “the invisible Creator present on earth.”31 Similar statements were

27 Clem., str. 7.5.8 (Le Boulluec [ed.], 1997, 110; trans. ANF 2.530–531) Πᾶν γὰρ τὸ μέλλον
πιστεύειν πιστὸν ἤδη τῷ θεῷ καὶ καθιδρυμένον εἰς τιμὴν ἄγαλμα ἐνάρετον, ἀνακείμενον θεῷ.
28 Meth., symp. 6.2 (H. Musurillo / V.-H. Debidour [eds.], Méthode d’Olympe. Le Banquet,
SC 95, Paris 1963, 168; H. Musurillo [trans.], Methodius of Olympus. The Symposium: A
Treatise on Chastity, ACW 27, Westminster 1958, 91) Ἐὰν οὖν ἀμόλυντον τοῦτο τηρήσῃ τις τὸ
κάλλος καὶ ἀσινὲς καὶ τοιοῦτον, ὁποῖον αὐτὸς ὁ συστησάμενος αὐτὸ καὶ ζωγραφήσας ἀπετύπωσε,
τὴν αἰώνιον ἀπομιμησάμενος φύσιν καὶ νοητήν, ἧς καὶ χαρακτήρ ἐστιν ὁ ἄνθρωπος καὶ ἀπεικόνι-
σμα, γεγονὼς οἷον ἄγαλμά τι περικαλλέστατον καὶ ἱερόν, ἐντεῦθεν μετενεχθεὶς εἰς τὴν μακάρων
πόλιν τοὺς οὐρανούς, ὥσπερ ἐν ναῷ κατοικισθήσεται.
29 Thdr. Mops., fr.s. 1 (ed. F. Petit, L’homme créé ‘à l’image de Dieu’: quelques fragments
grec unédits de Théodore de Mopsueste, in: Le Muséon 100 (1987), 269–277 [274]; trans.
F.G. McLeod, The Christological Ramifications of Theodore of Mopsuestia’s Understanding
of Baptism and the Eucharist, in: JECS 10 [2002], 37–75 [55]) τελευταῖον δὲ τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἐν
τάξει παρήγαγεν εἰκόνος οἰκείας, ὡς ἂν ἅπασα ἡ κτίσις ἐν τῇ περὶ τοῦτον σπουδῇ τε καὶ θεραπείᾳ
τὴν προσήκουσαν ἀναφέρῃ τιμὴν τῷ θεῷ.
30 Zeno, tract. 1 56.2.3 (G. Banterle [ed.], Zeno di Verona. I discorsi, Milan 1987, 198–199; my
trans.) Construitur mobile totumque se nesciens simulacrum.
31 Petr. Chrys., s. 148.2 (G. Banterle et al. [eds.], Pietro Crisologo. Vol. 3: Sermoni 125–179 e
Lettera a Eutiche, Rome 1997, 154; G.E. Ganss [trans.], Saint Peter Chrysologus: Selected
Sermons. Saint Valerian: Homilies, Washington 1953, 249) in te imaginem suam ponit, ut
terris inuisibilem conditorem uisibilis imago praesentem poneret esset que terrenus cf. also
s. 147.8 and s. 150.
Initiates 109

made through art, with Adam being depicted reigning over the created world,
at times in the nude and with a perfect body that visually referenced statuary.32
Textual and material sources documenting the baptismal theory and prac-
tice of Christian communities across the Roman Empire attest to this view of
humankind as iconic and reigning over the rest of Creation becoming com-
monplace during the fourth and fifth centuries.33 It appears that in an effort
to render the faith more appealing to Romans, bishops promised neophytes
a status they knew was desired. The presentation of baptism as a life-altering
ritual that prompted a vision of God and the physical transformation of the
initiates, who regained the image of God lost by Adam, is discernible before
the fourth century in the Gospel of Philip, as well as in the writings of Clement
of Alexandria and Methodius of Olympus.34 Over the fourth and fifth centu-
ries, bishops popularised this concept of iconic baptism, while also rendering
it more conceptually coherent and producing, as we will now see, mechanisms
through which the vision and physical transformation were produced.
To stress the ritual’s transformative power, bishops switched baptism’s main
analogy from the baptism of Jesus to his death and resurrection, building on
Paul’s statement that “as many as were baptized to Christ Jesus, to his death
were baptized.”35 Cast in terms of a ritual death and resurrection, baptism was
set during the night of Easter so that initiates could rise together with Christ.36

32 See the Carrand ivory diptych, now in the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence.
H. Maguire, Earth and Ocean: The Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art, University Park
1987, 68–72.
33 On the theology and practice of baptism in this period, see M.E. Johnson, The Rites of
Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation, Collegeville 1999; E. Ferguson,
Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries, Grand
Rapids 2009; R.M. Jensen, Living Water: Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian
Baptism, SVigChr 105, Leiden 2010; ead., Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity: Ritual,
Visual, and Theological Dimensions, Grand Rapids 2012; D. Hellholm et al. (eds.), Ablution,
Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, 2 vols., Berlin
2011. On the ritual’s transformative dimension, see E.J. Yarnold, The Awe-inspiring Rites of
Initiation: The Origins of the R.C.I.A., Collegeville 1972; Ivanovici, 2016, 19–108.
34 For Clement, see above; Meth., symp. 8.6 and 8.8 (Debidour / Musurillo [eds.], 1963, 214–
216.218–220). The Gospel of Philip, a text of the second century, refers to baptism as the
putting on of the form of Christ, to the chrism as a garment of fire and light, and to bapti-
sands as Christs. See Ivanovici, 2016, 34–36.
35 Rom 6:3. On the change in symbolism, see G. Winkler, The Original Meaning of the
Prebaptismal Anointing and its Implications, in: Worship 52 (1978), 24–45; ead., The
Blessing of the Water in the Oriental Liturgies, in: Conc(D) 178 (1985), 53–61; V. Saxer, Les
rites de l’initiation chrétienne du IIe au VIe siècle. Esquisse hist. et signification d’apres leurs
principaux temoins, Spoleto 1988, 136.
36 The secrecy, Easter date, and other features cannot be attested in all communities, but
they grew popular over the fourth century and generalised during the next.
110 Chapter 4

The details of the experience were sworn to secrecy and its perception was
shaped through a forty-day programme of intense instruction that was psycho-
logically and physiologically straining.37 A vision of God and the regaining of
the image of God lost by Adam were often promised to those preparing for the
ritual, with statues becoming a key analogy for those who underwent it:

When a man takes and melts down a gold statue which has become filthy with
the filth of years and smoke and dirt and rust, he returns it to us all-clean and
shining. So, too, God takes this nature of ours when it is rusted with the rust
of sin, when our faults have covered it with abundant soot, and when it had
destroyed the beauty He put into it in the beginning, and He smelts it anew. He
plunges it into the waters as into the smelting furnace and lets the grace of the
Spirit fall on it instead of the flames. Then He brings us forth from the furnace,
renewed like newly molded vessels, to rival the rays of the sun with our bright-
ness. He has broken the old man to pieces but has produced a new man who
shines brighter than the old.38

Several other formulas and motifs were used by authors of the time to describe
the iconicity baptisands gained through baptism: “putting Christ on,” “regain-
ing the luminous garment of Adam,” “becoming like God,” “becoming sons and
coheirs with Christ,” “receiving the seal of Christ,” being “remade in the form of
Christ,” “gaining the Divine Image,” shining like angels, becoming a portrait of
the King, becoming “another Christ,” being impressed with the image of Christ,
or the baptismal font as the womb of Mary or as furnace reshaping baptisands
in the form of Christ.39 Many of these formulas have an unmistakable visual

37 Ivanovici, 2016, 19–57.

38 Chrys., ad illum. cat. 1.3 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca.
Vol. 49, Paris 1862, coll. 227C; P.W. Harkins [trans.], John Chrysostom: Baptismal Instructions,
Westminster 1963, 138–139) Ὥσπερ οὖν ἀνδριάντα χρυσοῦν πολλῷ τῷ χρόνῳ καὶ τῷ καπνῷ καὶ
τῇ κόνει καὶ ἰῷ ῥυπωθέντα λαβών τις καὶ χωνεύσας, καθαρώτατον ἡμῖν καὶ ἀστράπτοντα ἀπο-
δίδωσιν, οὕτω καὶ τὴν φύσιν τὴν ἡμετέραν ὁ Θεὸς ἰωθεῖσαν τῷ τῆς ἁμαρτίας ἰῷ, καὶ πολὺν δεξα-
μένην τὸν καπνὸν τὸν ἀπὸ τῶν πλημμελημάτων, καὶ τὸ κάλλος ἀπολέσασαν, ὅπερ παρ’ αὐτοῦ
παρὰ τὴν ἀρχὴν ἐγκατέθηκε, λαβὼν ἄνωθεν ἐχώνευσε, καὶ καθάπερ εἰς χωνευτήριον ἐμβαλὼν
τὰ ὕδατα, καὶ τὴν τοῦ Πνεύματος ἐπαφεὶς χάριν ἀντὶ φλογὸς, εἶτα νεοπαγεῖς ἐκεῖθεν καὶ καινοὺς
γενομένους ἀντιβλέψαι λοιπὸν ταῖς ἡλιακαῖς καινοὺς γενομένους ἀντιβλέψαι λοιπὸν ταῖς ἡλια-
καῖς ἀκτῖσι μετὰ πολλῆς ἀνάγει τῆς λαμπρότητος, τὸν μὲν παλαιὸν συντρίψας ἄνθρωπον, νέον
δὲ κατασκευάσας τοῦ προτέρου λαμπρότερον. cf. also id., hom. in Col. 7.3 (J.-P. Migne [ed.],
Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 62, Paris 1862, coll. 346); Meth., symp. 6.2
(Debidour / Musurillo [eds.], 1963, 168); Nar. (d. ca. 500), hom. 21.343:33–344:5; S 343:20–
344:3 (A. Mingana [ed.], Narsai doctoris syri homiliae et carmina. Vol. 1, Mosul 1905).
39 E.g., Bas., bapt. 1.3.1 (J. Ducatillon [ed.], Basile de Césarée, Sur le baptême. Texte grec de
l’édition U. Neri. Introduction, traduction et annotation par Jeanne Ducatillon, SC 357, Paris
1989, 192); Chrys., ad illum. cat. 1.2, 2.11, 5.18 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus com-
pletus. Series Graeca. Vol. 49, Paris 1862); Gr. Naz., or. 40.13 (C. Moreschini [ed.], Grégoire
Initiates 111

dimension that referenced, I argue, the ways in which the baptisands’ bodies
were treated during the ritual.

4.3 Making Golden Statues of Christ

Although still marked by local differences, the concept and practice of baptism
became remarkably consistent during the fourth century.40 The new type of
ritual experience bishops proposed to those who joined the Church – which
culminated with the ‘melting and recasting’ of the initiates into images of the
Christian god – was designed integrating what cults around the Mediterranean
had learned about the staging of life-altering experiences, the knowledge
Greek and Roman philosophical schools had accumulated on the mechanics
of human perception, as well as experiments made by early Christian com-
munities in staging visions and transformations.41 Thus, bishops combined
secrecy on the precise nature of the experience with promises of visions of
God and of corporeal transformation, which they made using a vocabulary
that referenced the concept of cosmic ascension we have seen popular across
the late antique religious landscape. This strategy stirred the audience’s curios-
ity and led them to expect the type of ritual they knew to be transformative,
namely a vision/ascension followed by the initiate’s transformation into a liv-
ing image of their deity.42

de Nazianze, Discours 38–41, SC 358, Paris 1990, 226); Cyr., in Jo. 1.9 (J.-P. Migne [ed.],
Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 37, Paris 1862, coll. 120); Ivanovici, 2016,
37–56.
40 See the summary of the various traditions in Ferguson, 2009.
41 Early Christian communities experimented various ways of staging the light theophany
that an apocryphal tradition placed at the baptism of Jesus cf. A. Cosentino, Il fuoco nel
Giordano, il cero pasquale e la columna del Battistero Lateranense, in: L’edifìcio battesimale
in Italia. Aspetti e problemi. Atti dell’VIII Congresso Nazionale di Archeologia Cristiana
(21–26.9.1998), Bordighera 2001, 521–540; Ivanovici, 2016, 22–37. Ancient rhetoric’s interest
in the mechanics of perception and cognition, as well as in how to manipulate audiences
is clearest in Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria. For an introduction to ancient rhetoric, see
G.A. Kennedy, The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World 300 BC–AD 300, Princeton 1972;
Y.Z. Liebersohn, The Dispute Concerning Rhetoric in Hellenistic Thought, Göttingen 2010.
42 On the effects of secrecy, see Ambr., d.m. 1.2 (O. Faller [ed.], Ambrosius. Explanatio sym-
boli, De sacramentis, De mysteriis, De paentientia, De excessu fratris, De obitu Valentiniani,
De obitu Theodosii, CSEL 73, Vienna 1955, 89). On its use in ancient initiations, see
D.L. Schwartz, Paideia and Cult: Christian Initiation in Theodore of Mopsuestia, Washington
2013, 48–62. Modern scholars have debated the relationship between ancient mysteria
and Christian sacraments. See the recent summary in Bremmer, 2014, 142–147. For bap-
tism as similar to late antique rather than ancient initiations, see Ivanovici, 2016, 19–21.
112 Chapter 4

Speaking of the vision offered in baptism, Bishop Maximus of Turin (d. ca.
420) stated that:

… heaven must be open to those requesting baptism, since it is still closed to

them. For heaven is closed to them because they do not yet see the mystery of
the Trinity. Inasmuch as heaven is closed to them they are unaware of what
is taking place above heaven, nor can they know what the substance is of the
Son and the Father unless they first transcend the elements of the world. […]
Therefore, when the heavens have been closed to a person they must be opened
to him so that he may see Christ standing above the heavens, for as long as they
are closed to someone he is unable to see Christ reigning.43

Across the Mediterranean, John Chrysostom repeatedly mentioned in his pre-

baptismal sermons the exalted state the ritual would grant baptisands, using
terms that alluded to an iconic state such as the one we saw conferred by other
initiations of the time:

Remember me, then, when you come into that kingdom, when you receive the
royal robe, when you are clothed with the purple which has been dipped in the
Master’s blood, when you put on your heads the diadem whose lustre leaps forth
on every side with a brightness which rivals the rays of the sun.44

Such promises were fulfilled inside the spaces dedicated to the ritual, i.e., bap-
tisteries. Although typically small, baptisteries were carefully built and deco-
rated to complement the ritual.45 In addition, they were the last in a series of
spaces, each dedicated to a different part of the pre-baptismal preparation.
Thus, the perception of the baptistery’s interior and of the ritual performed
inside was prepared through a sequence of teachings, actions, and spaces.

43 Max. Taur., s. 52.3 (A. Mutzenbecher [ed.], Maximus Taurinensis: Sermones, CCSL 23,
Turnhout 1962, 211; B. Ramsey [trans.], The Sermons of St. Maximus of Turin, ACW 50, New
York 1989, 127–128) Reserandum igitur conpetentibus nostris est caelum, quoniam adhuc
clausum est apud illos. Clausum enim est illis caelum, quoniam mysterium nondum peruidet
trinitatis. Clauso enim sibi caelo super caelum quid agatur ignorant, nec scire possunt quae
sit filii patrisque substantia, nisi prius mundi aelementa transcenderint. […] Ergo cui clausi
sunt caeli agendum est, ut aperiantur illi, quatenus super caelos Christum ‘possit aspicere’;
nam quamdiu clausi sunt homini, Christum non potest uidere regnantem.
44 Chrys., ad illum. cat. 1.1 (Migne [ed.], 1862, coll. 223B; Harkins [trans.], 1963, 132) Μνήσθητε
οὖν, ὅταν ἔλθητε εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν ἐκείνην, ὅταν τὸ ἱμάτιον τὸ βασιλικὸν ἀπολάβητε, ὅταν τὴν
πορφύραν περιβάλησθε τὴν αἵματι βαφεῖσαν Δεσποτικῷ, ὅταν διάδημα ἀναδήσησθε τῶν ἡλια-
κῶν ἀκτίνων φαιδροτέρας ἔχον πανταχόθεν ἐκπηδώσας λαμπηδόνας.
45 On the architecture of late antique baptisteries, see S. Ristow, Frühchristliche Baptisterien,
Münster 1998; O. Brandt, Understanding the Structures of Early Christian Baptisteries, in:
Hellholm et al. (eds.), 2011, 1587–1609.
Initiates 113

Inside baptisteries, frescoes, mosaic, and opus sectile were used to construct
iconographic programmes that converged with the scene of Jesus’s baptism or
with the depiction of his symbol (i.e., cross, chi-rho).46 Extant spaces and writ-
ten allusions attest to the use of the same imagery found in other initiations of
the time, namely nocturnal suns, cosmic oculi, and divine apparitions.
Dated to the beginning of the fifth century, the San Giovanni baptistery in
Naples has the symbol of Christ depicted at the centre of a nocturnal sun.47
Playing on the expectation to find an oculus at the centre of the dome, the
designer of the space used a visual trick to make a nocturnal sun seem to appear
on the sky. The dome’s interior surface was covered with dark blue mosaic that
melded with the night sky outside. Against this dissipating surface, elements
in golden glass mosaic created the contour of an eight-rayed sun, whose disk
and rays structured the other elements depicted in the dome.48 Together, the
expectation of a nocturnal sun, the receding effect of the blue background,
the contrast between the blue and golden elements, and the animation of the
parts in gold by the flickering light of the lamps and candles present inside the
baptistery made the sun-shaped frame prominent. At the apex of the dome,
the disk of the sun opened to become a cosmic oculus. Through it, the bapti-
sand in the font could gaze into the upper regions of the sky, where the symbol
of Christ was visible. (see Figs. 28 & 29)
A few decades later we find the same strategy used in a more daring man-
ner. While in Naples baptisands were offered a vision of the highest heavens as
a distant space, in the Orthodox Baptistery in Ravenna “devices developed in
Antiquity to create the illusion of a reality beyond the picture plane began to
be used as a means of projecting the image into the audience’s own space.”49
As noted by Annabel J. Wharton, the design in Ravennate baptistery mate-
rialises Jesus and the apostles inside the space, thus allowing baptisands to
share the same space with the divine. Looking up from the font, the person

46 On the decoration of late antique baptisteries, see Jensen, 2010; ead., 2012; Ivanovici, 2016,
19–115.
47 On the baptistery, see C. Croci, Una “questione campana”: La prima arte monumentale
Cristiana tra Napoli, Nola e Capua (IV–VI sec.), Rome 2017; ead., C. Croci, La narration
dans l’espace de la coupole: une rencontre compliquée? Autour des mosaïques du baptistère
de San Giovanni in Fonte à Naples ( fin IV e–début Ve siècle), in: Croci / Ivanovici (eds.),
2018, 65–84.
48 Ivanovici, 2016, 80–83; id., Soleils nocturnes. Visions progressives dans les édifices à coupole
de l’Antiquité tardive, in: EDL 2 (2018), 103–122.
49 A.J. Wharton, Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning: The Neonian Baptistry in Ravenna, in:
ArtB 69 (1987), 358–365 (358). On the baptistery, see S.K. Kostof, The Orthodox Baptistery
of Ravenna, New Haven 1965; C. Muscolino / A. Ranaldi / C. Tedeschi (eds.), Il Battistero
Neoniano: Uno sguardo attraverso il restauro, Ravenna 2011.
114 Chapter 4

Figure 28 Mosaic decoration of domed ceiling inside the San Giovanni in Fonte baptistery
in Naples. Ca. 400. (Photo: Domenico Ventura)

undergoing the ritual saw the disk of a nocturnal sun created by the golden
light emanated by the body of Jesus.50 Around the golden disk containing
the depiction of Jesus’s baptism in the Jordan, twelve vegetal candelabra and
twelve standing apostles stood as golden sunrays. (see Fig. 30) Thus, the setting
likened Christ with the sun and the apostles with his rays, a favourite analogy
of local bishops.51 Thanks to the curved surface of the dome, to the play of con-

50 On the body of Jesus being the source of the golden light in the central disk, see
F.W. Deichmann, Ravenna: Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes. Kommentar 1,
Wiesbaden 1974, 143.
51 Zeno, tract. 2 12.2.3 (Banterle [ed.], 1987, 284–287); Chrom. Aquil., in M. 19.1.2 (G. Banterle
[ed.], Cromazio di Aquileia: Commento a Matteo, Milan 1990, 128–129); Max. Taur., s. 29.1
and 62.2 (Mutzenbecher [ed.], 1962). On the motif, see F.J. Dölger, Das Sonnengleichnis in
Initiates 115

Figure 29 Drawing showing the location of golden mosaic tesserae in the decoration of the
domed ceiling inside the San Giovanni in Fonte baptistery in Naples. Ca. 400.
(Graphic development by Lorenzo R. Pini)

trasts between the dark background and the elements rendered in gold, and to
the reflectivity of the materials – which simultaneously animated and fleshed
out the depicted elements – the initiates could share the space with their new
god and his apostles.52

einer Weihnachtspredigt des Bischofs Zeno von Verona. Christus als wahre und ewige Sonne,
in: AuC 6 (1937), 1–50; M. Wallraff, Christus verus Sol: Sonnenverehrung und Christentum in
der Spätantike, Münster 2001; Ivanovici, 2016, 66–80.
52 Ivanovici, 2016, 57–108; id., Soleils, 2018.
116 Chapter 4

Figure 30 Mosaic decoration of the domed ceiling of the Orthodox Baptistery. Mosaic,
ca. 458, Ravenna. The blue mosaic tesserae of the background faded over the
centuries, thus the contrast was a lot stronger initially. (Photo: Longo Editore,
with the kind concession of the Opera di Religione della Diocesi di Ravenna)

In baptisteries where canopies were set up over the font – which make up
almost one-third of extant cases – the decorative programme converged at
the centre of the pavement decoration, on the bottom of the font rather than
on the ceiling.53 The image depicted on the font’s floor revealed itself to the
baptisand through the lustrous surface of the water, which was mixed with
the anointing oil from previous initiates and animated by the flickering of the
lights placed in the vicinity.54 In cases where the fonts were decorated with

53 For the statistic, see Ristow, 1998, 33.

54 V. Ivanovici / N.S. Dennis, Light, Vision(s), Transformation. Experiencing Baptism in
Canopied Fonts (ca. 230–ca. 500), in: HAM 26 (2020), 97–108.
Initiates 117

complex iconographic schemes, as that from Kelibia, Tunisia, the font’s inter-
nal steps and its bottom created a layered image like the one in the dome of
the baptistery in Naples.55 Thus, although they showcased less complex ico-
nographies, such baptisteries allowed baptisands to physically enter the vision.
With each downward step, the baptisand advanced into the image, sensation
reinforced by the presence of the water that enveloped one’s body. This down-
ward journey offered a twist on the expected, upward experience. The material
frame provided by the canopy and the columns that supported it reinforced
the statue-like quality of the neophytes, as similar settings were used in Roman
public spaces to display statues.
The vision of the image or symbol of Christ during the ritual was presented as
the catalyst of the ontological transformation the ritual promised. Discussing
the workings of the Holy Spirit, Basil of Caesarea turned to the moment of bap-
tism, when people were cleansed of their sins, had the image of God in them
renewed, and were allowed to see and recognise themselves in Christ:

Only then, after a man is purified [scil. in baptism] from the shame whose stain
he took through his wickedness, and has come back again to his natural beauty
[scil. Adam’s and Christ’s], as it were cleaning the Royal Image and restoring its
ancient form, only thus is it possible for him to draw near to the Paraclete. And
He, like the sun, will with the help of your cleansed eye show you in Himself the
image of the invisible, and in the blessed spectacle of the image you will behold
the unspeakable beauty of the archetype.56

As with the promised vision of God, the bishops used an artifice to render vis-
ible the regaining of the image of God lost by Adam. The popularisation of the
nocturnal setting for baptism during the fourth century allowed for the wet
and anointed bodies of baptisands exiting the font to be made luminous as

55 The Bardo Museum, where the font is located, was the site of a terrosist attack in 2015 and
has since remained closed. The Museum’s contact page is suspended, so the image rights
could not be secured, but the font can be seen on the website: http://www.bardomu-
seum.tn/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=93:baptistere-de-demna-
cuve-baptismale&catid=45:periode-byzantine-&Itemid=74&lang=en. On the font, see
O. Perler, Die Taufsymbolik der vier Jahreszeiten im Baptisterium bei Kelibia, in: A. Stuiber /
A. Hermann (eds.), Mullus: Festschrift Theodor Klauser, Münster 1964, 282–290; É. Palazzo,
Iconographie et liturgie: La mosaïque du baptistère de Kélibia (Tunisie), in: ALW 34 (1992),
102–120.
56 Bas., Spir. 9.23 (B. Pruche [ed.], Basile de Césarée. Sur le Saint-Esprit, SC 17bis, Paris ²1968,
326–328; trans. NPNF 2.8,15) Καθαρθέντα δὴ οὖν ἀπὸ τοῦ αἴσχους ὃ ἀνεμάξατο διὰ τῆς κακίας,
καὶ πρὸς τὸ ἐκ φύσεως κάλλος ἐπανελθόντα, καὶ οἷον εἰκόνι βασιλικῇ τὴν ἀρχαίαν μορφὴν διὰ
καθαρότητος ἀποδόντα, οὕτως ἐστὶ μόνως προσεγγίσαι τῷ Παρακλήτῳ. Ὁ δέ, ὥσπερ ἥλιος,
κεκαθαρμένον ὄμμα παραλαβών, δείξει σοι ἐν ἑαυτῷ τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ ἀοράτου. Ἐν δὲ τῷ μακαρίῳ
τῆς εἰκόνος θεάματι τὸ ἄρρητον ὄψει τοῦ ἀρχετύπου κάλλος.
118 Chapter 4

the light from the several lamps and candles placed in the vicinity of the font
bounced off their skin.57 The shimmer of their bodies – not unlike that of a
gilded cult statue in the penumbra of its temple cella – was identified by bish-
ops as the image of God lost by Adam and regained in baptism.
Because bishops typically praised the baptisands’ luminous bodies using
Paul’s garment imagery, modern scholars thought that they referred to the
white garments one received upon leaving the baptistery.58 Nevertheless, a
close analysis of the texts, mise-en-scène of the ritual, and culture of the time
reveals that what was meant was the luminosity of their wet and anointed bod-
ies. This is confirmed by Theodore of Mopsuestia, who states that “when you go
out [scil. of the font] you wear a garment that is wholly radiant”; by Ephrem the
Syrian and Augustine of Hippo, who identify the chrism as a luminous garment
carrying the image of God; or by John Chrysostom, who distinguishes between
the luminous garment and the white clothes.59 Therefore, the recurrent men-
tion of ‘shining robes’ in baptism-related writings of this period should be seen
as referencing both the anointing and the white garment.60
Interpreting anointed bodies as luminous was not novel. The effect is men-
tioned in the first-century text 2Enoch – where the biblical patriarch is anointed
by angels in heaven and thus gains angel-like luminosity – and is depicted in
mosaics dated from the first to the fourth century.61 The interpretation of the

57 Johnson, 1999, tables on pp. 154 and 199 shows that most communities practiced a sort
of pre-baptismal anointing (whether of the body, head, or unspecified). On the location
of lights in late antique baptisteries, see V. Ivanovici, Luce renobatus: Speculations on
the Placement and Importance of Lights in Ravenna’s Neonian Baptistery, in: D. Mondini /
V. Ivanovici (eds.), Manipulating Light in Premodern Times. Architectural, Artistic, and
Philosophical Aspects, Cinisello Balsamo 2014, 18–29; Ivanovici / Dennis, 2020.
58 On the garments, see Ambr., d.m. 7.34 (Faller [ed.], 1955, 102–103); J.E. Farrell, The Garment
of Immortality: A Concept and Symbol in Christian Baptism, Washington 1974; G.-H. Baudry,
Le baptême et ses symboles. Aux sources du salut, Paris 2001, 89–123.
59 Thdr. Mops., On the Lord’s Prayer 4 3,201:26–202:11 (A. Mingana [ed. / trans.], Christian
Documents in Syriac, Arabic, and Garshūni. Vol. 5: Commentary of Theodore of Mopsuestia
on the Lord’s Prayer and on the Sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist, Cambridge 1933,
68) ‫ ; ܡܦܪܓ ܡܐ ܕܝܢ ܕܣܠܩܬ ܡܟܝܠ ܡܢ ܬܡܢ ܠܒܫܬ ܠܒܘܫܐ ܕܟܠܗ‬Ephr., h.v. 7.6–7
(E. Beck [ed.], Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Virginitate. Vol. 1.2, CSCO 223,
Louvain 1962) and id., h.e. 13.1 (E. Beck [ed.], Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen
De Nativitate (Epiphania). Vol. 2.2, CSCO 187, Louvain 1959); Aug., s. 227 (S. Poque [ed.],
Augustin d’Hippone, Sermons pour la Pâque, SC 116, Paris 1966, 234–238); Chrys., ad illum.
cat. 7.24 (Wenger [ed.], 1957, 241).
60 The white garment was likely also meant to capture and reproduce the momentary effect
of the chrism.
61 2 En 22:8–9. A single edition of the text does not exist. See the trans. by F. Andersen,
2 (Slavonic Apocalypse of ) Enoch, in: J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament
Initiates 119

anointing as a luminous garment had been made by certain Christian commu-

nities during the early centuries, but was generalised during the fourth, along
with the nocturnal setting and the accent placed on baptism as conferring the
iconic, statue-like status lost by Adam.
The anointing was a symbolically pregnant gesture that allowed bishops to
liken baptisands to athletes preparing to fight the Devil, to biblical prophets
receiving the Holy Spirit, and to Jesus.62 Since Christ literally meant ‘anointed
one,’ bishops could refer to baptisands as ‘Christs’ on account of the anointing,
thus stressing the exalted state conferred by the initiation.63 The visual effect
of the chrismation rendered the “putting on” of Christ visible in the form of
light, which likened them to the gods, the gods’ statues, and the iconic emper-
ors. Thus, the Christian initiation momentarily offered the status we have seen
that Paul’s correspondents in Corinth and Aelius Aristides desired.
Since the details of the experience were usually not discussed beforehand,
people perceived what took place inside baptisteries through the prism of the
contemporary symbolic vocabulary and through the expectations created by
the allusions the bishops made in their pre-baptismal sermons.64 As such, bap-
tism must have appeared to those who joined the faith as the Christian version
of the experiences we saw staged in the cults of Isis and Mithras. Confirming
that baptism had been designed to respond to the expectations of its audience
are similarities between the visions offered inside the baptisteries in Naples
and Ravenna, on the one hand, and a Neoplatonic ritual, on the other.

Pseudepigrapha, 2 vols., New York 1983, vol. 1, 91–221. On the text, see A.A. Orlov, The
Enoch-Metatron Tradition, Tübingen 2005. On corporeal luminosity and its symbolism,
see M. Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses, Oxford 1993, 40;
Fletcher-Louis, 2002; Kim, 2004.
62 Cyr. H., catech. m. 3 (A. Piédagnel [ed.], Cyrille de Jérusalem, Catéchèses Mystagogiques,
SC 126bis, Paris ²1988, 120–134); G. Winkler, The Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal
Anointing and its Implications, in: Worship 52 (1978), 24–45; Baudry, 2001; J. Day, The
Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: Fourth- and Fifth-century Evidence from Palestine, Syria
and Egypt, Aldershot 2007, 65–77.
63 Gr. Naz., or. 18.13 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 35,
Paris 1857, coll. 1000C–1001A) and 40.10 (Moreschini [ed.], 1990, 218); Meth., symp. 8.8
(Debidour / Musurillo [eds.], 1963, 218–220).
64 The Christian symbolism of baptism was explained to neophytes through a series of
post-baptismal catecheses. See H.M. Riley, Christian Initiation: A Comparative Study of the
Interpretation of the Baptismal Liturgy in the Mystagogical Writings of Cyril of Jerusalem,
John Chrysostom, Theodore of Mopsuestia and Ambrose of Milan, Washington 1974;
C.A. Satterlee, Ambrose of Milan’s Method of Mystagogical Preaching, Collegeville 2002;
Day, 2007.
120 Chapter 4

Sarah Iles Johnston identified the description of a Neoplatonic theurgic rit-

ual in a fourth-century text erroneously called The Mithras Liturgy.65 Theurgy
(lit. god-work) was introduced by the philosopher Iamblichus (ca. 245–325)
and consisted of various rituals meant to stimulate one’s divine potential.66
With it, the philosophical school adapted Platonic thought to contemporary
beliefs by recognising the iconic potential of living humans and designing
rituals to attain it. The ritual described in this text prompted the ascension of
the theurgist who, like Lucius, the followers of Mithras, and baptisands, rose
through the cosmic structure. With the help of a spell, the theurgist opened
the disk of the sun to gain access to the cosmic realm of the gods. As in Naples
and Ravenna, the disk of the sun becomes an oculus through which the divine
appears, in this case as a young god with fiery hair and wearing a white tunic,
scarlet cloak, and blazing crown.67
Such rituals were said to allow Neoplatonists to regain the perfect, sun-like
body humans had had before their fall into matter. Consequently, theurgists
became “vehicles of the gods” and functioned as living statues of the divine.68
The philosophical school’s use of the same motifs and imagery to promise a
status we saw offered by several other cults points to the central place iconic
status had come to play in fourth-century Roman culture.
In light of this information, it is safe to assume that Christianity’s grow-
ing popularity in this period can also be attributed to its leaders’ willingness
to design baptism as a life-altering experience that conferred iconic status
through the integration of popular motifs, strategies developed by other cults,
and a brilliant new type of mise-en-scène that offered not only a vision of the
upper heavens, but also rendered the bodies of initiates temporarily luminous.
The synaesthetic character of the experience – represented by the spreading
of the chrism on one’s body by deacons or deaconesses, contact with the water,
sight of the lustrous chrism, its perfumed odour, sight of heavenly beings, and
awareness of being watched by them – created a lasting memory that marked
a turning point in one’s life.

65 S.I. Johnston, Rising to the Occasion: Theurgic Ascent in its Cultural Milieu, in: P. Schäfer /
H.G. Kippenberg (eds.), Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium, Leiden
1997, 218–233.
66 G. Shaw, Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus, Kettering 2014.
67 Mithras Liturgy 634–638 (H.D. Betz [ed.], The “Mithras Liturgy”: Text, Translation, and
Commentary, Tübingen 2003, 53–56).
68 Iamb., d.m. 115.4–5 (E.C. Clarke / J. Dillon / J.P. Hershbell [ed. / trans.], Iamblichus: On the
Mysteries, WGRW 4, Atlanta 2003, 129); Shaw, 2014, 51–57.
Initiates 121

4.4 Beyond Baptism

Although unacknowledged in modern scholarship, the iconicity neophytes

gained through baptism was a key component of Christian identity in the later
fourth and the fifth centuries, since those who had been baptised as adults
in this period were taught to act in the world as images of Christ. Gregory
the Theologian (ca. 329–390) – Bishop of Sasima and Nazianzus and later
Archbishop of Constantinople – taught the newly baptised to reject the Devil
by saying to him “I am the Image of God; I have not been cast down from heav-
enly Glory as you were due to your pride; I have put on Christ; I have been
transformed into Christ by baptism. Worship me!”69
Considered metaphorical by modern scholars, such formulations evoked
the experience of baptism and the physical transformation underwent inside
the baptistery. The new Christians’ awareness of their embodying of a state
that many of their contemporaries desired must have shaped the way in which
they interacted with the rest of society, in a period when the faith was spread-
ing among Romans at a fast pace.
Bishops played on this self-perception in order to shape the post-baptismal
behaviour of their congregations. By reminding them of their iconicity, they
urged Christians to adopt an irreproachable way of life:

Having been baptized into Christ, and put on Christ, you have been made con-
formable to the Son of God; for God having foreordained us unto adoption as
sons, made us to be conformed to the body of Christ’s glory. Having therefore
become partakers of Christ, you are properly called Christs, and of you God said,
‘Touch not My Christs’, or anointed. Now you have been made Christs, by receiv-
ing the antitype of the Holy Ghost; and all things have been wrought in you by
imitation, because you are images of Christ.70

Those who managed to preserve the iconic status gained in baptism were
praised as statue-like, exemplary figures, thus consecrating the absorption of
the statue motif within Christian culture. This is the case with Gregory’s father,

69 Gr. Naz., or. 40.10 (Moreschini [ed.], 1990, 218; trans. NPNF 2.7, 363) Εἰπέ, τῇ σφραγῖδι θαρ-
ρήσας. εἰκών εἰμι καὶ αὐτὸς Θεοῦ. τῆς ἄνω δόξης οὔπω δι’ ἔπαρσιν, ὥσπερ σύ, καταβέβλημαι.
70 Cyr. H., catech. m. 3.1 (Piédagnel [ed.], 1988, 120–122; trans. NPNF 2.7, 149) Εἰς Χριστὸν
βεβαπτισμένοι καὶ Χριστὸν ἐνδυσάμενοι σύμμορφοι γεγόνατε τοῦ Υἱοῦ τοῦ Θεοῦ. Προορίσας γὰρ
ἡμᾶς ὁ Θεὸς εἰς υἱοθεσίαν, συμμόρφους ἐποίησε τοῦ σώματος τῆς δόξης τοῦ Χριστοῦ. Μέτοχοι
οὖν τοῦ Χριστοῦ γενόμενοι, χριστοὶ εἰκότως καλεῖσθε, καὶ περὶ ὑμῶν ἔλεγεν ὁ Θεός· “Μὴ ἅπτεσθε
τῶν χριστῶν μου” Χριστοὶ δὲ γεγόνατε, τοῦ ἁγίου Πνεύματος τὸ ἀντίτυπον δεξάμενοι, καὶ πάντα
εἰκονικῶς ἐφ’ ὑμῶν γεγένηται, ἐπειδὴ εἰκόνες ἐστὲ Χριστοῦ. Being a statue of God was pos-
sible also for women cf. Bas. Anc., d. virg. 36 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus comple-
tus. Series Graeca. Vol. 30, Paris 1888, coll. 740D–741A).
122 Chapter 4

whose body had shone as he stepped out of the font and who subsequently
“set himself before them [scil. his congregation] as an example, like a spiritual
statue, polished into the beauty of all excellent conduct.”71
As a result, it became common to refer to Christians in terms such the ‘hand-
work,’ ‘housemates,’ ‘images,’ or ‘statues’ of God.72 A fragment from one of the
many theological debates on the nature of Jesus attests to how the statue-like
state started to become conventional among Christians:

Otherwise, as the heretics say, God would be in the Lord Jesus Christ as in a
statue or in an instrument, i.e., He would dwell as it were in a man and speak
as it were through a man, and it would not be He who dwelt and spoke as God
of Himself and in His own body: and certainly He had already thus dwelt in the
saints and spoken in the persons of the saints. In those men too, of whom I spoke
above, who had prayed for His advent, He had thus dwelt and spoken.73

Thus, in addition to exploring in detail what role the promise of joining a com-
munity whose members could claim iconic status played in attracting Romans
to the Church, it is worth further considering how the status gained in baptism
shaped the neophytes’ perception of the world, their social behaviour, and
how this popularisation of iconicity within Christianity influenced the theo-
logical debates of the time.

71 On his father’s luminosity at baptism, see Gr. Naz., or. 18.12–13 (Migne [ed.], 1857, coll.
1000–1001C; trans. NPNF 2.7, 258–259) Ἐξελθόντα δὲ αὐτὸν ἐκ τοῦ ὕδατος, φῶς περιαστρά-
πτει καὶ δόξα τῆς διαθέσεως ἀξία, μεθ’ ἧς προσῆλθε τῷ χαρίσματι τῆς πίστεως· On his becom-
ing a statue-like exemplary figure, see id., or. 18.16 (Migne [ed.], 1857, coll. 1004C; trans.
NPNF 2.7, 259) καὶ τῷ προθεῖναι τύπον ἑαυτὸν, ὥσπερ ἀνδριάντα πνευματικὸν, εἰς κάλλος ἀπε-
ξεσμένον πάσης ἀρίστης πράξεως.
72 Gr. Naz., carm. 1.10 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 37,
Paris 1862, coll. 469 v. 58) Σαρκὸς μὲν, ὡς σύνοικος, ὡς δ’ εἰκὼν, Θεοῦ· and id., p.m. 1.2.34
(J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 37, Paris 1862, coll. 947)
Ἄνθρωπός εἰμι, πλάσμα καὶ εἰκὼν Θεοῦ.
73 Jo. Cass. (ca. 360–ca. 435), c.N. 5.14 (M. Petschenig [ed.], Ioannis Cassianis. De institutis coe-
nobiorum; De incarnatione contra Nestorium, CSEL 17, Vienna 2004, 323; trans. NPNF 2.11,
590) Alioquin si, ut haereticus ait, deus futurus in domino Iesu Christo erat uelut in statua et
in organo, id est ut habitaret tantum quasi in homine et loqueretur quasi per hominem, non
ut ipse esset qui habitaret atque ex se et suo corpore loqueretur deus, iam utique sic et habi-
tarat in sanctis et locutus fuerat e sanctis, in his quoque ipsis quos supra dixi, qui aduentum
ipsius precabantur, sic erat ac loquebatur.
Initiates 123

4.5 Conclusions

Texts and rituals reflecting the views of various individuals, communities, and
religions indicate that taking on the functions of cult statues became a highly
desired status among Romans as early as the second century. Holding simi-
lar views of the structure of the cosmos and pursuing similar goals – namely
iconic status on earth and ascension to the realm of the gods after death –
differences between the late antique systems of belief diminished. Christian
leaders made full use of the interpretative potential of the text in Genesis that
presented Adam as God’s living, anthropomorphic image, as well as of Paul’s
presentation of baptism as the “putting on” of Christ. Bishops produced and dis-
seminated an impressive synthesis of biblical, apocryphal, and non-Christian
motifs and practices to offer iconic status to those who joined the Church. The
efficient strategy they designed to render baptisands iconic helped popular-
ise the notion of iconic, statue-like living, which came to be, as we have seen,
the natural state of baptised Christians by the fifth century.74 In this context,
the statue as an analogy for living Christians became increasingly popular. In
addition to identifying Adam and baptisands as statues of God, bishops also
referred to children and lay Christians as being chiselled by their parents and
clergy into statues of God.75
There were also unwanted side effects to conferring iconic status through
baptism. By making the Church a community of iconic individuals, the pres-
tige of being the image of the Christian God was unavoidably diluted. To pre-
serve their distinction from the rest of the brethren, bishops gave an obvious,
ritual and visual dimension to their own iconic status, as we will see in the
following chapter.

74 Bas., ep. 2.3 (Y. Courtonne [ed.], Saint Basile. Lettres. Texte établi et traduit. Vol. 1, Paris 1957,
9); Chrys., hom. in I Cor. 13.3 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca.
Vol. 61, Paris 1862, coll. 110), id., ad illum. cat. 2.4 (Migne [ed.], 1862, coll. 237–238).
75 Chrys., ad illum. cat. 2.3 (Migne [ed.], 1862, coll. 235–236); Aug., s. 336.1 (J.-P. Migne [ed.],
Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Latina. Vol. 38, Paris 1865, coll. 1471D–1472A); Bas.
Anc., d. virg. 30 (Migne [ed.], 1888, coll. 729–731).
 Chapter 5

Bishops

The episcopate is the best documented case of a high clerical order held to be
iconic. Bishops claimed to be iconic on several grounds and made use of both
simple and complex strategies to establish their iconicity. Although some of
these strategies were borrowed from the emperors, studies on episcopal ico-
nicity do not exist. Thus, it is impossible to treat here episcopal iconicity in the
summarising manner I did imperial one. Instead, I address the origins of the
bishops’ iconicity, then look in detail at two influential episcopal models that
crystallised in this period.

5.1 From Martyr-bishops to Teacher-bishops

During the first four centuries, the bishops’ attributes were not fixed.1 One of
the earliest functions of the episcopal office, evident already in Ignatius of
Antioch’s (d. 117/140) letters, is the bishop’s exemplarity. The author of the let-
ters sought to establish bishops as performative images of Christ by making the
case that their overseeing of their communities mirrored Christ’s similar care
of humanity.2 This performative iconicity was reinforced by their Christ-like
behaviour in daily life and by their performance of actions that reproduced
those of Jesus during rituals. In addition, the consecration of bishops through
the laying of hands was held to bring about their habitation by the Holy Spirit,
which made them into vessels or temples of God alike to the confessors we dis-
cussed in Chapter 3.3 As we have seen, such a cohabitation with the divine in
one’s body was expected to become visible through the body. Thus, members
of their congregations would carefully observe bishops in search of signs that
were interpreted as the divine manifesting through the body and becoming
available to the human senses, such as corporeal luminosity or pleasant odour.
Finally, several bishops were martyred, especially in the first waves of perse-
cution, which targeted the leaders of Christian communities. This confirmed

1 On the episcopate during the first centuries, see F.A. Sullivan, From Apostles to Bishops: The
Development of the Episcopacy in the Early Church, New York 2001; Brent, 2007; A.C. Stewart,
The Original Bishops: Office and Order in the First Christian Communities, Grand Rapids 2014.
2 Ign., Magn. 3.1 and 6, id., Trall. 2.1 and 3.1 (Camelot [ed.], 1969).
3 Acts 8:17–19.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_006

126 Chapter 5

their iconic function, as the bishops perfected their imitation and imperson-
ation of Christ by dying, thus allowing their congregations to witness Christ’s
self-sacrifice.
After 313 the likelihood of martyrdom decreased, but Christian authors
equated martyrdom with asceticism, celibacy, or other types of suffering.4
Bishops thus had several ways to reinforce the performative iconic dimension
of their office. In addition, from the end of the third century, it became normal
for the office to be held by educated persons. Since most Christian rituals of
the time included a didactic component in the form of sermons held by bish-
ops, the figure of the bishop was enriched with the iconic quality we have seen
Romans ascribed to erudite teachers. The Church Fathers of the late fourth
century, who had received the education of patricians, confirmed the image of
the bishop as iconic by combining the composure of well-mannered Roman
gentlemen with ascetic habits, erudition, and, we will see, ritual actions that
recommended them as living images of Christ.5
Gregory of Nazianzus’s description of Basil of Caesarea’s community, to
which I referred already elsewhere in this book, is worth quoting here in full
because it shows how the Roman culture of exemplarity shaped the percep-
tion of bishops in this key generation:

So great was his virtue, and the eminence of his fame, that many of his minor
characteristics, nay, even his physical defects, have been assumed by others with
a view to notoriety. For instance his paleness, his beard, his gait, his thoughtful,
and generally meditative, hesitation in speaking, which, in the ill-judged, incon-
siderate imitation of many, took the form of melancholy. And besides, the style
of his dress, the shape of his bed, and his manner of eating, none of which was to
him a matter of consequence, but simply the result of accident and chance. So
you might see many Basils in outward semblance, among these statues in out-
line, for it would be too much to call them his distant echo. For an echo, though it
is the dying away of a sound, at any rate represents it with great clearness, while
these men fall too far short of him to satisfy even their desire to approach him.6

4 See above, Chapter 3.

5 On the episcopate in the late antique period, see É. Rebillard / C. Sotinel (eds.), L’évêque
dans la cité du IV e au V e siècle: Image et autorité, Rome 1998; A. Sterk, Renouncing the World
Yet Leading the Church: The Monk‐Bishop in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2004; C. Rapp, Holy
Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, Berkeley
2005.
6 Gr. Naz., or. 43.77 (Bernardi [ed.], 1992, 294–296); trans. NPNF 2.7, 421) Τοσαύτη τοῦ ἀνδρὸς ἡ
ἀρετὴ καὶ ἡ τῆς δόξης περιουσία ὥστε πολλὰ καὶ τῶν ἐκείνου μικρῶν, ἤδη δὲ καὶ τῶν σωματικῶν
ἐλαττωμάτων, ἑτέροις εἰς εὐδοξίαν ἐπενοήθη· Oἷον ὠχρότητα λέγω καὶ γενειάδα καὶ βαδίσματος
ἦθος καὶ τὸ περὶ λόγον μὴ πρόχειρον σύννουν τε ὡς τὰ πολλά καὶ εἴσω συννενευκός, ὃ, τοῖς πολλοῖς μὴ
καλῶς ζηλωθὲν μηδὲ νοηθέν, σκυθρωπότης ἐγένετο· Ἔτι δὲ εἶδος ἐσθῆτος καὶ σκίμποδος σχῆμα καὶ
τρόπος βρώσεως, ὧν οὐδὲν ἐκείνῳ διὰ σπουδῆς ἦν, ἀλλ’ ἁπλῶς ἔχον καὶ συμπῖπτον ὡς ἔτυχεν. Καὶ
Bishops 127

Denounced by Gregory because it produced “statues in outline” rather than

imitators of the bishop’s virtues, this instance shows how Christians came to
perceive their bishops through the lens of Roman canons of social interaction.
This invites us to analyse episcopal self-presentation and what it entailed –
that is, the spaces, decorative programmes, rituals, garments, and insignia of
bishops – against this background, since bishops were aware of this dynamic
and used it to expand their authority.
Thanks to Emperor Constantine, the ways in which bishops constructed
their public personae were shaped by imperial self-presentation strategies.
Constantine’s integration of the episcopate in the imperial administration by
granting bishops the right to act as judges, to display the insignia of higher
imperial magistrates, and to use spaces inspired by imperial ones for the cel-
ebration of the Eucharistic liturgy tied episcopal iconicity to imperial one.7
In the decades that followed, the growing richness of the Church, the favour
shown by subsequent rulers, and the ambitions of certain bishops led to the
Inszenierung of episcopal presence in ways that competed with the imperial
one. Thus, bishops and Roman emperors entered a competition for the role of
Christ’s living image on earth that lasted for over a millennium.
Depending on their formation, interests, and local context, bishops could
choose which of the office’s iconic dimensions to bring to the fore. Figures who
ended up shaping the image of the episcopate, such as Ambrose of Milan and
John Chrysostom, managed to weave all types together, having them reinforce
each other in their public personae.8 Their familiarity with high Roman cul-
ture that, as we have seen, taught one how to design complex settings that
used space, decoration, objects, garments, and gestures to communicate spe-
cific identities allowed these bishops to adapt the spaces and rituals of the
Church to support their iconic quality. Thus, the Eucharistic liturgy as rewrit-
ten and performed by these bishops drew attention to their impersonation of
Christ, with it becoming a ritual re-enactment of the story of the Incarnation.

πολλοὺς ἂν ἴδοις Βασιλείους ἄχρι τοῦ ὁρωμένου, τοὺς ἐν ταῖς σκιαῖς ἀνδριάντας· πολὺ γὰρ εἰπεῖν, ὅτι
καὶ τὸ τῆς ἠχοῦς ὑστερόφωνον· Compare with the right way of emulating described in Chrys.,
Melet. 1–2 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 50, Paris 1862,
515–517).
7 On the social status of bishops following Constantine, see R. Lizzi Testa, The Bishop, vir ven-
erabilis: Fiscal Privileges and Status Definition in Late Antiquity, in: StPatr 34 (2001), 125–144;
C. Rapp, The Elite Status of Bishops in Late Antiquity in Ecclesiastical, Spiritual, and Social
Contexts, in: Arethusa 33 (2000), 373–399. On the insignia, spaces, and gestures that bishops
could now make use of, see T. Klauser, A Short History of the Western Liturgy: An Account and
Some Reflections, New York 1969, 33–34.
8 On Ambrose, see N.B. McLynn, Ambrose of Milan, Church and Court in a Christian Capital,
Berkeley 1994. On Chrysostom, see W. Mayer / P. Allen, John Chrysostom, London 2000.
128 Chapter 5

In parallel, the basilical plan inherited from Constantine was refined, with
liturgical furnishings and the decoration focusing the believers’ attention on
the officiating bishop.
The switch to carefully choreographed rituals held in spaces decorated with
iconographic programmes that created associations between the officiants
and heavenly characters represented a momentous change in Christian his-
tory. The gestures and garments of those officiating the religion’s main ritual,
the decoration of the spaces, the scriptural passages that were read or sung,
the manipulation of objects such as gospel books, crosses, reliquaries, or cen-
sers, and the interaction between the categories of believers created a multi-
layered, dynamic visual discourse that – like the very spaces which hosted
them – converged in the person of the officiating priest/bishop.9 (see Fig. 31)
As has been discussed, such layered settings were being used by emperors of
the time to establish themselves as iconic. Bishops not only imitated the con-
cept but, taking advantage of the opportunity given by Constantine’s gift of the
basilica, recast the Eucharistic liturgy as a sort of imperial advents and ceremo-
nial reception where the bishop played the role of Christ and emperor.10
Christian communities around the Mediterranean combined this way of
framing episcopal presence with local building, decorative, liturgical, and theo-
logical traditions, with the result that several formulas of episcopal authority
were developed. Two of the most complex and influential examples are found
in fifth-century Rome and sixth-century Byzantium. It is to them that I now
turn.

5.2 Rome’s Aristocratic Bishops

Constantine’s gifts to the bishops of Rome created the conditions for their self-
presentation as iconic. The basilica Salvatoris, commissioned by Constantine
in the Lateran, reproduced the aesthetic of contemporary imperial spaces.11
Marking the threshold between the nave and the transept, an imposing frame

9 V. Ivanovici, The Ritual Display of Gospels in Late Antiquity, in: D. Ganz / B. Schellewald
(eds.), Clothing Sacred Scripture: Book Art and Book Religions in the Middle Ages, Berlin
2018, 221–232.
10 H. Brandenburg, Santo Stefano Rotondo in Roma: Funzione urbanistica, tipologia architet-
tonica, liturgia ed allestimento liturgico, in: MNIR 59 (2000), 27–53 argued that the episco-
pal entrance imitated the imperial adventus. On other aspects of Christian culture of the
time that absorbed the prestige of the adventus, see Dufraigne, 1994.
11 See the recent reconstruction and analysis in L. Bosman / I.P. Haynes / P. Liverani (eds.),
The Basilica of Saint John Lateran to 1600, Cambridge 2020.
Bishops 129

Figure 31 Plan and section of the church San Vitale in Ravenna (ca. 548) showing the spaces
converging in the episcopal cathedra. (Plan: Jäggi 2013: 241, section: Johnson 2018,
fig. 7.43)
130 Chapter 5

established the bishop as a living image of Christ. (see Fig. 32) The fastigium was
likely similar to the entrance of Diocletian’s palace and to the framing device
depicted on the missorium of Theodosius, which we discussed in Chapter 2.12
For the upper part, Constantine had silver statues of Jesus, the apostles, and
angels made. On the side facing the nave, Jesus was shown sitting on a stool
(Lat. in sella), flanked by the twelve apostles. On the other side, towards the
apse, he sat enthroned (Lat. in throno), surrounded by four angels.13 Since Jesus
was likely at the centre, above the main opening of this permeable screen, the
object created an analogy between him and the bishop, as the latter stood
underneath it or sat on the cathedra (i.e., episcopal throne) in the back of the
apse. As I argued in Chapter 2, such framing devices referenced representa-
tions of temples and placed the living person in the position of the deity’s cult
image. Thus, the fastigium simultaneously conferred the bishop of Rome an
imperial allure and established him as the image of Christ.14
Despite this impressive bequest, it took the bishops of Rome a century to
‘grow into the costume’ gifted by Constantine. After the emperors left Rome,
the local aristocracy revived many of the city’s Republican traditions.15 As a
result, local bishops had to negotiate their status with representatives of sena-
torial families who took pride in Rome’s polytheistic past.16 This negotiation
was made in the vocabulary of power used by the local aristocracy, which the
bishops had to first learn and then master. To further complicate the situation,
bishops also had to struggle to impose their authority over their congregation,
which was divided on geographic, ethnic, confessional, and political grounds.17

12 As proposed by S. de Blaauw, Cultus et decor: Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoan-

tica e medievale: Basilica Salvatoris, Sanctae Mariae, Sancti Petri, 2 vols., Vatican City 1994;
id., Imperial Connotations in Roman Church Interiors: The Significance and Effect of the
Lateran Fastigium, in: J.R. Brand / O. Steen (eds.), Imperial Art as Christian Art – Christian
Art as Imperial Art: Expression and Meaning in Art and Architecture from Constantine to
Justinian, AAAHP 15, Rome 2001, 137–146; H. Geertman, Il Fastigium lateranense e l’arredo
presbiteriale. Una lunga storia, in: id. (ed.), Il Liber Pontificalis e la storia materiale. Atti del
colloquio internazionale, Rome 21–22 February 2002, Rome 2001/2002, 29–43.
13 L.P. 34.9 (L.M.O. Duchesne [ed.], Le Liber pontificalis: Texte, introduction et commentaire,
vol. 1, Paris 1891, 172).
14 Cf. De Blaauw, Imperial, 2001, on the imperial dimension.
15 Machado, 2010; id., Urban Space and Aristocratic Power in Late Antique Rome, Oxford 2019.
16 J.A. Latham, From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ: Disputed Episcopal Elections and the
Advent of Christian Processions in Late Antique Rome, in: ChH 81 (2012), 298–327 (306). For
this cultural dynamic in context, see Brown, 1992.
17 On the problems faced by local bishops, see Latham, 2012; id., Battling Bishops, the Roman
Aristocracy, and the Contestation of Space in Late Antique Rome, in: J.D. Rosenblum /
Bishops 131

Figure 32 Axonometric model of the Lateran Basilica (320) showing the fastigium.
(Image: Bosman / Haynes / Liverani [eds.], 2020, fig. 8.19)

This dual, internal and external struggle for authority generated a specific epis-
copal image.
During the fifth century, the bishops of Rome successfully merged the image
of the summus sacerdos as impersonator of Christ with that of the local aristo-
crat. In the process, the costume, self-presentation, and spaces designed by the
bishops of Rome gained an aristocratic, Roman quality.18 The city was made
aware of the bishops’ changing image through the processions they led across
the city. In a cultural context where “the very act of being seen imparted dig-
nitas,” displays at the head of a large entourage were a powerful instrument
of self-promotion.19 While the leaders of other cults would typically stage

L. Vuong / N. DesRosiers (eds.), Religious Competition in the Third Century CE: Jews,
Christians, and the Greco-Roman World, Göttingen 2014, 126–137.
18 On Christian material culture in fifth-century Rome, see the contributions in I. Foletti /
M. Gianandrea (eds.), The Fifth Century in Rome: Art, Liturgy, Patronage, Rome 2017. On
the episcopal look in this period in Rome, see B. Jussen, Liturgy and Legitimation, or
How the Gallo-Romans Ended the Roman Empire, in: id. (ed.), Ordering Medieval Society:
Perspectives on Intellectual and Practical Modes of Shaping Social Relations, Philadelphia
2001, 147–199.
19 Favro, 2008, 14 on late Republican / early Imperial Rome. On visibility as a source of pres-
tige in late antique Rome, see Machado, 2019. On the various types of processions taking
place in late antique cities, see L. Lavan, Public Space in the Late Antique City. Vol. 1: Streets,
132 Chapter 5

­ rocessions with the full clerical apparatus, the cultic objects, and the commu-
p
nity of believers once a year, the bishop did it constantly due to the stational
system, which had the bishop celebrate the Eucharistic liturgy in churches
across the city.20 In addition to the stations, the bishop also led processions
towards the martyr shrines that surrounded the city on all sides. New routes
were constantly added through the creation of churches in the city’s most
populated areas, thus expanding the urban network of the bishop.21 Otherwise
similar in form to the processions of other cults, the Christian ones focused on
the bishop in the absence of a cult image.22
Modern scholars have typically studied separately how bishops interacted
with their cities and with their own congregations. As a result, church interi-
ors have been analysed in relation to the internal logic of the cult, rather than
in the context of their cities. Nevertheless, once adopted, Roman norms of
social interaction did not stop at the church door. Several texts attest to this by
denouncing that worship was being informed by socio-political habits, such
as one’s social class dictating their place inside the church.23 Thus, it is impor-
tant to analyse Christian spaces and the rituals they hosted also in relation
to local patterns of social interaction. For fifth-century Rome, the latter were
summarised by Jerome (ca. 347–420), who knew the city intimately from the
years he spent in its upper-class circles: “It is true that Rome has a holy Church
[…] but the display, power, and size of the city, the seeing and the being seen,

Processions, Fora, Agorai, Macella, Shops, Leiden 2020, 150–234. On episcopal processions
outside Rome, see F.A. Bauer, Urban Space and Ritual: Constantinople in Late Antiquity, in:
AAAHP 15 (2001), 27–61; L. Brubaker, Topography and the Creation of Public Space in Early
Medieval Constantinople, in: M.B. De Jong / F. Theuws / C. van Rhijn (eds.), Topographies
of Power in the Early Middle Ages, Leiden 2001, 31–43; N. Andrade, The Processions of John
Chrysostom and the Contested Spaces of Constantinople, in: JECS 18 (2010), 161–189.
20 On the stational system in Rome, see J.F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian
Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy, OCA 228, Rome
1987, 105–166; De Blaauw, 1994, vol. 1, 53–70.
21 On the location of new churches, see D. Kinney, Expanding the Christian Footprint: Church
Building in the City and the Suburbium, in: Foletti / Gianandrea (eds.), 2017, 65–97.
22 On the form of the processions, see De Blaauw, 1994, vol. 1, 73–74; id., Following the Crosses:
The Processional Cross and the Typology of Processions in Medieval Rome, in: P. Post et al.
(eds.), Christian Feast and Festival: The Dynamics of Western Liturgy and Culture, Leuven
2001b, 319–343; V. Ivanovici, Building Prestige: Processions, Visual Codes, and Episcopal
Power in Fifth-century Rome, in: N. Zimmermann et al. (eds.), Die Päpste und Rom zwischen
Spätantike und Mittelalter: Formen päpstlicher Machtentfaltung, Mannheim 2017, 11–27.
23 See Hieron., e. 22.32 (Hilberg [ed.], 1910, 193–195); L. Grig, Throwing Parties for the Poor:
Poverty and Splendour in the Late Antique Church, in: M. Aitkens / R. Osborne (eds.),
Poverty in the Roman World, Cambridge 2006, 145–161.
Bishops 133

the paying and the receiving of visits, the alternate flattery and detraction,
talking and listening […] [scil. are] fatal to the repose of the monastic life.”24
Rome’s history and the presence of several families who could trace their ori-
gin back to the times of the Republic had a gravitational pull that shaped local
Christianity’s form.
Luckily, several churches erected in Rome during the fifth century survive
in various states of preservation.25 Their features attest to the local Church’s
search for social recognition. The architecture, furnishings, and architectural
sculpture have a civic quality, gained through the imitation of public buildings
in the city.26 On this symbolic substratum, a Christian visual discourse was
added through liturgical furnishings, figurative decoration, and ritual actions.
These aspects, too, reflected local customs, with the costumes of depicted bib-
lical characters and the architectural details of represented buildings imitating
those in Rome.27 In addition, Jesus was shown in urban contexts on artefacts
produced in the city, perhaps in an effort to create analogies with the bishop’s
urban activity.28 Local bishops were the artisans and main beneficiaries of
these strategies, as representatives of the Christian community in its dialogue
with the city.
The church of Santa Maria Maggiore (ca. 435) is the best preserved and
most complex representative of this group of buildings.29 Commissioned by
the bishops, the space combines the classicising gusto of the city’s elite with
the late antique appreciation of reflective marbles and mosaics, and with a

24 See Hieron., e. 46.11 (Hilberg [ed.], 1910, 342; trans. S. Undheim, Veiled Visibility: Morality,
Movement and Sacred Virginity in Late Antiquity, in: I. Östenberg / S. Malmberg /
J. Bjørnebye (eds.), The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient
Rome, London 2015, 59–72 [61]) Est quidem ibi sancta Ecclesia […] sed ipsa ambitio, poten-
tia, magnitudo urbis, videri et videre, salutari et salutare, laudare et detrahere, vel audire vel
proloqui, et tantam frequntiam hominum saltem invitum videre, a proposito Monachorum
et quiete aliena sunt.
25 On late antique churches in Rome, see H. Brandenburg, Le prime chiese di Roma IV–VII
secolo, Milan 2004.
26 Cf. R. Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308, Princeton 1980, 43–53; S. de Blaauw,
Richard Krautheimer and the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, in: Foletti / Gianandrea
(eds.), 2017, 99–104; Kinney, 2017.
27 R. Warland, The Concept of Rome in Late Antiquity Reflected in the Mosaics of the Triumphal
Arch of Santa Maria Maggiore, in: AAAHP 17 (2003), 127–141.
28 See the fourth-century sarcophagus from the Vatican Necropolis (Vatican Museums, inv.
no. 174) and the apse mosaic of the church of Santa Pudenziana (ca. 415).
29 On the church, see R. Krautheimer, Mensa, coemeterium, martyrium, in: Cah. Arch. 11
(1960), 15–40 (1–60); De Blaauw, 1994, vol. 1, 335–355.
134 Chapter 5

complex iconographic programme.30 The use of Ionic capitals and of archi-

traves in the intercolumniation rather than arches gave the nave an antiquated
look, likening it to the spaces in the local fora.31 This announced the bishops’
willingness to share in the culture of the local elite. (see Fig. 33)

Figure 33 View from the main doors towards the apse. Virtual reconstruction of the interior
of Santa Maria Maggiore, ca. 432, Rome. (Image: © Bernard Frischer)

The local buildings that influenced the design of Santa Maria Maggiore are now
lost (or severely altered), but the Sebasteion in Aphrodisias (Caria, Asia Minor)
allows us to grasp the classical dimension of our church’s interior.32 Dedicated
to the goddess Aphrodite and the Julio-Claudian emperors, the Sebasteion was
built in the first century, the same period as many of Rome’s public buildings
that still stood at the construction of our church. A monumental entrance gave
access to an unroofed processional path that led to a temple and was flanked
by three-story porticoed buildings. (see Fig. 34) The spatial configuration of
the complex is similar to that of the Roman church. Both cases have columns

30 Bishop Celestine (sed. 422–432) is credited with commissioning the church and Sixtus
III (sed. 432–440) with finishing it. On the popular ‘jewelled style’, see M. Roberts, The
Jeweled Style: Poetry and Poetics in Late Antiquity, Ithaca 1989, 66–121.
31 Cf. Krautheimer, 1980, 43–53.66.
32 On the Sebasteion, see R.R.R. Smith, The Marble Reliefs from the Julio-Claudian Sebasteion,
Mainz 2013; G. Thommen, The Sebasteion at Aphrodisias: An Imperial Cult to Honor
Augustus and the Julio-Claudian Emperors, in: Chronika 2 (2012), 82–91.
Bishops 135

with architraves and panels with narrative scenes (the second register being
replaced by windows in Rome). In both instances, the threshold between the
processional space and the sanctuary was marked: in Aphrodisias through the
contrast between the open-air courtyard and the roofed temple, and in Rome
through the triumphal arch and the steps that separated the nave from the
apse.

Figure 34 View from the former temple of one of the two stoas that flanked the interior
courtyard of the Sebasteion and of the remains of the propylon. Marble,
1st century, Aphrodisias. (Photo: ‘Following Hadrian’ – CC BY-SA 2.0)

Like the Lateran fastigium, the triumphal arch separating the nave and presby-
tery in Santa Maria Maggiore promoted the living bishop as an image of Christ.
Damaged in 410 by the Visigoths of Alaric, who looted its precious metals, the
fastigium was not reproduced in other churches, but its functions seem to have
been passed on to such apsidal arches, where the figurative decoration estab-
lished similar analogies between the bishop and Christ. In the church on the
Esquiline Hill, the heavenly throne of Christ (occupied by a jewelled cross) is
depicted above the episcopal cathedra.33 The alignment drew attention to the
bishop as Christ’s representative. In addition, through the representation of

33 On the mosaic, see M.R. Menna, I mosaici della basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, in:
M. Andaloro (ed.), L’orizzonte tardoantico e le nuove immagini (312–468), Roma 2006,
136 Chapter 5

Christ as a symbol rather than in human form – the same visual strategy found
above the palace gate in Constantinople – the bishop became Christ’s human
‘face.’ This visual statement on the bishop’s iconicity confirmed his role in the
liturgy and vice versa.
Upon arriving at the church for the celebration of the Eucharistic liturgy, the
bishop stopped in the narthex and changed into liturgical vestments while lay
congregants filled the nave and aisles.34 Then, under the congregation’s eyes,
he walked from the door to the cathedra accompanied by deacons carrying
the cross and Gospel book.35 This association with the two symbols of Christ
drew attention to the bishop as his image. Later in the ritual, his iconicity was
confirmed through his interaction with the Gospel book and the Eucharist.
Just before the Gospel was read, the bishop would descend from the cathedra,
remove his stole (i.e., a scarf indicating the episcopal rank), and cense the holy
book. The gesture, according to on an eastern source, was meant to recognise
the book’s precedence as a symbol for Christ:

For the bishop fulfils his work being in the image of Christ, and by his costume
he shows to all that he is the imitator of the good and great shepherd, the one
who has been appointed to carry the weaknesses of the flock. And note well,
when the true shepherd should draw near through the opening of the venerable
Gospels, the bishop both rises and takes off the costume of imitation, showing
that Lord himself is at hand.36

The theatrical gesture did not strip the bishop of his Christ-like quality and
instead stressed that for most of the liturgy his was a Christic performance. A
similar effect was reached through the imparting of the Eucharist. Like Jesus
during the Last Supper, the bishop distributed the consecrated bread and wine
to the members of the congregation.

306–346 (339–341); I. Foletti, ‘Sicut in caelo et in terra.’ Observations on the ‘cathedra vacua’
in the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, in: Foletti / Gianandrea (eds.), 2017, 41–63.
34 Cf. De Blaauw 1994, vol. 1, 71–85. The seventh-century O.R.P. 1.46 (M. Andrieu, Les Ordines
Romani du Haute Moyen Age II: Les Textes, Louvain 1948, 82) is the earliest description of
Roman liturgical practice that deals with the matter directly cf. J.F. Romano, Liturgy and
Society in Early Medieval Rome, Burlington 2014. Nevertheless, it is likely that the main
steps of the ceremony were already established in the fifth century.
35 De Blaauw, 1994, vol. 1, 71–85; Ivanovici, The Ritual, 2018.
36 Isid. Pel. (ca. 360–ca. 435), epp. 136 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series
Graeca. Vol. 78, Paris 1864, coll. 272; trans. W.T. Woodfin, The Embodied Icon: Liturgical
Vestments and Sacramental Power in Byzantium, Oxford 2012, 20) Ὁ γὰρ ἐπίσκοπος εἰς
τύπον ὢν τοῦ Χριστοῦ, τὸ ἔργον ἐκείνου πληροῖ, καὶ δείκνυσι πᾶσι διὰ τοῦ σχήματος, ὅτι μιμητής
ἐστι τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ καὶ μεγάλου ποιμένος, ὁ τὰς ἀσθενείας φέρειν τοῦ ποιμνίου προβεβλημένος·
Bishops 137

The civic, religious, and iconic dimensions of the office met and merged in
the episcopal cathedra. A traditional symbol of authority in Roman society, the
seated position had been ascribed to Jupiter and other supreme gods in Roman
art.37 Christ, too, was given a throne in Christian art, first that of teachers and
later that of emperors.38 Inside churches, the cathedra drew attention to the
bishop as a figure of civic authority and through analogies with depictions of
Christ enthroned, as God’s human representative. In addition, the immobility
implied by the seated position likened the bishop to a statue.
In Santa Maria Maggiore, the bishop’s statue-like immobility was rendered
more evident through a particular configuration of the presbytery. While in
most cases the cathedra was placed against the back wall of the apse, in the
Esquiline church it was set toward the altar.39 This allowed the creation of an
ambulatory space from which people could observe the bishop, with the effect
that the dynamic audience circled the immobile bishop, as the angelic ranks
were said to circle the throne of Christ in heaven.40
Thus, entwined in the design of Santa Maria Maggiore and other local
churches of the time were civic and religious dimensions that established the
bishop as iconic. Civic authority carried iconic implications through the analo-
gies it created with the now iconic emperor, as well as with Jupiter/Sol/Christ.
The religious component of the space promoted the bishop as the human face
of Christ. Finally, the bishop’s statue-like immobility and impersonation of
Christ during the liturgy confirmed and reinforced his iconicity.
The polysemy of the space inside Santa Maria Maggiore is typical for fifth-
century churches in Rome. Other churches in the city showcase similarly lay-
ered programmes. On the civic quality of the architecture and non-figurative
decoration, the iconography was used to claim the symbolic capital of local
religious phenomena. In the church of Santa Pudenziana, located in the vicin-
ity of a large sanctuary of Serapis, the fifth-century apsidal mosaic shows

37 On the symbolism of being enthroned, see H.U. Instinsky, Bischofsstuhl und Kaiserthron,
Munich 1955; N. Gussone, Thron und Inthronisation des Papstes von den Anfängen bis
zum 12. Jahrhundert: Zur Beziehung zwischen Herrschaftszeichen u. bildhaften Begriffen,
Recht u. Liturgie im christl. Verständnis von Wort u. Wirklichkeit, Bonn 1978; B. Jussen,
Über ‘Bischofsherrschaften’ und die Prozeduren politisch-sozialer Umordnung in Gallien
zwischen ‘Antike’ und ‘Mittelalter’, in: HZ 260 (1994), 673–718 (699–702).
38 Grabar, 1936; Mathews, 1993.
39 De Blaauw, 1994, vol. 1, 387–388.
40 On the moving audience, see L.P. 100.60 (Duchesne [ed], 1892, 60). On the motif of the cir-
cular dance in late antique and Christian culture, see D. Tronca, Spectacula turpitudinum.
Christian Schemata of the Dancing Body, in: Bacci / Ivanovici (eds.), 2019, online.
138 Chapter 5

Christ with facial features borrowed from the Egyptian god.41 On the arch of
the church of San Paolo fuori le mura, decorated ca. 450, rays emanating from
Christ’s head liken him to Sol.42 On the doors of the church of Santa Sabina
(ca. 432), in a scene that was said to reproduce the image depicted on the conch
of the apse (now lost), Christ is represented in the so-called Ascension/Second
Coming panel in a manner reminiscent of Mithras, whose nearby mithraeum
had been destroyed by Christians a decade or two before.43 Although the com-
plete decoration of these sites has not been preserved, and thus we cannot
know the exact ways in which these images fit into their programmes, they
point to a strategy to absorb the prestige of local religious phenomena. Seated
in the apses of these churches on the liturgical days assigned to them, the
bishop was invested with the symbolic capital each space generated.
When the role of the bishop is considered in conjunction with the design
and use of these spaces, the first type of monumental Christian art emerges
in a new light. Churches of the time combined narrative cycles on the side
walls with an apsidal programme that placed the image or symbol of Christ
in various combinations with other motifs. As it has been pointed out, the
architectural setting, size, frontality, and luminosity of these apsidal depic-
tions reproduced the relationship one had when standing inside the cella of a
temple in front of the cult statue of a god.44 (see Fig. 35) This effect occurred in

41 See I. Foletti, Dio da dio: La maschera di Cristo, Giove Serapide nel mosaico di Santa
Pudenziana, in: CONVI 2 (2015), 60–73 on the portrait of Christ as Jupiter Serapis. For the
large temple of Serapis on the Quirinal, see G.J.F. Kater-Sibbes, Preliminary Catalogue of
Sarapis Monuments, Leiden 1973, 115–136.
42 See C. Ihm, Die Programme der christlichen Apsismalerei, Wiesbaden 1960, 135–137;
J. Miziołek, The Mosaics on the Triumphal Arch in S. Paolo fuori le mura in Rome, in: ACr 82
(1994), 245–260.
43 On this panel, see I. Foletti / M. Gianadrea, Zona liminare: Il nartece di Santa Sabina, le
sue porte e l’iniziazione cristiana a Roma, Rome 2015, 163–167. On the mithraeum on the
Aventine, see M.J. Vermaseren / C.C. van Essen, The Excavations in the Mithraeum of the
Church Santa Prisca in Rome, Leiden 1965. An article is in preparation on the Santa Sabina
panel and its relation to mithraic imagery.
44 See B. Brenk, Apses, Icons and ‘Image Propaganda’ before Iconoclasm, in: AT 19 (2011),
109–130 on church apses drawing on settings found in nymphaea and temples.
A.F. Bergmeier, Vom Kultbild zur Kirche: Veränderte Materialisierungsformen von Heiligkeit
in der Spätantike, in: A.F. Bergmeier / K. Palmberger / J.E. Sanzo (eds.), Erzeugung und
Zerstörung von Sakralität zwischen Antike und Mittelalter: Beiträge der internationalen
Tagung in München vom 20.–21.10.2015, Heidelberg 2016, 63–80; id., Visionserwartung:
Visualisierung und Präsenzerfahrung des Göttlichen in der Spätantike, Wiesbaden 2017
argued that Christian apse images represent a new type of representation, whose main
feature is their theophanic quality. This quality, though, was shared with cult statues set
in temples and with the cultic art of Mithraism, which revealed the god in the penumbra
of mithraea.
Bishops 139

particular when one visited the space when the Eucharistic liturgy was not cel-
ebrated. Then, one was ‘alone’ with the apse image, while other people inside
the space lit candles, prayed in the vicinity, or brought ex votos; actions found
also in temples.

Figure 35 Apse mosaic showing Christ as a theophanic vision. Late 5th century, Church of
Hosios David, Thessaloniki. (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici)

Nevertheless, the spaces had been designed for a specific ritual experience,
which should be considered first when analysing them. The perception of the
apse image during the celebration of the Eucharistic liturgy, ideally with the
bishop present and seated under the image, is different: the image provides an
apex to the iconographic programme in the same way that the bishop was the
pinnacle of the human community on the floor level. Given that the spaces
were commissioned by bishops, who directed the artisans in designing the
iconography, we can address these complex mises-en-scène as mechanisms
for self-legitimation, in the tradition of Roman aristocrats and emperors. Thus,
as in the case of the baptisteries we discussed in the previous chapter, the
depicted image of God was only half of the vision that was offered to those
present inside the space because below it stood its living counterpart.45

45 The change taking place in the sixth century, when the representation of Christ is no lon-
ger a vision offered to the human audience but, as pointed out by J.-M. Spieser, Images du
Christ: Des catacombes aux lendemains de l’iconoclasme, Geneva 2015, 369–397, it becomes
part of a scene in which Jesus is seen by other depicted characters, reinforced the bishop
140 Chapter 5

Although they addressed God in prayer through the mediation of the image,
believers who gathered inside the church received his response through the
bishop in the form of wisdom (the sermon), the Eucharist, and contact with
other consecrated objects that the bishop handled. When we recognise the
seated bishop as the main focus of these settings, the diverse ways in which
Christ is represented in fifth-century apses in Rome can be understood more
easily.46 The bishop’s absence from the church during the celebration of the
Eucharistic liturgy – which was the case most of the time in Roman churches –
reminded those inside that each church was part of a group of similar spaces
with complementary iconographies.47 Thus, the wandering bishop of Rome
brought the distinct iconographic programmes together.
As the congregation grew, the Church’s position within Roman society
consolidated. This made the episcopal office attractive to the better educated
Romans.48 Some of these made use of the growing resources of the Church
to create the hybrid visual culture we see in Santa Maria Maggiore and other
churches of the time. Along with phenomena that weakened the polytheistic
elite, the bishops’ willingness to cast their leadership in terms of not only reli-
gious but also social authority pushed the bishop to the top of the city’s lead-
ership. Thus, while in 408 the bishop opposed but was unable to prevent the
performance of sacrifices that were supposed to protect the city from Alaric’s
attack, in 500, it was the bishop who led the welcoming party that greeted King
Theodoric as he entered the city.49 The synthesis of Roman and Christian ele-
ments made by the city’s fifth-century bishops was to remain a characteristic
of the Roman episcopate as it evolved into the Papacy. In addition, the political
evolution of the western Roman provinces helped popularise this episcopal
model outside the city. As the western provinces began to drift apart politically
and culturally, their bishops often turned to Rome for validation and adopted
the visual rhetoric of power developed there.50

as the image of Christ on account of him becoming the main anthropomorphic image of
Christ that interacted directly with the congregation.
46 On the various ways in which Christ was represented, see Mathews, 1993, esp. 98.
47 It is unlikely that in this period officiating priests could sit on the cathedra when the
bishop was not present, as indicated by a source that mentions that priests who had been
given the right to administer baptism could, in exceptional fashion, sit on the cathedra on
the day when the sacrament was celebrated.
48 On the social status of those acceding to the episcopate, see Rapp, 2005, 172–207.
49 On the two episodes, see Latham, 2012, 301.318–321.
50 On this process, see Jussen, 2001.
Bishops 141

5.3 Emperor Justinian’s Living Mirrors

Following Constantine’s rule, bishops around the Mediterranean established

their iconicity by combining the imitation of Christ in daily life and during the
Eucharistic liturgy with the type of Inszenierung used by rulers, which com-
bined built space, garments, insignia, and ritual gestures in symbolic ways. The
bishops of Jerusalem, for example, made brilliant use of the biblical topogra-
phy that allowed them to impersonate Christ in ritualised recreations of his
life’s key moments.51 In Alexandria in Egypt, Bishop Athanasius (sed. 328–373)
combined elements from the imperial adventus with Christ’s triumphal entry
into Jerusalem to stage his return to the city after one of his many exiles.52
Thus, while emperors in Constantinople were reworking their image to estab-
lish themselves as images of Christ rather than Jupiter and Sol, bishops pro-
posed their own types of iconic leadership to their communities. As a result, as
pointed out by Hal Drake, for the first time, emperors “had to share the privi-
lege of access to the divine with a class that had established its own, indepen-
dent lines of communication with that very potent source.”53 The encounter
between Basil of Caesarea and Emperor Valens (r. 364–378) brings us to the
heart of this competition:

The emperor entered the holy place with his bodyguard (it was the feast of
Epiphany, and crowded) and took his place among the people, thus making a
token gesture of unity … But when he came inside, he was thunderstruck by
the singing of psalms that assailed his ears and saw the ocean of people and the
whole well-ordered array around the bēma [scil. the raised platform on which
the liturgy was performed]… Basil stood completely still, facing his people, as
scripture says of Samuel [1 Sam 19:20], with no movement of his body or his eyes
or in his mind, as if nothing unusual had occurred, transformed, so to speak, into
a stele dedicated to God and the bēma, while his followers stood around him in
fear and reverence.54

51 See It. Eger. 31.3 (P. Maraval [ed.], Egérie, Journal de voyage (Itineraire), SC 296, Paris 1982,
274); J.W. Drijvers, Cyril of Jerusalem: Bishop and City, Leiden 2004, 79–80.
52 See Gr. Naz., or. 21.29 (J. Mossay / G. Lafontaine [eds.], Grégoire de Nazianze, Discours
20–23, SC 270, Paris 1980, 172–174); MacCormack, 1981, 64.
53 H.A. Drake, Intolerance, Religious Violence, and Political Legitimacy in Late Antiquity, in:
JAAR 79 (2011), 193–235 (216).
54 Gr. Naz., or. 43.52 (Bernardi [ed.], 1992, 236; trans. S. Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the
Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome, TCH 49, Berkeley
2012, 476) Εἰς γὰρ τὸ ἱερὸν εἰσελθὼν μετὰ πάσης τῆς περὶ αὐτὸν δορυφορίας – ἦν δὲ ἡμέρα τῶν
Ἐπιφανίων καὶ ἀθροίσιμος –, καὶ τοῦ λαοῦ μέρος γενόμενος, οὕτως ἀφοσιοῦται τὴν ἕνωσιν. Ἄξιον
δὲ μηδὲ τοῦτο παραδραμεῖν. Ἐπειδὴ γὰρ ἔνδον ἐγένετο καὶ τὴν ἀκοὴν προσβαλλούσῃ τῇ ψαλμῳ-
δίᾳ κατεβροντήθη, τοῦ τε λαοῦ τὸ πέλαγος εἶδε καὶ πᾶσαν τὴν εὐκοσμίαν, ὅση τε περὶ τὸ βῆμα
καὶ ὅση πλησίον, ἀγγελικὴν μᾶλλον ἢ ἀνθρωπίνην, τὸν μὲν τοῦ λαοῦ προτεταγμένον ὄρθιον, οἷον
142 Chapter 5

Like Constantius during his Roman adventus and, we can imagine, the bish-
ops of Rome inside Santa Maria Maggiore, Basil used the symbolic implica-
tions of a statue-like immobility to establish himself as an image of the divine.
Although our source avoids referencing statuary, preferring the more neutral
image of “stele,” the combination of anthropomorphic vessel and immobility
would have made the analogy to cult statues obvious.
Valens’s reaction to the episcopal performance was negative. According to
Gregory of Nazianzus, “When the emperor saw this spectacle, which he could
relate to no previous experience, he reacted as an ordinary man would – his
vision and his mind were filled with darkness and dizziness from the shock.”55
Caught in the competition between emperors and bishops for the status of
God’s living image, Gregory argues that it was the novelty of the Inszenierung
that shocked Valens. Rather, the emperor’s anger would have sprung from
Basil’s plagiarising of imperial ceremonial.
Emperor Justinian I (r. 527–565) sought to resolve this tension by further
integrating the episcopate into the state apparatus. Like Constantine before
him, Justinian promoted the shaping of the episcopal image after the impe-
rial one. The self-isolation of late Roman and early Byzantine rulers, which we
discussed in Chapter 2, forced them to delegate some of their functions. Thus,
generals led armies in their stead and judges imparted their justice. Consuls
were designated to embody imperial iconicity. For a year, the consul got the
right to use the spaces, garments, and aesthetic of light that emperors used to
construct their iconicity.56 As such, the consul functioned as both a reminder
of imperial iconicity and a surrogate for the imperial presence. The limited
duration of the office, the consuls’ display together with the ruler’s portrait,
and a number of differences between the consular garment of the ruler and of
regular consuls established a clear distinction between the two. Nevertheless,
the consuls’ temporary embodiment of what was becoming the main imperial
characteristic – namely iconicity – made them competitors for the throne.57
After he was forced to kill thousands of subjects to keep the throne in 532 –
among those, his acquaintance and former consul Flavius Hypatius, who had

τὸν Σαμουὴλ ὁ λόγος γράφει, ἀκλινῆ καὶ τὸ σῶμα καὶ τὴν ὄψιν καὶ τὴν διάνοιαν ὥσπερ οὐδενὸς
καινοῦ γεγονότος, ἀλλ’ ἐστηλωμένον, ἵν’ οὕτως εἴπω, Θεῷ καὶ τῷ βήματι, τοὺς δὲ περὶ αὐτὸν
ἑστηκότας ἐν φόβῳ τινὶ καὶ σεβάσματι.
55 Ibid.
56 On the image of consuls in Late Antiquity, see R. Delbrueck, Die Consulardiptychen und
verwandte Denkmäler, Berlin 1929; C. Olovsdotter, The Consular Image: An Iconological
Study of the Consular Diptychs, Oxford 2005; ead., Representing Consulship: On the Concept
and Meanings of the Consular Diptychs, in: Opuscula 4 (2011), 99–123.
57 On consuls as images of the ruler’s iconicity, see Ivanovici, 2019.
Bishops 143

been nominated emperor against his will – Justinian made the consulate
an imperial prerogative.58 After that, the promotion of the living ruler as an
image of the divine was, I believe, transferred by Justinian onto bishops, whom
he helped adopt a version of his own look. The process made iconicity a key
aspect of the episcopal function across the eastern parts of the Roman Empire
and homogenised its expression.
Justinian took several measures to assure the dissemination of an episcopal
model shaped by the imperial one. In the capital, his church of Hagia Sophia
functioned as a magnificent stage on which imperial and episcopal iconicity
reflected each other.59 Inside the Great Church, the imperial court headed by
Justinian and the clerical order headed by the archbishop of the capital were
shown as pyramidal structures that reinforced one another. Justinian also
commissioned churches in the main cities of the empire and in places that
were essential to the Christian faith, such as Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Sinai.
In Bethlehem, Justinian executed the person in charge of the new church of
the Nativity on account of the building’s ordinary aspect, thus demonstrating
his direct involvement and the importance he ascribed to this programme.60
If we are to believe Procopius of Caesarea (d. after 565), who documented
Justinian’s building activity, the emperor placed a monopoly on the construc-
tion of churches across the empire.61 This statement might refer to his desire
to control the ways in which the episcopate and priesthood were staged inside
cathedrals and churches. This is confirmed by Justinian’s legislation, which
regulated several aspects that shaped the congregations’ perception of the

58 Flavius Hypatius and Flavius Probus had been consuls together in 500. See G. Greatrex,
Flavius Hypatius, ‘Quem vidit validum parthus sensitque timendum’: An Investigation of His
Career, in: Byz. 64 (1996), 120–142.
59 On Hagia Sophia in general, see R.J. Mainstone, Hagia Sophia: Architecture, Structure and
Liturgy of Justinian’s Great Church, London 1988; N. Isar, XOPÓΣ: The Dance of Adam. The
Making of Byzantine Chorography. The Anthropology of the Choir of Dance in Byzantium,
Leiden 2011; N. Schibille, Hagia Sophia and the Byzantine Aesthetic Experience, Farnham
2014; Pentcheva, Hagia, 2017; J. Bogdanović, The Framing of Sacred Space: The Canopy and
the Byzantine Church, Oxford 2017, 267–294. On Hagia Sophia as setting for iconic per-
sons, see Ivanovici, 2016, 132–137; id., Pseudo-Dionysius and the Staging of Divine Order in
Sixth-century Architecture, in: F. Dell’Acqua / E. Mainoldi (eds.), Pseudo-Dionysius and the
Origins of Christian Visual Culture, London 2020, 177–210; Pentcheva, Hagia, 2017.
60 See M. Bacci, The Mystic Cave: A History of the Nativity Church at Bethlehem, Rome 2017,
61–77.
61 Proc. Caes., d.ae. 1.8.5 (G. Wirth / J. Haury [eds.], Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia. Vol. 4,
Leipzig 1964, 33–34).
144 Chapter 5

liturgies, such as the artificial illumination of churches and the loudness of

liturgical utterances.62
Archaeological finds indicate that Justinian also used the imperially con-
trolled marble quarries at Proconnesus and Thasos to provide churches around
the empire with liturgical furnishings. These sculpted elements structured
congregations inside churches in the same pyramidal pattern of the imperial
court.63 In addition, the presence of materials and a decorative style found
in imperial spaces stressed the official quality of church spaces, while the fig-
urative decoration showed bishops as images of the emperor and of Christ.
Finally, Justinian seems to have promoted (if not commissioned) theological
writings that established the notion of hierarchy as a characteristic of divine
order, thus naturalising an order that put him in the position of God’s human
counterpart.64
Adapting a concept that Neoplatonic thinkers had developed by combin-
ing the thought of Plato with the geocentric cosmology of Late Antiquity,
members of Justinian’s intelligentsia posited that each level of creation repro-
duced the characteristics of the one above and, ultimately, of the uppermost
heaven, which was inhabited by Christ, saints, and high-ranking angels.65 This
specular mode of existence was detailed by the anonymous author known as
Pseudo-Dionysius, who argued that the episcopal order represented a perfect
image of Christ’s court.66 Organised pyramidally inside cathedrals – thanks
also to Justinian’s marble furnishings – Christian communities reproduced
this divine order and established bishops as living images of God. The prac-
tice legitimised the episcopal and imperial orders simultaneously, since the
two followed the same pattern. Consequently, each community led by a bishop

62 Cf. Nov. 67 proem. ad c. 2 (R. Schöll / W. Kroll [eds.], Corpus iuris civilis. Vol. 3: Novellae,
Berlin 1912, 344); K. Onasch, Lichthöhle und Sternenhaus: Licht und Materie im spätantik-
christlichen und frühbyzantinischen Sakralbau, Dresden 1993, 132 and Nov. 137 (Schöll /
Kroll [eds.], 1912, 695–699); D. Krueger, Liturgical Subjects: Christian Ritual, Biblical
Narrative, and the Formation of the Self in Byzantium, Philadelphia 2014, 106–107,
respectively.
63 Ivanovici, 2020.
64 E.S. Mainoldi, Dietro “Dionigi l’Areopagita”. La genesi e gli scopi del “Corpus Dionysiacum”,
Roma 2018 argued that Justinian might have helped disseminate the Corpus Dionysiacum
across the Empire, if not commissioned its writing. On the Corpus promoting the notion
of hierarchy and the episcopal system as the human image of divine order, see Ivanovici,
2020.
65 The concept is summarised by Macr. (395–423), s.S. 1.14.15 (J. Willis [ed.], Macrobius:
Opera. Vol. 1: Commentarii in somnium Scipionis, Leipzig 1944, 58).
66 E.g., (Ps.)Dion. Ar., c.h. 1.3 (G. Heil / A.M. Ritter [eds.], Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagita, De
Coelesti Hierarchia, De Ecclesiastica Hierarchia, De Mystica Theologia, Epistulae: 2., überar-
beitete Auflage, Berlin 2012, 3–59 [8–9]).
Bishops 145

reproduced the imperial system on a smaller scale, and each bishop reminded
people in his congregation of the emperor’s iconic quality.
The church of Hagia Sophia was at the centre of this process. Characterised
by spaciousness and luminosity, the interior of the capital’s cathedral repro-
duced the aesthetic of the gods’ mythical palaces, which Christians had
adopted for Christ’s heavenly city. The interior decoration recapitulated the
created world, with the grey marble floor reproducing the shimmering seas, the
variegated marble opus sectile on the walls mirroring the blossom of nature,
and the gold mosaic ceilings exemplifying the luminosity of heaven.67 On this
magnificent stage, the episcopal and imperial hierarchies embodied human-
ity’s perfect expression, shaped by Christ’s court in heaven.68 The sunlight
flooding the church through the numerous windows and the artificial light
produced by the countless lamps installed inside interacted with the incense
smoke to create a luminous haze that enveloped the space and those in it.69
This haze referenced the Shekinah – the Presence of YHWH in the Tabernacle
of Moses and the Temple of Solomon – and rendered credible the merging of
heaven and Earth during the Eucharistic liturgy.70 (see Fig. 36)

67 On the floors of Hagia Sophia, see F. Barry, Walking on Water: Cosmic Floors in Antiquity
and the Middle Ages, in: ArtB 89 (2007), 627–656; B.V. Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia and
Multisensory Aesthetics, in: Gesta 50 (2011), 93–111; on the opus sectile, see Schibille, 2014;
V. Ivanovici, Divine Light Through Earthly Colours: Mediating Perception in Late Antique
Churches, in: C.N. Duckworth / A.E. Sassin (eds.), Colour and Light in Ancient and Medieval
Art, Abingdon 2018, 79–91; on the mosaics, see Isar, 2011; Schibille, 2014; N.B. Teteriatnikov,
Justinianic Mosaics of Hagia Sophia and Their Aftermath, Washington 2017.
68 In Justinian’s time, Hagia Sophia’s personnel was composed of 525 people: 60 priests,
100 deacons, 40 deaconesses, 90 subdeacons, 110 lectors, 25 singers, 100 doorkeepers cf.
Nov. 3.1 (Schöll / Kroll [eds.], 1912, 21).
69 On the natural light inside the church, see L.O. Grobe / O. Hauck / A. Noback, Das Licht
in der Hagia Sophia – eine Computersimulation, in: F. Daim / J. Drauschke (eds.), Byzanz –
Das Römerreich im Mittelalter. Teil 2.1 Schauplätze, Mainz 2010, 97–111. On artificial lights,
see M.L. Fobelli / P. Cesaretti, Procopius, Santa Sofia di Costantinopoli: Un tempio di luce
(De aedificiis I 1,1–78), Milan 2011. On incense, see Pentcheva, Hagia, 2017, passim.
70 On the luminous haze, see Ivanovici, 2016, esp. 150–157. On the merging of heaven and
Earth inside churches of the time, see R. Bornert, Les commentaires byzantins de la Divine
Liturgie du VIIe au XVe siècle, Paris 1966; H.-J. Schulz, The Byzantine Liturgy: Symbolic
Structure and Faith Expression, New York 1986; R.F. Taft, Church and Liturgy in Byzantium:
The Formation of the Byzantine Synthesis, in: K.K. Akent’ev (ed.), Liturgy, Architecture, and
Art in Byzantine World, St. Petersburg 1995, 13–29; Ivanovici, 2016; Pentcheva, Hagia, 2017.
146 Chapter 5

Figure 36 View of the nave towards the apse. Hagia Sophia, 537, Constantinople. Study of
light in apse, 1948. Byzantine Institute and Dumbarton Oaks fieldwork records
and papers, Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University, Washington, D.C.

This design principle was exported outside the capital. Using the same combi-
nation of elements – i.e., orientation of the building and its openings, the use
of lamps, reflective surfaces, and incense – churches across the eastern and
Bishops 147

western Roman provinces reproduced the luminous haze.71 The effect made
more plausible the presentation of the bishop as a living image of Christ during
the liturgy. In fact, the impact of this new type of setting and the impressive-
ness of the liturgical rite based on imperial ceremonial were so powerful that
the iconic status was extended to all those present inside the church. While the
bishop stood in for Christ, the rest of the participants were soon identified with
the various angelic orders serving him in heaven.72 Thus, like the followers of
Mithras during the previous centuries, Christians inside Justinianic churches
took up specific roles by identifying with characters within the religion.73
While in baptism the catechumens were all brought to the same iconic status,
the Eucharistic liturgy, as celebrated beginning in the sixth century in the East,
imposed distinct iconic stances on the different categories of celebrants – e.g.,
men, women, clergy members – through the ascribing of specific liturgical
roles. For most people the iconic status was limited to the duration of the lit-
urgy, but the bishops and the emperor absorbed it into their personas.
In Hagia Sophia, the splendour of the setting and the imperial court, as
well as the popularity of the idea that the ruler functioned as an image of God
made the iconic implications of the performance obvious to all. In churches
outside the capital iconographic programmes were used to render explicit the
meaning of the pyramidal display of celebrants. The promotion of the bishop,
priests, presbyters, and acolytes as images of Christ and the various levels of
martyrs, saints, and angels can still be seen on the walls of these churches.
Above the semi-circular bench at the basis of the apse (i.e., the synthronon), on
which the bishop sat flanked by priests, we often find depicted Christ’s court.74
(see Fig. 37)
To underline that the bishops’ iconicity reflected the emperor’s, the same
principle used to distinguish between the ruler and his court members was
used.75 Thus, the bishop wore purple while priests and presbyters wore white
for contrast. The same chromatic code occurred in the decoration to distinguish

71 Ivanovici, 2016, 126–216.

72 See K. Ware, The Meaning of the Divine Liturgy for the Byzantine Worshipper, in:
R. Morris (ed.), Church and People in Byzantium, Birmingham 1990, 7–28 (11); Taft, 1995,
20; D. Krueger, Christian Piety and Practice in the Sixth Century, in: M. Maas (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, Cambridge 2005, 291–315 (295–296);
C.A. Tsakiridou, Icons in Time, Persons in Eternity: Orthodox Theology and the Aesthetics of
the Christian Image, Burlington 2013, 71; Pentcheva, Hagia, 2017, 74–85; Ivanovici, Soleils,
2018.
73 The practice is detailed in Krueger, 2014, with focus on the period from the sixth century on.
74 Apsidal representations are discussed in Ihm, 1960; Bergmeier, 2017.
75 On garments and social ranking in late Roman society, see M. Parani, Defining Personal
Space: Dress and Accessories in Late Antiquity, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 5 (2007), 495–529.
148 Chapter 5

Christ from saints and angels. Thus, the living bishop simultaneously became
an image of the emperor and of Christ. We find the clearest expression of this
design principle in the churches of Ravenna.
As Justinian attempted to bring the western provinces under his control,
he made the Adriatic city the centre of his forces in the West. The city’s sta-
tus gave its Christian buildings an official, programmatic quality that can
still be discerned thanks to the survival of several structures.76 Among these,
the churches of San Vitale (consecrated in 547 or 548) and Sant’Apollinare
in Classe (549) shed light on episcopal iconicity and its relationship with
the imperial one. The construction of San Vitale began before the city was
occupied by Justinian’s armies, but its design was nevertheless influenced by
Constantinopolitan architecture, as it follows the centralised plan en vogue in
the capital since the 520s.77 Furnishings and decorations imitating those in
Justinian’s Constantinopolitan churches reinforced the imperial dimension of
the space. The hierarchical principle discernible in all Justinianic churches is
found there in its clearest expression. The volumes of the spaces, the richness,
texture, and chromatic of the materials used inside, the subjects of the scenes
represented on the walls, and the amount of natural light established a hierar-
chy between the narthex, ambulatory, nave, presbytery, and apse.
Like other church interiors of the time, the space inside San Vitale not only
displayed the notion of hierarchy but enacted it. The space divided the con-
gregation into several categories based on spiritual purity, displayed along the
church’s axis: sinners and the unbaptised (narthex), regular believers (nave,
aisles, galleries), monks and consecrated virgins (the front of the nave), aco-
lytes, presbyters, and deacons (presbytery), priests (synthronon), and the
bishop (cathedra). The person entering San Vitale through the main doors thus
was presented with a sequence of five increasingly luminous spaces populated
by increasingly holy people.78 (see Fig. 31)
At the apex of this impressive setting was the bishop, seated on the cathedra
at the intersection of the space’s horizontal axis – thus at the top of the com-
munity of believers – and of the vertical axis that ran through the mural

76 On Ravenna’s late antique buildings, see Deichmann, 1969; id., 1976; D. Mauskopf Deliyannis,
Ravenna in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 2010; C. Jäggi, Ravenna: Kunst und Kultur einer
spätantiken Residenzstadt. Die Bauten und Mosaiken des 5. und 6. Jahrhunderts, Regensburg
2013.
77 San Vitale was begun in 526 and consecrated in 547 or 548. On the church, see Deichmann,
1969, 226–249; id., 1976, 47–230; Deliyannis, 2010, 223–250; Jäggi, 2013, 238–259;
M.J. Johnson, San Vitale in Ravenna and Octogonal Churches in Late Antiquity, Wiesbaden
2018.
78 Ivanovici, 2020, 143–213.
Bishops 149

decoration. The immobility inherent to the enthroned position integrated the

bishop into the heavenly hierarchy depicted above him, while the materiality
of his body ascribed him to the human community. Thus, as in the theoretical
schema described by Pseudo-Dionysius in the very same period, inside San
Vitale, the bishop functioned as a point of convergence between the human
and the divine, with him embodying the image of Christ to his congregation:

The divine order of the hierarchs [scil. the bishops] is therefore the first of those
who behold God. It is the first and also the last, for in it the whole arrangement
of the human hierarchy is fulfilled and completed. And just as we observe that
every hierarchy ends with Jesus, so each hierarchy reaches its term in its own
inspired hierarch.79 (see Fig. 37)

Inspired by San Vitale and other churches in Ravenna, the church of Bishop
Euphrasius in Poreč (finished ca. 560) has the only synthronon that preserved
the sixth-century decoration.80 The setting in Poreč allows us to observe how
this space found at the intersection of the pavement level, occupied by the
congregation, and the mural surface populated by depicted characters worked
to establish the bishop’s iconicity. Decorated with all thirty types of marble
available to Romans, and further embellished with coloured glass and mother
of pearl, the synthronon in Poreč created a reflective and variegated back-
ground for the seated clergy.81 Two opus sectile candlesticks flank the cathedra.
Since candlesticks often surrounded bishops during processions and the lit-
urgy, the depicted ones would have created a mise-en-abîme effect that helped
blur the distinction between the real and the depicted when looking from the
nave toward the apse.82 A similar effect can be ascribed to the halo the seated

79 (Ps.)Dion. Ar., e.h. 5.6 (G. Heil / A.M. Ritter [eds.], Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagita, De Coelesti
Hierarchia, De Ecclesiastica Hierarchia, De Mystica Theologia, Epistulae: 2., überarbeitete
Auflage, Berlin 2012, 61–132 [108–109]; C. Luibheid / P. Rorem [trans.], Pseudo-Dionysius,
The Complete Works, New York 1987, 236, amended). On the iconicity of the bishop, see
also his c.h. 12.2 (Heil / Ritter [eds.], 2012, 42–43) and e.h. 2.3 (Heil / Ritter [eds.], 2012, 75).
80 On the church, see A.R. Terry, The Architecture and Architectural Sculpture of the
Sixth-century Eufrasius Cathedral Complex at Poreč, PhD diss., Urbana-Champaign 1984;
A.R. Terry / H. Maguire, Dynamic Splendor: The Wall Mosaics in the Cathedral of Eufrasius
at Poreč, 2 vols., University Park 2007. On the synthronon, see Deichmann, 1976, 5.135–136;
A.R. Terry, The ‘Opus Sectile’ in the Eufrasius Cathedral at Poreč, in: DOP 40 (1986), 147–164;
Ivanovici, 2016, 164–166.
81 On the materials, see Terry, 1986.
82 On the candlesticks that accompanied bishops, see Ven. Fort. (d. ca. 600), carm. 5.5b.125–
126 (M. Reydellet [ed.], Venance Fortunat: Poèmes. Tome II: Livres V–VIII, Paris 1998,
25); O.R.P. 1.30 (Andrieu [ed.], 1948, 72); Sophr. H. (d. 638), liturg. 13 (J.-P. Migne [ed.],
Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 87, Paris 1863, vol. 3, coll. 3993C).
150 Chapter 5

Figure 37 Apse of the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna (ca. 548). (Photo: Vladimir Ivanovici,
with the kind concession of the Opera di Religione della Diocesi di Ravenna)

bishop received through the placing of a porphyry roundel behind his head,
which brought him into the heavenly group of beings shown haloed above.
(see Fig. 38)
Carefully constructed through the mise-en-scène, the ontological ambiva-
lence of the bishop was used to establish him as a credible image of Christ.
Bishops 151

Figure 38 Cathedra and part of the flanking synthronon in the Basilica Euphrasiana. Ca. 560,
Poreč. The bishop received a red porphyry, round halo topped by a cross, while
the two priests who sat to his sides received rectangular haloes. (Photo: Vladimir
Ivanovici)

Attesting to this is the purple garment and the similar display of the bishop
and Christ. In the apse of San Vitale, Christ is depicted above the episcopal
cathedra wearing the purple colour bishops sported in a darker hue. Since
the first century, purple had been used to indicate one’s wealth and social
standing.83 In the late antique chromatic system, which ranked colours based

83 See Cod. Thds. 10.21.3 (T. Mommsen / P.M. Meyer [eds.], Theodosiani libri XVI cum con-
stitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges Novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, Berlin 1905,
566); Cod. Iust. 11.9 (T. Mommsen / P. Krueger [eds.], Corpus iuris Civilis. Vol. 2: Codex
Iustinianus, Berlin 1888, 431–432); A. Carile, Produzione e usi della porpora nell’impero
bizantino, in: O. Longo (ed.), La porpora: Realtà e immaginario di un colore simbolico:
Atti del convegno interdisciplinare di studio dell’Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti
(Venezia 24–25 Ottobre 1996), Venezia 1998, 243–269.
152 Chapter 5

on their luminosity, purple was considered the brightest. Its rarity, cost, and
radiance made it ideal for indicating the divinity of late Roman rulers and the
iconicity of early Byzantine ones.84 Lent to Christ along with other imperial
symbols, purple was used in Justinianic art to promote rulers and bishops as
images of Christ and of each other, with all three figures wearing the colour.
Nevertheless, the darker hue that bishops wore ranked them below rulers, who
were depicted with the same bright purple as Christ.85 The philosopher’s gar-
ment worn by Christ, the military garb of the ruler, and the clerical costume of
the bishop indicated the distinct function each fulfilled within the economy
of salvation, while the shared material and colour of the three garments drew
attention to the emperor, bishop, and Christ sharing the same splendour. (see
Fig. 37)
The famous mosaic showing Justinian in San Vitale clarifies the dynamic
between rulers and bishops.86 Located in an intermediary register, in between
the synthronon and the image of Christ in the apse, the image shows the impe-
rial and episcopal hierarchies together, thus reproducing the concept embod-
ied by the Church and state apparatuses inside Hagia Sophia. In the panel,
both the imperial court and the clergy are displayed hierarchically. The former
has a pyramidal structure, with Justinian at the forefront, two high functionar-
ies aligned behind him, and a group of guards amassed behind them.87 The
clergy is represented by a single line of three characters: the bishop and two
deacons. The number of persons, their positioning inside the panel, the gold

84 L. James, ‘Pray Not to Fall into Temptation and Be on Your Guard’: Antique Statues in
Christian Constantinople, in: Gesta 35 (1996), 12–20.
85 The distinction between the shades of purple was established through imperial leg-
islation cf. Ed. dioc. 24 (T. Mommsen [ed.], Der Maximaltarif des Diocletian / Edictum
Diocletiani de pretiis rerum venalium, Berlin 2011, 39); G. Steigerwald, The Purple Varieties
in the Price Edict of Diocletian of the Year 301, in: Byzantine Research 15 (1990), 241–253. See
also fol. 14r of the sixth-century Rabbula Gospels (Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, cod.
Plut. I, 56, Florence), where monks and bishops wear dark purple in the presence of an
emperor dressed in lighter purple.
86 On the various interpretations of the panel, see T.F. Mathews, The Early Churches of
Constantinople: Architecture and Liturgy, University Park 1971, 146–147; Deichmann,
1976, 180–181; M.C. Carile, Imperial Bodies and Sacred Space? Imperial Family Images
between Monumental Decoration and Space Definition in Late Antiquity and Byzantium,
in: J. Bogdanović (ed.), Perceptions of the Body and Sacred Space in Late Antiquity and
Byzantium, New York 2018, 59–86 (63–66). Rather than mutually exclusive, complemen-
tary meanings of such scenes are a characteristic of the art of the period, which was
designed to ‘work’ on various levels cf. Maguire, 1987, 83.
87 The third high functionary, located towards the clergy, is a later addition cf.
I. Andreescu-Treadgold / W. Treadgold, Procopius and the Imperial Panels in San Vitale, in:
ArtB 79 (1997), 708–723, who studied the material features of the mosaic.
Bishops 153

halo of Justinian, and the superior brightness of his purple compared to the
chasuble of the bishop attest to the precedence of the imperial hierarchy.
Although the details of the process are unclear, it appears that the presence
of the imperial administration in the city at the time when the decoration of
the church was made led the bishop of Ravenna who supervised the construc-
tion to include the court in the iconographic programme. While it allows us
to observe how the iconicity of the emperor and bishop were constructed vis-
à-vis Christ and each other, the added imperial dimension renders episcopal
iconicity less clear in San Vitale than in other instances.
In Poreč, Bishop Euphrasius used similar visual strategies to claim both a
spot in heaven – by depicting himself in the Virgin’s entourage on the conch
of the apse – and authority on earth through the aligning of his cathedra with
the image of Christ and of an angel holding the globe of cosmic dominion.88
It is, nevertheless, at Classe – Ravenna’s seaport – that the full capacity of
Justinianic church interiors to establish bishops as iconic is discernible. There,
Bishop Maximian of Ravenna (sed. 546–556) designed what is held to be “an
apotheosis of the episcopal office that has no equal in Christian art.”89 Named
bishop by Justinian himself, Maximian made full use of the emperor’s support
of an iconic episcopate inspired by the imperial model.90 Although parts of the
sixth-century interior were altered in various moments of the building’s life,
what is preserved shows Maximian’s ambitions.91
On the conch of the apse, a stylised representation of the Transfiguration
shows Peter, John, and Jacob as sheep, Jesus as a large cross with his portrait
at the intersection of the cross’ arms, and Moses and Elijah in human form,
appearing through the clouds. The placing of the gold and jewelled Cross
inside a depicted oculus gives it a revelatory quality. Below this scene, in the
middle register, the mythical founder of the Church in Ravenna, the second-
century confessor Apollinaris is shown standing in the orans position, flanked
by twelve sheep, six on each side. His cruciform posture, his alignment with
the Cross, and his position amongst the twelve sheep – which the depiction
of Peter, John, and Jacob as sheep in the Transfiguration scene above helps us
identify with the apostles – establish the first bishop of Ravenna as an alter
Christus. (see Fig. 39)

88 On the mosaics in the Poreč cathedral and their symbolism, see Terry / Maguire, 2007.
89 O.G. von Simson, Sacred Fortress: Byzantine Art and Statecraft in Ravenna, Princeton 1948, 41.
90 The iconographic programme is attributed to Maximian because underdrawings of a
different composition were found, indicating last-minute changes, which are dated to
Maximian’s episcopate.
91 On the church, see Deliyannis, 2010, 259–274; Jäggi, 2013, 259–282. On the iconography,
see A. Michael, Das Apsismosaik von S. Apollinare in Classe: Seine Deutung im Kontext der
Liturgie, Frankfurt 2005.
154 Chapter 5

Figure 39 Main nave and apse of the Church of Sant’Apollinare in Classe (549).
(Photo: Steven Zucker, Smarthistory, by concession of the Ministero della
Cultura – Direzione regionale Musei dell’Emilia-Romagna. All rights reserved).

As in other cases we discussed throughout the book, the depiction of the god
as a symbol rather than in human form made the person below its human
image. In Sant’Apollinare in Classe, this status is ascribed to the bishop of
Ravenna. Below the register of Apollinaris, just above a now lost synthronon,
four other bishops of the city are shown standing inside depicted niches. This
register contained two other scenes that were remade in the seventh century.
Completing the iconographic programme were the decoration on the apse’s
arch – which we have in a later, remade version – and that of the nave, now
lost.92
As in San Vitale and the Basilica Euphrasiana in Poreč, purple is used to
establish specific relationships between the depicted characters. Apollinaris
wears a dark purple chasuble speckled with gold. Below him, the two centrally
placed bishops have yellow-green chasubles like the one worn by the bishop

92 On the representations of archangels Michael and Gabriel on the arch, see Deliyannis,
2010, 266–267.
Bishops 155

in Justinian’s panel in San Vitale. The remaining two bishops wear the regu-
lar, dark episcopal purple. This chromatic scheme finds an explanation in the
inscriptions. While all four bishops in the lower register are identified by name,
the two central ones are indicated as saints and are framed by niches that are
gilded and jewelled. It thus appears that the dark purple chasuble stood for
the episcopal rank and that the green hue was supposed to visually translate
the holiness of the person wearing it. In San Vitale, restorers noted that the
face and name of Maximian had been added to the imperial panel, which ini-
tially depicted another bishop.93 The green tint of the chasuble could indicate
that the bishop whose face Maximian usurped was one considered a saint by
the local community. Nevertheless, it has been pointed out that although it
is generally agreed that the depicted emperor is Justinian, the absence of an
inscription identifying the ruler by name allowed the portrait to represent the
imperial office in general.94 In similar fashion, the accompanying bishop could
have been a generic representation of the Ravennate episcopate, not necessar-
ily of Bishops Ursicinus (sed. 533–536) or Victor (sed. 538–545), who supervised
the church’s construction. In this case, the sanctity of this specific bishop, indi-
cated by the golden hue of his purple garment, would have stood for the holi-
ness of the episcopal office in general.
Thus, in Sant’Apollinare in Classe the chromatic of the episcopal chasubles
established a hierarchy among the depicted bishops, who were displayed in
a pyramidal pattern. At the basis and towards the sides were Ecclesius and
Ursicinus in the episcopal purple. Towards the centre, the sanctity of Severus
(sed. 308–348) and Ursus (sed. 399–426) shone through the purple, giving it a
dim glow translated visually by the green-golden tesserae. Finally, the supe-
rior holiness of the bishop-confessor Apollinaris – reinforced by his halo and
Christ-like presentation – shoots out through the purple chasuble in the form
of golden arrows. The holiness of local bishops, built through the spatial rela-
tionship between their portraits and Christ’s stylised portrait and through the
chromatic code of the chasubles was channelled downwards, into Maximian.
Seated on the cathedra, the living bishop embodied the spiritual authority and
iconic dimension his predecessors had slowly accrued. The impersonation of
Christ during the Eucharistic liturgy would have reinforced Maximian’s ico-
nicity. In Classe, the iconography draws our attention to the beginning of the
Eucharistic liturgy, when the bishop reached the presbytery and, before sitting
on the cathedra, he would pray and bless the congregation while in the orant

93 Adreescu-Treadgold / Treadgold, 1997.

94 J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to
Christianity, Cambridge 1995; 184–187; Deliyannis, 2010, 243.
156 Chapter 5

position.95 In the moment, as he uttered Christ’s words to the community,

“Peace to all!,” the Cross on the conch of the apse, the portrait of Apollinaris,
and Maximian aligned perfectly, with the living body of Maximian fleshing out
the presence of Christ in front of the congregation.96
The churches Justinian commissioned, those to which he provided the fur-
nishings that organised the congregation inside the space, those built by the
bishops he named, and those commissioned by others who imitated his foun-
dations all showcase the pyramidal structure of Christ’s heavenly court, which
legitimised the imperial order. In doing so, the spaces promoted the officiating
bishop as an image of Christ during the liturgy. The similarity of episcopal and
imperial self-display strategies in this period is confirmed by the throne room
in the palace in Constantinople, inside which we saw Emperor Justin II ‘play-
ing’ a living statue of the Christian God in Chapter 2. Now lost, the building is
known from descriptions that confirm it looked like a small-scale San Vitale in
Ravenna.97
Towards the end of his rule, Justinian’s state entered a period of deep crisis
that over time changed how the eastern Romans related with the divine.98 The
confident self-image we saw in Justinianic churches, inside which all those tak-
ing part in the celebration of the Eucharistic liturgy embodied various heav-
enly powers would be replaced with one influenced by the Old Testament.99
Like the people of Israel, Byzantines would be required to recognise their sin-
fulness as the origin of the state’s continuous problems, and to repent liturgi-
cally.100 The crisis, nevertheless, also made bishops the main representatives
of imperial administration in the territory, thus confirming their functioning

95 Germ. CP (sed. 715–730), h.e. 26 (P. Meyendorff [ed. / trans.], Germanus of

Constantinople, On the Divine Liturgy, New York 1984, 76–77). Ravenna likely followed the
Constantinopolitan liturgical practice in this period cf. A. Doig, Liturgy and Architecture
from the Early Church to the Middle Ages, Farnham 2008, 80.
96 The church of San Giovanni Evangelista, built in Ravenna by Galla Placidia ca. 440, had
the image of bishop Peter Chrysologus – alive at the time – depicted in the orant position
above the cathedra cf. Agn., lib. pont. rav. 27 (Deliyannis [ed.], 2006, 174); M.C. Carile,
Piety, Power, or Presence? Strategies of Monumental Visualization of Patronage in Late
Antique Ravenna, in: Religions 12 (2021), online.
97 See M. Featherstone, The Chrysotriklinos Seen through “De Cerimoniis”, in: L.M. Hoffmann
(ed.), Zwischen Polis, Provinz und Peripherie: Beiträge zur byzantinischen Geschichte und
Kultur, Wiesbaden 2005, 845–852.
98 On the crisis, see Haldon, 1997.
99 L. Brubaker / J. Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era (680–850): A History, Cambridge
2011, 9–25; S. Eshel, The Concept of the Elect Nation in Byzantium, MM 113, Leiden 2018,
26–43.
100 Krueger, 2014.
Bishops 157

as images of the ruler’s authority and iconicity.101 For centuries, bishops and
Byzantine rulers would reinforce each other as images of Christ.102 Even in
areas that were left outside the state’s borders, Justinianic churches continued
to influence the form of the episcopate through their spaces, furnishings, and
figurative decoration.

5.4 Beyond the Living Bishop

Despite the resistance of some bishops, who objected to the adoption of a

garment that symbolised their office, the episcopal rank came to be signified
by a number of objects, in primis the stole, but also the chasuble, cross, and
gospel book.103 The cathedra, too, gained the power of ‘make’ bishops, with
rushing to sit first on the episcopal throne deciding the new bishop in at least
two instances.104 Thus, one’s recognition as bishop came to a certain extent to
depend on their display with these objects, each of which created a symbolic
analogy to Christ, thus establishing the bishop as iconic.
This transfer of episcopal authority from the holders of the office to the
garments, objects, and spaces that signified it does not seem to be as radical
as in the case of imperial insignia, perhaps due to the ways in which bishops
interacted with their congregations, which did not allow them to escape their
humanity and individuality in the same way as emperors did.

5.5 Conclusions

Given the omnipresence of bishops and the cultural and theological differ-
ences existing between the communities that were part of the Roman Empire,
the episcopal expression is one of the most diverse of the iconic phenomenon.
With roots in the apostolic period, when the community in Galata received
Paul “as if Jesus Christ Himself” and “saw” Christ’s crucifixion in the Apostle’s
sufferings, episcopal iconicity was later confirmed through the persecution

101 On changing in the role of the episcopate, see Haldon, 1997, 97–99.129.281–323; M. Angold,
Church and Society: Iconoclasm and Latter, in: J. Haldon (ed.), The Social History of
Byzantium, Oxford 2009, 233–256.
102 Dagron, 1996.
103 On the resistance, see Jussen, 2001. On episcopal stoles, see S.A. Schoenig, Bonds of Wool:
The Pallium and Papal Power in the Middle Ages, Washington 2016.
104 Gr. Tur., h.f. 2.13 and 2.23 (W. Arndt / B. Krusch [eds.], Gregorii episcopi Turonensis, Libri
historiarum X, MGHM 1.1, Hanover 1884, 63.69); Jussen, 2001, 158–159.
158 Chapter 5

and martyrdom of several bishops.105 The image of the episcopal office contin-
ued to evolve during the fourth and fifth centuries, as the Christian faith went
from persecuted to tolerated, favoured, and eventually dominant. Towards
the end of this period, complex episcopal models took shape in some of the
regions of the Empire.
As the western regions began to develop independently, bishops continued
to impersonate Christ amid communities that were ethnically and confession-
ally mixed, often turning for inspiration and legitimation toward the bishops
of Rome. Their impersonations found support in those staged by the leaders of
the new political structures, who, in seeking ways to legitimise their authority,
utilised Roman and early Byzantine models and added the impersonation of
Christ to their strategies.106
In the East, Justinian’s measures homogenised the image of the episcopate.
During his reign, bishops became local images of imperial iconicity and their
cathedrals mechanisms that popularised the notion of hierarchy. For the impe-
rial office, Justinian’s strategy amounted to a replacement of the imperial cult
with a Christian alternative. Justinianic cathedrals were the new temples of
the imperial cult, where the emperor’s privileged relationship with the divine
could be seen through the living bishops rather than the ruler’s cult statue.
The process naturalised episcopal iconicity but also subjected it to the impe-
rial one, as shown by instances such as Patriarch Photios’s (d. 893) failed
attempt to usurp the emperor’s iconic function by stating that the patriarch of
Constantinople represents the “living and animate image of Christ.”107

105 Gal 4:14 and 3:1, respectively.

106 On western medieval rulers claiming iconic status in ways that integrated the Roman her-
itage and Byzantine model, see E.H. Kantorowicz, Deus per naturam, Deus per gratiam:
A Note on Mediaeval Political Theology, in: HTR 45 (1952), 253–277; R. Pizzinato, Vision
and Christomimesis in the Ruler Portrait of the Codex Aureus of St. Emmeram, in: Gesta 57
(2018), 145–170.
107 Phot., eis. 3.8 (I. Zepos / P. Zepos (eds.), Jus Graecoromanum. Vol. 2, Aalen 1962, 242; trans.
J.A. Cotsonis, The Religious Figural Imagery of Byzantine Lead Seals II. Studies on Images
of the Saints and on Personal Piety, London 2020, 70) Πατριάρχης ἐστὶν εἰκὼν ζῶσα χριστοῦ
καὶ ἔμψυχος, δι’ ἔργων καὶ λόγων χαρακτηρίζουσα τὴν ἀλήθειαν. See V. Stanković, Living Icon
of Christ: Photios’ Characterization of the Patriarch in the Introduction of the Eisagoge and
its Significance, in: I. Stevović (ed.), Symmeikta: Collection of Papers Dedicated to the 40th
Anniversary of the Institute for Art History, Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade,
Belgrade 2012, 39–43 on the context.
 Chapter 6

Stylites

Known as ‘stylites,’ ascetics who lived on top of columns occupy a special place
in the phenomenon discussed throughout the book.1 Unlike other categories
of iconic persons, who imitated statues intermittently to draw attention to
their own functioning as vessels and images of the divine, stylites imitated
statuary in their daily life. The stylite phenomenon thus represents a privi-
leged instance for studying how statuary influenced the perception of and
interaction with iconic persons. In addition, stylites generated one of the main
types of objects that preserved and multiplied the presence of iconic persons,
with their dossier documenting in detail the progress from cult statue to living
humans and, finally, to artefacts.
Because they emerged in the fifth century, Christian stylites existed in a
world that took for granted the human possibility to embody, impart, and dis-
play the divine. As a result, they represent a well-defined form of iconicity. In
addition, by that time, Christians had admitted the capacity of inanimate mat-
ter to act as vessel and image of the divine. Apart from relics, which were now
being enclosed in structures whose scale and decoration reflected (and estab-
lished) their power, the places where Jesus had lived in Palestine were being
recognised as holy.2 During the fifth and sixth centuries, other types of objects
were created that helped humans interact with the divine. Stylites coexisted
with several of these, while also generating a distinct category, that of stylite
tokens.
Thus, after discussing how the stylites’ relationship to statues shaped their
iconicity, I focus on how their power transferred to objects. Finally, I pon-
der what this process teaches us about the origin and function of icons that
emerge in the same period.

1 From the Greek word for pillar or column, i.e., στῦλος. Stylites are often referred to as ‘pillar
saints’ but in the late antique phase of the phenomenon, their pedestals were typically round
with square bases, closely resembling the columns used for statuary. On the terminology, see
L.A. Schachner, The Archaeology of the Stylite, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 6 (2010), 329–397.
2 On churches, see C. Sotinel, Les lieux de culte chrétiens et le sacré dans l’Antiquité tardive,
in: RHR 4 (2005), 411–435; on martyria, see Grabar, 1946; Yasin, 2012; on the Holy Land, see
Bitton-Ashkelony, 2005.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_007

160 Chapter 6

6.1 Living vs. Animated Statues

Most ascetics performed their askesis (Greek: training) in ways that stood in
opposition to civilisation, such as living in caves, walling themselves up in cells,
grazing like animals, or living in exclusively male communities. Contrastingly,
stylites chose a practice inspired by urban culture and imitated the columns
with statues of gods or rulers that often stood in town fora.3 In addition, while
other ascetics typically shied away from human contact, stylites set their col-
umns in accessible locations.4 The recognisability of their stance and their
accessibility invited interaction. As a result, they quickly became the stars of
the ascetic movement, gaining admirers across and beyond the empire, attract-
ing pilgrims, converting pagan tribes, and even legitimising emperors.5
When Symeon Stylites the Elder (ca. 390–459) climbed atop his first col-
umn in 412 and marked the beginning of the stylite phenomenon, columns
supporting anthropomorphic statues were a common presence in Roman
towns.6 The ones displaying gods had not yet been brought down by the
increasingly Christian communities because they enjoyed a particular status,
as objects that were simultaneously cultic, apotropaic, memorial, and public
landmarks.7 Such columns were also found in rural contexts, as centrepieces of
ad hoc shrines established in the vicinity of towns or on large domains.8 (see

3 A. Eastmond, Body vs. Column: The Cults of St Symeon Stylites, in: L. James (ed.), Desire and
Denial in Byzantium, Aldershot 1999, 87–100 (88) pointed out that the column was the only
element differentiating stylites from other ascetics. The size of their pillars associated them
to such columns with statues, rather than with honorific statues of citizens placed on shorter
pediments. See the dimensions of imperial columns and honorary statues in L. Lavan, Public
Space in the Late Antique City. Vol. 1: Streets, Processions, Fora, Agorai, Macella, Shops, Leiden
2020, figs. E6B and B22A. On those of stylites, see below.
4 Schachner, 2010 maps the presence of stylites, showing their predilection for important
routes across Syria.
5 On stylites in general, see H. Delehaye, Les saints stylites, Brussels 1923; H.J.W. Drijvers,
Spätantike Parallelen zur altchristlischen Heiligenverehrung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung
des syrischen Stylitenkultus, in: G. Wiessner (ed.), Erkenntnisse und Meinungen II, Wiesbaden
1978, 77–113; D. Frankfurter, Stylites and phallobates: Pillar Religions in Late Antique Syria, in:
VC 44 (1990), 168–198; Eastmond, 1999. Although typically male, there were also female styl-
ites cf. H. Delehaye, Les femmes stylites, in: AnBoll 27 (1908), 391–393.
6 Three late antique vitae of Symeon the Elder were preserved and are translated in R. Doran,
The Lives of Simeon Stylites. Trans. with an Introduction, Kalamazoo 1992.
7 On these statues, see Kiernan, 2020, 175–177; on their survival, see H. Saradi-Mendelovici,
Christian Attitudes toward Pagan Monuments in Late Antiquity and Their Legacy in Later
Byzantine Centuries, in: DOP 44 (1990), 47–61; L. Lavan, Political Talismans? Residual ‘Pagan’
Statues in Late Antique Public Space, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 7 (2011), 437–477.
8 See Gr. Tur., h.f. 8.15 (Arndt / Krusch [eds.], 1884, 380–383); E.W. Sauer, Religious Rituals
at Springs in the Late Antique and Early Medieval World, in: Late Antiq. Archaeol. 7 (2011),
503–550.
Stylites 161

Fig. 40) In addition, columns that supported statues of emperors continued to

be erected in this period in the Empire’s main cities, as part of the emperors’
self-presentation as iconic.9 Thus, the combination of column and anthropo-
morphic object on top was an easily recognisable one.

Figure 40 Detail from larger mural showing a simple shrine consisting of a statue set on a
column, placed on a rock on the seashore. Such shrines were found across the
Roman world. Fresco, late 1st century, from the villa of Agrippa Postumus at
Boscotrecase. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (inv. no. 20.192.17)

Over the years, as Symeon’s powers drew attention to his becoming a vessel of
divine power, his askesis gained the quality of a challenge between his living
body and the similarly shaped but inanimate statues of the gods.10 As with
Psyche’s beauty rendering the statues of Venus obsolete, and the emperors’
bodies becoming the focus even in the presence of cult statues, the iconic sty-
lite claimed precedence over the animated statue. This agonistic dimension is
explicit in the case of Vulfilaic. Inspired by the eastern stylites, Vulfilaic set up

9 Eastmond, 1999 credited the stylites’ appeal to their analogy to imperial columns.
10 On stylites seeking to replace statues, see L. James, ‘Pray Not to Fall into Temptation and Be
on Your Guard’: Antique Statues in Christian Constantinople, in: Gesta 35 (1996), 12–20 (18).
162 Chapter 6

his column next to a statue of the goddess Diana, in the region of Trier.11 From
the column, he preached the worthlessness of the statue, while becoming one
himself. After the local community saw his determination during the cold sea-
son, they were convinced to switch their allegiance from Diana to the god he
followed. As pointed out by David Frankfurter, the process shifted the commu-
nity’s piety from one statue to another.12 Like other types of iconic persons we
discussed throughout the book, stylites were proving more plausible images of
the divine than statues.
This plausibility reflected a changing worldview. As the number of Romans
adopting Christianity grew during the fourth and fifth centuries, so did the
population born into the faith.13 As we have seen, the former category under-
went baptism as adults and witnessed the iconic potential of their bodies dur-
ing the initiation. In contrast, those born and raised as Christians were taught
from childhood to perceive the world through the perspective of the Church.
During the fourth and fifth centuries, the religion slowly Christianised natu-
ral phenomena and the flow of time, and it designed Christian solutions to
the problems that had long been solved through polytheistic mechanisms.14
Together, these processes shaped how people interacted with and understood
the functioning of the world. The body’s potential to share in the divine would
have appeared natural to people growing up with stories about glowing mar-
tyrs and desert ascetics; who heard stories of Elijah and Enoch being taken to
heaven while alive; and who hoped to one day travel to Palestine and visit the
empty tombs of Jesus and Mary, which proved their physical bodies lived on
in heaven.
Like other ascetics, stylites were credited with combining Adam’s life in
Eden, Jesus’s life on earth, the martyrs’ willingness to suffer, and the sages’
prioritisation of the spiritual over the corporeal.15 As such, they were charac-

11 Gr. Tur., h.f. 8.15 (Arndt / Krusch [eds.], 1884, 380–383).

12 Frankfurter, 1990, 197 n. 72.
13 The exact pace at which Romans adopted Christianity is still under debate cf.
T.A. Robinson, Who Were the First Christians? Dismantling the Urban Thesis, Oxford 2017
but the later fourth and fifth centuries saw a significant increase in numbers.
14 See P. Brown, Introduction: Late Antiquity: Anomaly and Order Between a Pagan and a
Christian World, in: A. Lazaridou (ed.), Transition to Christianity: Art of Late Antiquity, 3rd–
7th Century AD, New York 2011, 21–25 (25) on Christianity’s “slow, hard labour on the imag-
ination of an entire society” in this period. See Frankfurter, 2018 on how Christianity’s
holy figures provided alternatives to old mechanisms of interaction with the divine.
15 On ascetics as Adamic, see Apophth. Patr.: Pambo 12 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus
completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 65, Paris 1864, coll. 372); Brown, 1978, 86 n. 18; S.A. Harvey,
Asceticism, in: G.W. Bowersock / P. Brown / O. Grabar (eds.), Late Antiquity: A Guide to
the Postclassical World (Cambridge 1999), 317–318. On ascetics as Christ-like, see Hieron.,
Stylites 163

terised by a performative type of iconicity, gained through their embodying

of divine models, and a theophanic one, represented by their emaciated and
immobile bodies. The presence of the column conditioned the ways in which
people interacted with the stylites’ bodies, and shaped their iconicity. Upwards
of seven meters tall and going as far up as nineteen, the columns prevented
the close observation of the ascetics’ bodily features.16 Instead, the columns
required immobility and implied an endurance to the climate.17 Their immo-
bility confirmed the stylites as statue-like, while their endurance established
them as material vessels reinforced by the indwelling presence of the divine, in
the manner of martyrs.18 Finally, the lower halves of their bodies were hidden
from onlookers by balusters, dents carved into the column’s top, or tent-like
structures.19 (see Fig. 41) As a result, their upper halves seemed to be morph-
ing with the columns.20 Observable in their representations, this assimilation
of the person with the stone column invited further analogies with statuary
and, as we will see in the following section, shaped the ways in which people
interacted with the stylite.
Although the tall columns with a standing human figure on top recalled
the monumental columns holding statues of rulers or gods, the truncated
image of stylites allowed their association to expand into other types of statu-
ary, namely bust images placed on colonettes and with herms. Bust images
on colonettes were a common presence in Roman homes and had been used
as symbols of idolatry in Christian art since the fourth century.21 Thus, to an
audience familiarised with Christian art, stylites and their representations car-
ried the potential of an anti-idolatrous discourse, rooted in the same type of

e. 108.14 (Hilberg [ed.], 1912, 324), quoted above; Frank, 2000. On ascetics as martyr-like,
see Cyr. H., catech. m. 2.7 (Piédagnel [ed.], 1988, 118); G.P. Jeanes, Baptism Portrayed as
Martyrdom in the Early Church, in: StPatr 23 (1993), 158–176.
16 On the dimensions of stylite columns, see Schachner, 2010, Table 1.
17 On their immobility and its implications, see G. Frank, Traveling Stylites? Rethinking
the Pillar Saint’s Stasis in the Christian East, in: O. Delouis / M. Mossakovska-Gaubert /
A. Peters-Custot (dir.), Les mobilités monastiques en Orient et en Occident de l’Antiquité
tardive au Moyen Âge, Rome 2019, 261–273.
18 On stylites as vessels of the Holy Spirit and Christ, see B.V. Pentcheva, The Sensual Icon:
Space, Ritual, and the Senses in Byzantium, University Park 2010, 18–44.
19 On the balusters and huts, see Schachner, 2010, 353.
20 The assimilation of bodies and columns in depictions of stylites was pointed out by most
scholars writing on stylites.
21 See T.M. Kristensen, Using and Abusing Images in Late Antiquity (and Beyond): Column
Monuments as Topoi of Idolatry, in: S. Birk / T.M. Kristensen / B. Poulsen (eds.), Using
Images in Late Antiquity, Oxford 2014, 268–282.
164 Chapter 6

Figure 41 Stylite tower, early 6th century, 13.5 m, Umm ar-Rasas (Jordan). (Photo: Hubert
Bartkowiak – Wikipedia CC BY-SA 4.0)

“contrast imitation” between living statues and stone ones we have seen char-
acterising the iconic phenomenon throughout.
Bishop Theodoret of Cyrrhus (393–ca. 466), who chronicled the lives of
thirty ascetics and is one of our main sources on the life of Symeon the Elder,
points to stylites being likened to herms. According to Theodoret, while
Symeon was still alive, his images were placed on columns at the entrances of
shops in Rome for protection.22 The apotropaic function of the images, their
location at thresholds, and their placement on columns shows that they were
held to function as herms, which were initially sculpted pillars ending with the
head of Mercury that had been used since archaic times to mark and protect
thresholds.23 (see Figs. 3, 6 & 42) The presence of genitalia midway down the
pillar emphasised that the rectangular object represented the person’s body,
rather than a pedestal for the head. Over time, visual variations in designing
herms appeared, with some coming close to how stylites were depicted, which

22 Thdt., h.r. 26.11 (P. Canivet / A. Leroy-Molinghen [eds.], Théodoret de Cyr. Histoire des
moines de Syrie. Vol. 2, SC 257, Paris 1979, 182; Doran [trans.], 1992, 75).
23 On herms, see J. Fejfer, Roman Portraits in Context, Berlin 2008, 228–233; C.A. Faraone, The
Transformation of Greek Amulets in Roman Imperial Times. Empire and After, Philadelphia
2018.
Stylites 165

would have further fuelled the association of the stylite-and-column with

herms.
Thus, the ways in which the stylites’ bodies were displayed prompted their
association not to one, but to several types of statuary. Although each type
of depiction had specific functions, they all imaged the divine. Consequently,
whether positive or agonistic, the association with statuary invested stylites
with a similar, iconic quality. In addition, the systematic association of the styl-
ites’ bodies with statuary through their display as statues, their immobility, and
resistance to climate reified them, thus allowing the transfer of their functions
to artefacts.

Figure 42 Herm of Hermes, late 1st century, 149 × 24 × 21 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa
Collection, Malibu, California (inv. no. 79.AA.132). (Photo: Digital image courtesy
of Getty’s Open Content Program)
166 Chapter 6

6.2 Multiplying the Stylite’s Body: Eulogia, Relics, Columns

While some pilgrims visited ascetics to see the divine reflected in their trans-
formed features, most came for help with specific problems. Most frequently,
they sought advice on various issues or to be healed.24 For healing, pilgrims
typically tried to have direct physical contact with the ascetic, whose touch
was credited with miraculous effects:

A crowd of sick people went out to see him every day, and laying his hand on
them through the window, he would send them away cured. One could see him
with the face of an angel giving joy to his visitors by his gaze and abounding with
much grace.25

Those who were not so fortunate as to be touched by the ascetics, or who wanted
to bring home the ascetics’ healing power, tried to touch matter that had been
in direct contact with them, which was believed to have been imbued with
the ascetics’ power.26 The most desired objects included body parts – typically
hairs that ascetics distributed, or which bold pilgrims plucked themselves, but
also phlegm or maggots from their wounds.27 Next were personal objects, such
as a piece of clothing belonging to the ascetic, an object they handcrafted, an
amulet they prepared, or a text (prayer, letter) by their hand.28 Finally, there
was the soil around their cells.29 Ascetics tried to control the phenomenon by

24 On the reasons why people visited ascetics, see Brown, The Rise, 1971; Frankfurter, 2018.
25 h. mon.: Theon 1 (A.-J. Festugière [ed.], Historia Monachorum in Aegypto. Édition critique
du texte grec et traduction annotée, Brussels 1961, 43–44; N. Russell [trans.], The Lives of
the Desert Fathers: The Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, Mowbray 1981, 68) ἐξήρχετο γὰρ
πρὸς αὐτὸν ἡμέριον τὸ πλῆθος τῶν ἀσθενούντων καὶ διὰ θυρίδος ἐπιθεὶς αὐτοῖς τὴν χεῖρα ὑγιεῖς
ἀπέλυεν ἀπελθεῖν. ἦν δὲ ἰδεῖν αὐτὸν τὸ πρόσωπον ἀγγέλου ἔχοντα, χαροποιὸν τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς καὶ
πολλῆς χάριτος ὅλον μεστόν. Maraval, 1985, 186 argues that ascetics are treated as relics but,
as we have seen, it is relics who are being treated in this period as living persons.
26 On the principle of ‘holy contagion’, see above, p. 89 n. 71.
27 E.g., h. mon.: Paphnutius 4 (Festugière [ed.], 1961, 102–103); Steph. H.M., p.a. 19 (T. Kuhn
[ed.], A Panegyric on Apollo, Archimandrite of the Monastery of Isaac, by Stephen, Bishop
of Heracleopolis Magna. Copt. 40, CSCO 395, Leuven 1978, 35); Thdt., h.r. 21.9 (Canivet /
Leroy-Molinghen [eds.], 1979, 78).
28 See, e.g., Thdt., h.r. 3.9 (Canivet / Leroy-Molinghen [eds.], 1977, 264) and 21.6 (96); Vikan,
1984, 67–74; Frankfurter, 2018.
29 Thdt., h.r. 21.4 (Canivet / Leroy-Molinghen [eds.], 1977, 74); h. mon.: Paphnutius 4
(Festugière [ed.], 1961, 102–103); G. Vikan, Early Byzantine Pilgrimage ‘Devotionalia’ as
Evidence of the Appearance of Pilgrimage Shrines, in: E. Dassmann / J. Engemann (eds.),
Akten des XII. Internationalen Kongresses für Christliche Archäologie. Bonn 22.–28.
September 1991, Vatican City 1995, 77–88; id., Early Byzantine Pilgrimage Art, Washington
²2010; C. Hahn, Loca Sancta Souvenirs: Sealing the Pilgrim’s Experience, in: Ousterhout
Stylites 167

setting ‘visiting hours’ during which they saw, listened, and touched pilgrims,
and by preparing objects to distribute.30
Desert pilgrimage thus attests to the same mindset observable earlier in
the treatment of the bodies of Jesus and of confessors. In all these instances,
the desire to touch or have an object touched by the person was rooted in the
belief that, as in the interaction between Jesus and the woman with the blood
loss, the divine power indwelling the person’s body permeated their flesh and
its immediate material context. Like the hem of Jesus’ garment, Paul’s aprons,
or Peter’s shadow, the bodies and objects of desert ascetics were imbued with
the divine and imparted healing power. A seventh-century mosaic from the
church of Saint Demetrius in Thessaloniki illustrates this function of the
saints’ bodies. Known to us from a watercolour, the scene showed Demetrius
in front of the hexagonal silver chamber dedicated to him inside the church.31
(see Fig. 43) Seated, the saint touched with one hand a child presented to
him by a woman, while his other one reached upward, toward an oculus from
which Christ leaned forward to touch the saint’s hand. Thus, like Neoplatonic
theurgists, the saint was a “spiritual and somatic amphibian” who bridged the
human and the divine, allowing divine power to flow into the world.32
Stylites were, by definition, untouchable, with only their caretakers and
a select few (typically other ascetics, members of the clergy, and emperors)
being allowed to climb the ladders that led up to them.33 Nevertheless, the
texts and artefacts documenting their cult attest to the ingenious solutions
utilised to circumvent the problems posed by their untouchability. Symeon
the Elder had pilgrims ingest maggots falling out of his wounds.34 Relevant
for its Eucharistic overtones and for its confirmation of the principle of ‘holy

(ed.), 1990, 85–95; C. Rapp, Saints and Holy Men, in: A. Casiday / F.W. Norris (eds.), The
Cambridge History of Christianity. Vol. 2 Constantine to c. 600, Cambridge 2007, 548–566.
30 Cf. Schachner, 2010, 340 n. 37. For stylites, see Delehaye, 1923, cxliv–clxxvi.
31 On the mosaic, see R. Cormack, The Mosaic Decoration of S. Demetrios, Thessaloniki: A
Re-examination in the Light of the Drawings of W.S. George, in: Annu. Br. Sch. Athens 64
(1969), 17–52; C. Bakirtzis / E. Kourkoutidou-Nikolaidou / C. Mavropoulou-Tsioumi,
Mosaics of Thessaloniki: 4th–14th century, Athens 2012, 143–178.
32 Quote on theurgists from G. Shaw, Theurgy: The Language of the Embodied Soul: A Study of
the Work of Iamblichus of Chalcis, PhD diss., Santa Barbara 1987, 117.
33 On accessibility, see H. Hunter-Crawley, Divinity Refracted: Extended Agency and the
Cult of Symeon Stylites the Elder, in: V. Gasparini et al. (eds.), Lived Religion in the Ancient
Mediterranean World, Berlin 2020, 261–286 (264–265).
34 Anton. Hag., v. Sym. Styl. 18 (H. Lietzmann [ed.], Das Leben des heiligen Symeon Stylites,
Leipzig 1908).
168 Chapter 6

Figure 43 Watercolour of lost mosaic showing devotee present small girl to St Demetrius.
North inner aisle, Church of Saint Demetrius, Thessaloniki, 7th century.
(British School at Athens, with kind permission)

contagion,’ the gesture did not offer a suitable solution for the mass of pil-
grims.35 More effective was the identification of the soil around the stylites’
columns as carrying their power. This strategy is ascribed by biographers to the

35 Several elements from the stylites’ lives were cast in Eucharistic terms, possibly to equate
meeting the stylite with the Eucharistic liturgy and thus maintain the stylites’ indepen-
dence from bishops. See S.A. Harvey, The Stylite’s Liturgy: Ritual and Religious Identity in
Late Antiquity, in: JECS 6 (1998), 523–539 (530–533); Pentcheva, 2010, 28–36.
Stylites 169

stylites themselves, who invited pilgrims to use the dust to be healed: “In the
name of our Lord Jesus Christ, take some of the dust in front of you and rub it
all over your body.”36
The dust around the column enacted the same effect people expected of
the ascetics’ bodies, namely healing. At some point, members of communities
that formed around stylites began to produce tokens out of the dust mixed
with oil.37 Stamped with a depiction of the stylite on one side and carrying
the imprint of the producer’s palm on the other, such eulogia (Greek: bless-
ings) freed the stylite’s power from the bounds of place.38 (see Fig. 44) The
divine power that stylites attracted through their askesis imbued their bodies
and, through the column, was channelled into the soil from which the tokens
were made. The combined power of the image imprinted on the token and the
matter consecrated through direct contact with their bodies proved extremely
effective, with stylites successfully industrialising iconicity through their eulo-
gia: “… take this eulogia made of my dust, depart, and when you look at the
imprint of our image, it is us that you will see.”39

36 Syriac Life (of Symeon the Elder) 89 (P. Bedjan [ed.], Acta Martyrum et Sanctorum: Tomus
Quartius. Vol. 4.7, Leipzig 1894; Doran [trans.], 1992, 168) .‫ ܘܫܘܦ ܒܟܠܗ ܦܓܪܟ‬: ‫ܩܕܡܝܟ‬
‫ܗܘ ܥܦܪܐ ܕܐܝܬ‬ ̇ ‫ ܒܫܡܗ ܕܡܪܢ ܝܫܘܥ ܡܫܝܚܐ ܣܒ ܡܢ‬cf. also 38 and 51.
37 These were made of local dust, terracotta and, at times, wax cf. J.-P. Sodini, Qal’at Sem’an.
Ein Wallfahrtszentrum, in: E.M. Ruprechtsberger (ed.), Syrien. Von den Aposteln zu den
Kalifen, Linz 1993, 128–143 (141). C.R. Sweeney, Holy Images and Holy Matter: Images
in the Performance of Miracles in the Age before Iconoclasm, in: JECS 26 (2018), 111–138
(121–122) places the process after Theodoret wrote his chronicle, thus after 440. M. Ritter,
Do ut des: The Function of Eulogiai in the Byzantine Pilgrimage Economy, in: A. Collar /
T.M. Kristensen (eds.), Pilgrimage and Economy in the Ancient Mediterranean, RGMW 192,
Leiden 2020, 254–284 (266–274) points out that blessed soil was being sent to heal people
off site already during the fifth century and that stylite tokens were simultaneously the
eulogia and the container.
38 On eulogia and stylite tokens, see Vikan, 1984; id., 2010; D. Caner, Towards a Miraculous
Economy: Christian Gifts and Material ‘Blessings’ in Late Antiquity, in: JECS 14 (2006),
329–377; Miller, The Corporeal, 2009; Pentcheva, 2010, 18–44; Hunter-Crawley, 2020;
Ritter, 2020. On tokens multiplying the presence of the stylite, see P.C. Miller, 1997 NAPS
Presidential Address: ‘Differential Networks’: Relics and Other Fragments of Late Antiquity,
in: JECS 6 (1998), 113–138; ead., The Corporeal, 2009, 128–129; ead., Subtle Embodiments:
Imagining the Holy in Late Antiquity, in: C. Boesel / C. Keller (eds.), Apophatic Bodies:
Negative Theology, Incarnation, and Relationality, New York 2022, 45–58 (56); G. Vikan,
Sacred Images and Sacred Power in Byzantium, Aldershot 2003. On palm imprints, see
Vikan, 2010, 56; S. Steiner, Tokens Touched and Touching, in: G. Peers (ed.), Byzantine
Things in the World, New Haven 2013, 109–114 (109).
39 Life of Simeon the Younger 231 (P.V. den Ven [ed.], La vie ancienne de S. Syméon Stylite le
Jeune (521–592). Vol. 1, Bruxelles 1962, 6) Λαβὼν οὖν τῆς κόνεώς μου τὴν εὐλογίαν, ἀπότρεχε
καὶ ἐν τῇ σφραγῖδι τοῦ τύπου ἡμῶν βλέπων ἐκεῖνο βλέπεις ἡμᾶς. cf. also 116 and 163. Sweeney,
2018, 121–122 spoke of an industrialisation of contact relics when referring to stylite
tokens.
170 Chapter 6

Figure 44
Pilgrim token with the image of Symeon
Stylites the Elder. Angels carrying crowns
flank the saint. The Baptism of Jesus and
the Adoration of the Magi are shown
below. Red clay, 6th century, from Qal’at
Sem’an, Syria. Walters Art Museum,
Baltimore (inv. no. 48.1939)

The principle underlying the objects’ power was the one we discussed above,
which saw holy individuals capable of ‘contaminating’ their material setting:
“the holy man is altogether holy, including his body. For if he has received the
bread, he will make it holy, or the cup or anything else that he receives, purify-
ing them.”40 The idea was widespread among Christians and lay at the grounds
for the cult of relics. We find none other than the archbishop of Constantinople,
John Chrysostom supporting it:

So great even is the power of the ashes of the saints that it doesn’t just sit inside
the remains, but extends beyond them and repels the unclean powers and abun-
dantly sanctifies those who approach with faith. The grace of the Spirit that
accompanies these bones and dwells with the saints both extends towards oth-
ers who follow it with faith and flows from mind into body, and from body into
clothing, and from clothing into shoes, and from shoes into a person’s shadow.
That’s precisely why it infused not just the bodies of the holy apostles, but also
their kerchiefs and aprons. Indeed, it wasn’t only their kerchiefs and aprons
but Peter’s shadows also that performed deeds more powerful than those of
any living things (cf. Acts 5:15). Even before then, it seems, a sheepskin placed
over Elisha’s body brought upon him a twofold blessing. It wasn’t just Elisha’s
body, but the piece of clothing too that became filled with grace (cf. 1 Kgs 19:19;
2 Kgs 2:13–14). Precisely the same phenomenon occurred with the three boys. It
wasn’t only their bodies that the character of the flame respected, but even their

40 Ev. Phil. 108 (Till [ed.], 2011, 22; Schenke [trans.], 2003, 201), Coptic text quoted above,
p. 89 n. 73. For a critique of this ‘contamination’ model, see Hunter-Crawley, 2020.
Nevertheless, since the case of Jesus and the woman with the blood loss established also
unintentional transmission, the concept of ‘contagion’ (or ‘limited contagion’, since the
persons who came into contact with the living saint or the object were healed, but unable
to transmit the power further), best defines the phenomenon.
Stylites 171

shoes (cf. Dan 3:27). And in the case of Elisha [scil. the grace] didn’t even [scil.
diminish] when he was dead.41

Chrysostom thus confirms that the power was first credited to the living body,
and it extended from it to various types of consecrated matter. Just how popu-
lar the notion of holy contagion was among Christians of the time is indicated
by his attempts to set limits to it. Indeed, Chrysostom had to return to the topic
and remind his audience that contact with the martyr did not consecrate the
torturer’s hand, neither the gospel book consecrates the heretic.
Eulogia thus combined the belief in the holy persons’ capacity to transfer
their power to objects with that in the possibility to multiply one’s presence
through artefacts that bore their image. The latter was a well-established prac-
tice in the late antique Mediterranean, where statues set in towns across the
empire functioned as surrogates for the living emperor’s presence.42 The sim-
ple iconographic formulas decorating stylite tokens both reflected and estab-
lished the ways in which stylites were perceived. By showing stylites morphed
with their columns, the tokens reproduced the ways in which the ascetics
appeared to their visitors and confirmed the sanctity of the soil from which the
tokens were made by documenting its contact with the column. The images
also promoted stylites as a point of contact between the human and the divine
by showing their upper half flanked by angels and their lower, stone part sur-
rounded by people. Thus, like Demetrius in the depiction discussed above and

41 Chrys., hom. I 1 (Migne [ed.], 1862, coll. 469; Mayer / Allen [trans.], 2000, 87) Διά τοι τοῦτο
καὶ ἡ φιλόχριστος αὕτη παρείπετο τοῖς λειψάνοις, συνεχῶς ἐφαπτομένη, καὶ τὴν εὐλογίαν ἐπι-
σπωμένη, καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις πᾶσι διδάσκαλος γινομένη τῆς καλῆς ταύτης καὶ πνευματικῆς ἐμπο-
ρίας, καὶ διδάσκουσα πάντας ἀρύεσθαι ἀπὸ τῆς πηγῆς ταύτης τῆς ἀεὶ μὲν ἀντλουμένης, οὐδέποτε
δὲ κενουμένης. Καθάπερ γὰρ τὰ νάματα τῶν πηγῶν βρύοντα, οὐκ εἴσω τῶν οἰκείων κόλπων κατέ-
χεται, γῶν βρύοντα, οὐκ εἴσω τῶν οἰκείων κόλπων κατέχεται, ἀλλ’ ὑπερβλύζει καὶ ὑπερχεῖται·
οὕτω δὴ καὶ ἡ τοῦ Πνεύματος χάρις ἡ τοῖς ὀστέοις παρακαθημένη καὶ τοῖς ἁγίοις συνοικοῦσα, καὶ
εἰς ἑτέρους πρόεισι τοὺς μετὰ πίστεως ἐφεπομένους αὐτῇ, καὶ ἀπὸ ψυχῆς εἰς σώματα, καὶ ἀπὸ
σωμάτων εἰς ἱμάτια, καὶ ἀπὸ ἱματίων εἰς ὑποδήματα, καὶ ἀπὸ ὑποδημάτων εἰς σκιὰς ἐκτρέχει.
Διά τοι τοῦτο οὐ τὰ σώματα ἐνήργει μόνον τῶν ἁγίων ἀποστόλων, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ σουδάρια καὶ τὰ
σιμικίνθια· καὶ οὐ τὰ σουδάρια μόνον καὶ τὰ σιμικίνθια, ἀλλὰ καὶ αἱ σκιαὶ τοῦ Πέτρου τῶν ζώντων
δυνατώτερα εἰργάζοντο. Ἤδη που καὶ μηλωτὴ κατενεχθεῖσα ἐπὶ τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἑλισσαίου διπλοῦν
αὐτῷ χάρισμα κατήγαγεν· οὐ γὰρ τὸ σῶμα Ἑλισσαίου μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ ἱμάτιον ἐκεῖνο τῆς
χάριτος ἦν ἐμπεπλησμένον. Διά τοι τοῦτο καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν τριῶν παίδων· οὐ γὰρ τὰ σώματα αὐτῶν
ᾐδέσθη μόνον τῆς φλογὸς ἡ φύσις, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὰ τὰ ὑποδήματα· καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ Ἑλισσαίου οὐδὲ
τελευτήσαντος, οὕτως ἐλύετο θάνατος, εἰς τάφον τοῦ προφήτου ῥιφέντος ἑτέρου νεκροῦ.
42 On imperial portraits multiplying the physical presence of the ruler, see Sever. (d. ca.
410), creat. 6.5 (J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 56, Paris
1862, coll. 489); M. Kahlos, The Emperor’s New Images – How to Honour the Emperor in
the Christian Empire?, in: ead. (ed.), Emperors and the Divine – Rome and its Influence,
Helsinki, 2016, 119–138.
172 Chapter 6

a bishop mentioned by Augustine of Hippo, who held a flower while carrying

relics, with the result that the flower was imbued with the relics’ capacity to
work miracles, the stylites’ bodies mediated between the human and divine.43
Apart from eulogia, stylites and other desert ascetics also bequeathed their
power to relics. As in the case of Polycarp of Smyrna and the North African
confessors we discussed in Chapter 3, the corporeal remains of ascetics were
treated in the same way their living bodies had been. Thus, the desire to touch
and own parts of the ascetics’ living bodies (or objects that came into con-
tact with them) continues to manifest after their deaths with their remains.
Stylite relics were hotly disputed and were typically buried in the vicinity of
their columns.44 In this way, their remains continued to consecrate the tokens
produced at the site.
The columns, too, inherited the stylites’ power and gained the capacity to
replace their living bodies. As it’s been often pointed out, Symeon the Elder’s
column attracted more people than his corporeal remains did, which had been
transported to Antioch and later to Constantinople.45 This success could be
related to how the cultic complex at Qal’at Sem’an allowed visitors to interact
with Symeon’s power.46 The massive cultic complex built around the column
after the saint’s death allowed pilgrims to touch the column, obtain tokens
made of local dust, get holy water, be baptised, and take part in the Eucharistic
liturgy. The power of the sanctuary emanated from the column at the centre,
which had become part of Symeon’s body through the forty-seven years he had
spent on it.
As the setting for the archetypal stylite, Qal’at Sem’an was exceptional.
Nevertheless, stylite columns gained a life of their own in other instances, too.
Typically, this manifested when a column imposed the presence of a stylite.
Upon Abraham’s death, in the early sixth century, his brother, Maro, climbed
the column despite his own reluctance, so that his brother’s place would not

43 Aug., c.d. 22.8.10 (E. Hoffmann [ed.], Augustinus, De civitate dei (pars 2: lib. 14–22),
CSEL 40, Vienna 1900; 604–505). On Symeon the Elder bridging the human and divine,
see Evagr., h.e. 1.13 (J. Bidez / L. Parmentier [eds.], Évagre le Scholastique, Histoire ecclési-
astique. Livres I–III, SC 542, Paris 2011, 158–170).
44 Eastmond, 1999; Schachner, 2010, 358.
45 Eastmond, 1999, 94.
46 On Qal’at Sem’an, see J.-P. Sodini / J.-L. Biscop, Qal’at Sem’an et Deir Sem’an: Naissance
et dévelopment d’un lieu de pèlerinage durant l’Antiquité tardive, in: J.-M. Spieser (ed.),
Architecture paléochrétienne, Paris 2011, 11–59; H. Hunter-Crawley, Movement as Sacred
Mimesis at Abu Mena and Qal’at Sim’an, in: T.M. Kristensen / W. Friese (eds.), Excavating
Pilgrimage: Archaeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient
Mediterranean and Near East, London 2017, 187–202.
Stylites 173

be left vacant.47 Several centuries later, at Jbeil in Lebanon, a chapel was built
around a four-meter stylite column.48 Like stylite representations, where the
column was often used to symbolise the saint, the stone column replaced the
living stylite.
It is not surprising that the transfer of the living person’s power to the mate-
rial setting is clearest around stylites given the degree of reification brought
about by their immobility, lithic-like endurance, and systematic assimilation
to statuary. In the context of a growing belief that “the sensible world, includ-
ing human sense-perception, the body, and objects in the material realm,
could be viewed not as distractions but as theophanic vehicles,” the iconicity
of living persons could now be shared with artefacts.49 The process marks a
shift in the relationship between the human and divine spheres, similar to the
one taking place in the Archaic period, when cult statues had been recognised
as potential containers and images of the divine. As noted previously, the late
antique artefacts that took up these functions were directly dependent on liv-
ing persons, whose power they inherited. Relics, eulogia, and icons reproduced
the living person’s iconicity, thus multiplying it while they were alive and pre-
serving it after their death.
The process lacks clear temporal margins because the iconicity of liv-
ing beings survived this transfer back to matter. As pointed out by Bissera
Pentcheva, the concept of embodied iconicity resurfaces in the midst of the
iconoclastic dispute in the writings of Pseudo-Leontios of Neapolis (8th ct.),
who argued that the “image of God is the human being who has transformed
himself according to the image of God and especially the one who has received
the dwelling of the Holy Spirit.”50 In addition, Katherine Marsengill showed
that during the following centuries, the bodies of religious overachievers con-
tinued to be analysed in search of indications of divine presence, with the dif-
ference that their referent had become the icon rather than the cult statue.51
Icons appeared in the same period as stylite tokens and shared important

47 Joh. Eph. (ca. 507–ca. 588), v.s. 4 (E.W. Brooks [ed.], John of Ephesus: Lives of the Eastern
Saints [I], PO 17.1, Paris 1923, 59–60).
48 See V. Menze, The Transformation of a Saintly Paradigm: Simeon the Elder and the Legacy
of Stylitism, in: M. Blömer / A. Lichtenberger / R. Raja (eds.), Religious Identities in the
Levant from Alexander to Muhammed: Continuity and Change, Turnhout 2015, 213–226
(219–220).
49 Quote from Miller, The Corporeal, 2009, 41.
50 Leont., c.J. 117–118 (V. Déroche [ed.], L’Apologie contre les Juifs de Léontios de Néapolis, in:
TMCB 12 (1994), 61–63.65–71.79–84 [69]; trans. Pentcheva, 2014, 124) Εἰκὼν τοίνυν τοῦ
Θεοῦ ἐστιν ὁ κατ’ εἰκόνα Θεοῦ γεγονὼς ἄνθρωπος, καὶ μάλιστα ἐκ Πνεύματος ἁγίου ἐνοίκησιν
δεξάμενος.
51 Marsengill, 2013; ead., 2018, 87–103.
174 Chapter 6

similarities with them. As such, they help us understand the context in which
the artefacts consecrated by iconic persons came to gain precedence over
them during the sixth and seventh centuries.

6.3 Preserving the Iconic Body: Icons

The origin, initial functions, and even period when icons appeared are still
debated.52 It is likely that icons began as a popular practice during the fourth
and fifth centuries, when texts began mentioning such panels, and contin-
ued to develop in private settings, where they would have fulfilled functions
similar to those of the statuettes of the gods in the lararia of Roman homes.
Over time, they would have made their way into churches and other shrines,
brought as ex votos by people.53 The panels painted with images of Jesus, Mary,

52 Literature on icons is too large to reproduce here. Key studies on early icons include
E. Kitzinger, The Cult of Images in the Age before Iconoclasm, in: DOP 8 (1954), 94–100;
A. Cameron, The Language of Images: The Rise of Icons and Christian Representation, in:
The Church and Byzantion 41 (1971), 205–267; ead., Images of Authority: Elites and Icons
in Late Sixth-century Byzantium, in: PaP 84 (1979), 3–35; K. Weitzmann, The Monastery
of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai. Vol. 1: The Icons. From the Sixth to the Tenth Century,
Princeton 1976; R. Cormack, Painting the Soul: Icons, Death Masks, and Shrouds,
London 1997; Belting, 1990; L. Brubaker, Icons before Iconoclasm, in: A. Cameron (ed.),
Morfologie sociali e culturali in Europa fra tarda antichità e alto medioevo, Spoleto 1998,
1215–1254; J. Elsner, The Origins of the Icon: Pilgrimage, Religion and Visual Culture in the
Roman East as ‘Resistance’ to the Centre, in: S.E. Alcock (ed.), The Early Roman Empire
in the East, Oxford 1997, 178–199; M. Andaloro, Dal ritratto all’icona, in: M. Andaloro /
S. Romano (eds.), Arte e iconografia a Roma da Costantino a Cola di Rienzo, Milan 2000,
31–67; D. Krueger, Christian Piety and Practice in the Sixth Century, in: M. Maas (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, Cambridge 2005, 291–315; Pentcheva, 2010;
Marsengill, 2013; T.F. Mathews / N.E. Muller, The Dawn of Christian Art in Panel Paintings
and Icons, Los Angeles 2016. P. Speck, Wunderheilige und Bilder: Zur Frage des Beginns
der Bilderverehrung, in: W. Brandes / S. Kotzabassi / C. Ludwig / P. Speck (eds.), Varia III,
Bonn 1991, 163–247 and Brubaker / Haldon, 2011 contested the sixth-century origin of the
phenomenon and proposed a late seventh century date, while other scholars pointed out
that textual references to icons appear already in the fourth century.
53 See Iren., haer. 1.25.6 (A. Rousseau / L. Doutreleau [eds.], Irénée de Lyon, Contre les héré-
sies, Livre I, tome II: Texte et traduction, SC 264, Paris 2008, 342–344); Eus., ep. Constant.
(J.-P. Migne [ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Graeca. Vol. 20, Paris 1857, coll.
1545) and h.e. 7.18 (G. Bardy [ed.], Eusèbe de Césarée, Histoire ecclésiastique. Tome II.
Livres V–VII, SC 41, Paris 1955, 192–193); Chrys., Melet. 1 (Caillau [ed.], 1842, 305); Mir.
Cosm. Dam. 15 (L. Deubner [ed.], Miracula Cosmae et Damiani, Leipzig 1907, 137–138);
K. Bowes, Christian Images in the Home, in: AT 19 (2011), 171–190; B. Brenk, Apses, Icons and
‘Image Propaganda’ before Iconoclasm, in: AT 19 (2011), 109–130. On the use of icons in the
private sphere before becoming official cult-objects of the Church, see P. Schreiner, Der
byzantinische Bilderstreit: Kritische Analyse der zeitgenössischen Meinungen und das Urteil
Stylites 175

and other persons said to have had a privileged relationship with the divine
were produced using the same techniques the Romans used for portraits of
their gods, deceased family members, absent friends, and exemplary figures.54
(see Fig. 45) The medium thus enmeshed icons in a web of connotations that
scholars sought to elucidate. In addition, the way in which icons functioned,
that is, as material surrogates for a person’s presence, likened them to imperial
images. Finally, icons spread among followers of Christ in parallel with stylite
tokens and eulogia produced at various sites in the Holy Land and at the heal-
ing shrines of Menas, Thekla, and other martyrs. As a result, an icon could have
been understood in relation to none, one, several, or all these contemporary
phenomena, depending on the person interacting with it.
Such symbolic potentialities were grafted on the icon’s main function,
namely to substitute the presence of the depicted person.55 The material and
iconographic features of some of the earliest icons point to a similar role as
stylite eulogia. In the case of eulogia, the tokens’ materiality reproduced the
ascetics’ desiccated bodies while the soil’s colour referenced their sunburnt
flesh. In the case of icons, physiognomic conventions (eikonismos) showed the
saints’ virtues, emaciated bodies were used to indicate their ascetic lifestyle,
and haloes represented the luminosity often ascribed to them.56 Although dif-
ferent means were used, both eulogia and icons strove to offer a surrogate for
the presence of the living body.57 In both cases, the artefacts reproduced those
elements that had been transformed by the indwelling presence of the divine,

der Nachwelt bis heute, in: Bisanzio, Roma e l’Italia nell’alto medioevo, Spoleto 1988, vol. 1,
319–407.
54 On painted panels of other gods, see Mathews / Muller, 2016; R. Sörries, Das Malibu-
Triptychon: Ein Totengedenkbild aus dem römischen Ägypten und verwandte Werke der
spätantiken Tafelmalerei, Dettelbach 2003; on funerary portraiture, see T.K. Thomas,
Late Antique Egyptian Funerary Sculpture: Images for this World and the Next, Princeton
2000; on domestic portraiture, see Marsengill, 2013; ead., 2018; on honorary and domes-
tic portraiture, see Sande, 1993; ead., Pagan Pinakes and Christian Icons: Continuity or
Parallelism?, in: AAAHP 4 (2004/2005), 81–100.
55 On the icons’ relationship with their models, see G.B. Ladner, The Concept of the Image
in the Greek Fathers and the Byzantine Iconoclastic Controversy, in: DOP 7 (1953), 1–34;
A. Cameron, The Language of Images: The Rise of Icons and Christian Representation, in:
SCH 28 (1992), 1–42; M.-J. Mondzain, Image, Icon, Economy: The Byzantine Origins of the
Contemporary Imaginary, Stanford 2005.
56 On eikonismos and individuality in icons, see Kitzinger, 1954, 150; G. Dagron, Holy Images
and Likeness, in: DOP 45 (1991), 23–33; id., Decrire et peindre: Essai sur le portrait iconique,
Paris 2007. On physiognomic conventions being used to indicate holiness in other types
of late antique Christian portraiture, see C. Croci, In Search of a Divine Face: Physiognomy
and the Representation of Sanctity in Christian Art, in: Bacci / Ivanovici (eds.), 2019, online.
57 As in the case of relics, icons came to be credited with the functions formerly performed
by living persons. See Leont., c.J. 82–84 (Déroche [ed.], 1994, 68) on relics and icons per-
forming exorcisms.
176 Chapter 6

Figure 45 Portrait of a bearded man. Tempera on wood, 36 × 37.5 × 3 cm, 1st century, Egypt.
The J. Paul Getty Museum (inv. no. 74.AP.20) (Photo: Digital image courtesy of
Getty’s Open Content Program)

that is, the stone-like materiality of the stylite and the spiritualised body and
luminosity of the painted person. Elements indicating individuality were
instead reduced.58 As a result, the person holding the token or gazing at the
icon could encounter the iconic body. (see Fig. 46)

58 Frank, 2000, 164 related the reduction of individuality discernible in hagiographic writ-
ings to that present in icons and noted that in both cases “Individuality is approximated
but never fully achieved.”
Stylites 177

Figure 46 Painted panel with a saint/martyr called Victor. Encaustic(?) on wood,

possibly 6th century. (Photo: su concessione del Museo Archeologico
Nazionale di Firenze, Direzione regionale Musei della Toscana)

Because the early icons seem to distil and reproduce the very elements that
made the living person interesting to seek out, they tend to replace the liv-
ing person, rather than serve as remembrance of them. Like Symeon’s tokens,
the icons fulfilled the same functions as the living saint. Thus, while the
Iconoclastic clash of the eighth century had theologians stress the ‘absence’
178 Chapter 6

and point out how the icon differed from its model, pre-iconoclastic images
strove to replace living bodies, as it emerges from their features.59
That icons functioned as surrogates for living persons is confirmed by their
use for living bishops and rulers in official contexts.60 Unfortunately, we do not
have a lot of information on the practice, which involved setting painted por-
traits of bishops in churches and sending portraits of the emperor and empress
to cities around the empire upon their accession to the throne.61 Given that the
arrival of the imperial portraits was staged like an adventus, with the respective
communities addressing them as they would have done the living rulers, they
substituted the rulers’ living bodies in the manner of imperial statues.62
Like the famous portraits from the Fayoum, but unlike most panels with
images of the gods with which these early icons were compared, the persons on
the earliest extant icons had a direct, piercing gaze that established the panel
as a person, rather than a representation.63 (see Figs. 45 & 46) The forward gaze
sought out the onlooker’s, inviting interaction; an effect that was strengthened
in icons with nearly life-size dimensions.64 In addition, the icons’ materiality
completed their likeness to living persons. The use of bright colours, contrasts,
and gold foil that interacted with moving natural and artificial light, conferred
an animated quality to the panels. Finally, in several cases, architectural frames
were depicted around the saints to emphasise their corporeality. While their
depiction as hieratic and static attested to their spiritual and ascetic lives,
these frames showed that they occupied a real space. Thus, rather than a pas-
sive portrait, the icon strove for the agency of a living person, with it seeking

59 On the concept of holy image in Byzantium, see, e.g., C. Barber, Figure and Likeness: On
the Limits of Representation in Byzantine Iconoclasm, Princeton 2002.
60 The icon held to show Bishop Abraham of Hermonthis (ca. 595–ca. 621), now in the
Skulpturensammlung und Museum für Byzantinische Kunst, Berlin, is dated to 590–600,
when he was still alive; Belting, 1990, 107–110. In addition, throughout the sixth century,
living bishops had themselves represented in the churches they commissioned, as we
have seen in Chapter 5.
61 On imperial icons, see Gr. Mag., r.e. Appendix 8.10–15 (D. Norberg [ed.], S. Gregorii Magni
Registrum epistularum, CCSL 140–140A, Turnhout 1982, 1101); Jo. H., v.G.M. 4.20 (J.-P. Migne
[ed.], Patrologiae cursus completus. Series Latina. Vol. 75, Paris 1862, coll. 185); Lavan, 2020,
155–156.
62 A sixth-century manuscript illumination shows the Philistine city Gerar using cities of
the time as a model (Vienna Genesis, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, cod. theol. gr.
31, fol. 16). A canvas portrait of the ruler hangs above the city’s main gate, attesting to a
change in preference from other media to painted portraits to represent rulers in official
contexts.
63 See the panels of the gods discussed in Mathews / Muller, 2016.
64 The Sinai icon of Christ is 84 x 45 cm, the Sinai icon of Peter is 92.8 x 53.1, and the Kiev icon
of John the Baptist is 46.8 x 51.1 cm cf. Weitzmann, 1976, 13–15.18–21.23–26, respectively.
Stylites 179

out the onlooker’s gaze and establishing its agency through materiality, chro-
matic, and iconographic features.
Typically showing persons who had been dead for centuries, the early icons
appear as a mechanism used to flesh out their presence. As we have seen, the
notion of ‘holy contagion’ allowed the transferring of living people’s power to
matter that came into contact with them. Believers thus could interact with
living but physically absent holy people. Such material surrogates of living
persons accustomed people to relate to holy figures through artefacts, thus
opening the way to multiplying their presence. As a result, those who could
not travel to Syria or Egypt to see the ascetic could still engage in a close rela-
tionship with them through the eulogia brought by another.65 Once the prin-
ciple was established, there was no reason to restrict it to persons currently on
Earth. Held to be alive in heaven, the saints could be substantiated through
artefacts carrying their images.
Thus, icons could function simultaneously in the manner of portraits that
preserved the features of a departed friend, of imperial images inviting rever-
ence and establishing the iconicity of their subject; of cult images that allowed
one to see and interact with the divine; and of portraits of exemplary figures
who reminded onlookers the right way of living. The precise combination of
connotations was ‘in the eye of the beholder’ and ultimately unavailable to us,
who are left with identifying its semantic potentialities. What is common to
all these media is their substitution of the absent person through the artefact.
It has been argued that through the combined effect of their substance,
materiality, and imagery, stylite tokens and ampullae with eulogia from other
holy sites enabled a surrogate pilgrimage to their place of origin.66 If a stylite’s
token allowed one to find themselves in front of Symeon’s column, the icon
allowed believers to be in the presence of the depicted person.67 Since several
early icons were made to be carried on one’s person, like the eulogia, Christians
could now interact with the divine in any moment and location.68 Thus, while

65 Life of Simeon the Younger 163 (Den Ven [ed.], 1962, 145) on stylite tokens being given to the
poor and ill who could not travel. P. Brown, A Dark-Age Crisis: Aspects of the Iconoclastic
Controversy, in: EHR 88 (1973), 1–34 (13) argued that “The icon merely filled a gap left by
the physical absence of the holy man.”
66 H. Hunter-Crawley, Pilgrimage Made Portable: A Sensory Archaeology of the Monza-Bobbio
Ampullae, in: JHRMC 1 (2012), 135–156.
67 Sweeney, 2018 proposed that during the sixth and seventh centuries, images came to be
credited with powers like those of relics, which transformed them into icons. The process
he sketches brings the portraits closer to the effect of living persons, thus supporting my
interpretation.
68 On early icons being small in order to be carried on the person, see Brenk, 2011, 114.
180 Chapter 6

eulogia liberated iconic presence from the bounds of place, icons marked a
step further in the process by transcending place and time.
In the icon, the person could see the divine in a perfected human form, wit-
ness a glimpse of the divine light, and ask for help. All these were functions for-
merly held by cult statues. Similarities to cult statues do not end here. Like the
gods and their statues, the Christian saints and their icons tended to become
specialised in the solving of specific problems. Like statues, icons allowed
saints to manifest simultaneously in multiple locations and were believed to
reproduce the features of their models in various degrees of similitude. Finally,
like cult statues, icons depicting the same person had various levels of power,
depending on the workmanship, richness, and the human or divine origin of
the artefact. It was, I believe, the prominence of iconic persons in fifth- and
sixth-century culture that made icons acceptable to many Christians, despite
such striking similarities with cult statues. The embodying of these functions
by living emperors, bishops, and ascetics allowed their transfer to relics, eulo-
gia, and icons. Nevertheless, the image crisis of the following century showed
that the process was not uncontested and, as Pseudo-Leontios of Neapolis
(8th ct.) attests, some still considered that the “image of God is the human
being who has transformed himself according to the image of God and espe-
cially the one who has received the dwelling of the Holy Spirit.”69

6.4 Conclusions

Stylites combined the iconic dimension of ascetics – gained through their imi-
tation of Adam’s life in Eden before the Fall and through a martyr-like resil-
ience through sufferings – with a setting that referenced imperial iconicity.
This capacity to simultaneously reference distinct models of iconic living made
them into potent expressions of the anthropological model whose emergence
and evolution we have been following in this book. In addition, the cruciform
posture stylites often adopted made them into performative images of Jesus
on the cross.70 The stylites’ integration into the clergy – often against their own
will – enriched them also with the clerics’ iconicity. Most importantly for our
analysis, stylites rendered explicit the principle underlying the phenomenon

69 Leont., c.J. 117–118 (Déroche [ed.], 1994, 69; trans. Pentcheva, 2014, 124), quoted above,
p. 173 n. 50. On Byzantine Iconoclasm, see Brubaker / Haldon, 2011; Dell’Acqua, 2020.
70 On the stylites’ cruciform posture, see the discussion in C.M. Stang, Digging Holes and
Building Pillars: Simeon Stylites and the ‘Geometry’ of Ascetic Practice, in: HTR 103 (2010),
447–470 (452–425).
Stylites 181

championed by iconic persons, namely that living people had taken up the
functions of cult statues.
The ways in which the stylites’ desiccated and sunburnt bodies were treated,
as well as multiplied through tokens provide a clear expression of the process
that saw matter credited with the qualities of iconic persons, a process we have
seen occurring also with imperial insignia, martyr relics, and episcopal cathe-
drae. With stylites, their eulogia, and the appearance of icons, we come full
circle in our study, which began with the conditions that made possible the
competition between living persons and cult statues for the status of image
and vessel of the divine, and then saw the affirmation of the iconic person as a
focus for Christian and other religious communities. As the figure of the iconic
person became naturalised in the fifth century, its power could be transferred
to artefacts.71 These objects then took centre stage and filled the space statues
had occupied in private devotion, thus stabilising personal communication
with the divine.

71 The transfer was never complete, I am referring to the paradigm that was predominant.
 Chapter 7

Conclusion

In the opening of his The Making of Late Antiquity, Peter Brown argues that
“the changes that came about in late antiquity can best be seen as a redistri-
bution and re-orchestration of components that had already existed for cen-
turies in the Mediterranean world.”1 This idea can be applied to the figure of
the iconic person. As we have seen, one’s body, deportment, and behaviour
had long been used to ascertain character. In addition, prophets and oracles
had functioned as living vessels of the divine, and the principle that allowed
humanity to claim divinity had been established as early as Homer’s time.
Finally, even iconicity had existed, with Hellenistic rulers who ‘played the god’
and persons of extraordinary physical beauty being credited with becoming
images of the divine in the manner of cult statues. In Late Antiquity, these
elements came together in a new combination that made iconicity a common
human potentiality and iconic persons the main way of seeing and interacting
with the divine.
One could become a vessel and image of the divine in various ways. Similarly,
the ways in which iconic status was communicated to others were shaped by
the person’s social status, religious affiliation, personal choices, as well as by
local customs. Within this diversity, the cult statue remained a constant ele-
ment, with it providing the main analogy for iconic persons. Spontaneous at
first, the association with statuary was later sought after and, as I have shown,
staged in increasingly complex ways that involved a transfer of settings, aes-
thetic, vocabulary, and gestures from statues to living people.
As argued in the Introduction, differences existing between the ways in
which the human capacity to function as an image and vessel of the divine
manifested have hindered recognition of their belonging to the same phenom-
enon. Thus, we have failed to understand the full effect of such iconic states,
by ignoring that they grew out of the common background we discussed in
Chapter 1 and that they developed in dialogue and competition with one
another. Nevertheless, the specificity of each type of iconic living must also be
recognised. More work is necessary to shed light on how the various expres-
sions complemented each other. For example, we know how the popularity of
desert ascetics influenced the self-presentation of late antique bishops, but it
remains to be ascertained what role the definition of rabbis and Neoplatonic

1 Brown, 1978, 8.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657790821_008

184 Chapter 7

practitioners as iconic played in shaping the figure of the bishop.2 In addition,

as it emerges from this book, the search for iconic status might have played an
important role in the popularity of Christianity, as the movement interweaved
several traditions that promised iconic status and was willing to design experi-
ences that conferred iconicity.
As we have seen, iconicity affected a person’s body differently. The emper-
ors’ iconicity did not seem to change the ontological status of their bodies.
The same was the case with baptisands, whose momentary physical transfor-
mation did not render their bodies vessels of the divine. Bishops engaged in
complex interactions with relics, gospel books, crosses, and the Eucharist to
render their bodies desirable in the same way those of martyrs and ascetics
were. The stars of the phenomenon were those who combined several sources
of iconic status, such as bishops or emperors who lived ascetically, or ascetics
who behaved like statues and sages.
A turning point in the phenomenon can be identified in the fourth cen-
tury, as Christians came to capture the iconicity of persons in artefacts. The
possibility to transfer the power of a living holy person or a shrine to relics or
eulogia not only made iconicity portable but it also made it ownable. Romans
were used to wearing amulets and having statuettes of the gods, but owning
martyr relics was similar to having a xoanon, a cult statue of divine origin. The
discovery of the True Cross (ca. 326), the removal of the apostles’ remains to
Constantinople (ca. 357), the discovery of Stephen’s relics (415) meant as many
waves of consecrated matter sweeping the Mediterranean world. In parallel,
large shrines were being established, which specialised in the cure of problems
and offered different types of consecrated objects. Menas’ ampullae, Thekla’s
soap, John’s manna, the stylites’ tokens, the dust from the places in Palestine,
and water from the Jordan travelled far and wide, disseminating the power of
living and dead persons. The icon was part of the same process, and its emer-
gence can be related to the practice of capturing an iconic person’s power in
objects.
The idea that the body of a human who enjoys a privileged relationship with
the divine functioned as a mirror on which others can see the divine was not
lost after the sixth century. The emperor and the archbishop of Constantinople
continued to embody the image of Christ; holy men and women continued

2 On the bodies of sages as holy and iconic in Rabbinic Judaism, see M. Bloom, Sacred
Ceremony and Magical Praxis in Jewish Texts of Early and Late Antiquity, PhD diss., Brunel
1999; C. Hezser, Rabbinic Body Language: Non-Verbal Communication in Palestinian Rabbinic
Literature of Late Antiquity, SJSJ 179, Leiden 2017. On the iconic functions of Neoplatonic phi-
losophers and theurgists, see G. Shaw, Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus,
Kettering 2014; id., Taking the Shape of the Gods, in: Aries 15 (2015), 136–169.
Conclusion 185

to be visited in the hope of seeing the divine in their transfigured bodies; and
bishops across the empire ‘performed’ Christ during the Eucharistic liturgy.
Nevertheless, the traumatic events of the seventh century – when the Roman
state was repeatedly on the brink of annihilation – brought about a loss in
confidence and change in self-perception. As shown by Derek Krueger, the
form and content of liturgies changed to ensure eastern Romans internalised
humble biblical models.3 As a result, for most persons, iconicity became a sta-
tus they could hope for in the afterlife, and which on earth was reserved to
religious overachievers.
For several centuries, iconicity functioned as a barometer of human-divine
relations. Thus, its study sheds light on this core aspect of ancient and medi-
eval societies, which shaped material and immaterial production. Recognition
of the prominence of this anthropological phenomenon in ancient and medi-
eval (i.e., Byzantine) Roman society invites us to reconsider how we analyse
the dynamic of social interaction, and to factor in that individuals were seek-
ing to be recognised as iconic, as well as how material culture was used to this
end. Emperor Constantine had the possibility to design a new capital as a sort
of monumental frame for his living person, with him reworking the plan of
Roman cities to put his living body at the centre and establish himself as iconic.
Others built palaces, churches, homes, or selected specific combinations of gar-
ments and jewellery pieces to this end. Often adapted from the mise-en-scène
of statuary, strategies that were used to construct one’s body as iconic invite
consideration of not only how statues were integrated in these performances,
but also of how belief in the iconicity of humans shaped inanimate representa-
tions of the divine. Going forward, art historians should consider the existence
of iconic persons as a category in-between cult statues and humans. Similarly,
social and ritual historians, sociologists, and anthropologists studying the peri-
od’s anthropological models, self-presentation strategies, and ritual and social
performances should reconsider the role of representations, since ontological
margins were blurred wherever iconic persons were present. Finally, the study
of iconic persons shows that the new formulas that emerged in Late Antiquity
to enable communication and interaction with the divine – such as relics,
eulogia, and icons – were directly dependent on living people, whose physical
presence and image they multiplied and preserved.

3 Krueger, 2014.
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Index of Ancient Names

Notes

1. Given the high the number of occurrences, ‘Paul’ and ‘Jesus/Christ’ were not indexed.
2. Names of gods and literary characters were not included.
3. References to figure captions are given in italics.

Abba Pambo 95, 162 Caligula 33, 47

Abraham (stylite) 172 Caracalla 47
Abraham of Hermonthis 178 n. 60 Cassius Dio 47 n. 36, 48 n. 43, 51 n. 53
Adam XXIV, 34, 74, 95, 107–110, 117–119, 123, Celestine (Pope) 134 n. 30
162, 180 Celsus XXIX, XXXI, 18, 30, 41
Aelius Aristides 99, 105, 119 Chariton 15 n. 61
Agapetus 56 n. 64 Choricius of Gaza 12 n. 39
Agnellus of Ravenna XXV, 156 n. 96 Chromatius of Aquileia 114 n. 51
Agrippa Postumus 78, 161 Cicero 3–4, 12–15, 24, 38–39, 41 n. 22
Alaric 135, 140 Claudian 58, 60, 63 n. 88
Alexander of Abonouteichus 30 Claudius 38 n. 6
Alexander Severus 20 n. 83 Clement of Alexandria XXXIV, 81–82, 84,
Alexander the Great 12 108–109
Ambrose of Milan 60, 111 n. 42, 118 n. 58, Commodus 44, 46, 48, 51
127 Constantine the Great 30 n. 16, 37, 49–50,
Ambrosiaster 106 n. 22 56–57, 62, 127–130, 141–142, 185
Ammianus Marcellinus 48 n. 39, 62 n. 84, Constantinus Porphyrogennetus 56 n. 65
63 Constantius II 60–63, 142
Anastasius I 56, 68 Corippus 56 n. 64, 66 n. 95 and 99
Andronikos Komnenos 68 Cyprian of Carthage 71 n. 1, 77 n. 24,
Antonius Musa 15, 39 83 n. 43, 85–87
Apollinaris 153–156 Cyril of Alexandria 111 n. 39
Appius Claudius Pulcher 39 Cyril of Jerusalem 119 n. 62, 121 n. 70,
Apuleius 15 n. 60, 17 n. 62, 104 n. 14, 105 n. 17 163 n. 15
Arcadius 64, 67
Aristotle 14 n. 50 Demetrius 167, 168, 172
Athanasius of Alexandria 141 Dio Chrysostom 21 n. 87
Augustine of Hippo 1–2, 74 n. 75, 118, 172 Diocletian 51–55, 60, 62, 66, 69, 130,
Augustus XXV, 15, 37, 39, 41–42, 47, 51 n. 52 152 n. 85
Aurelian 51
Ecclesius 155
Barnabas (author) 82 n. 39, 83–84 Elagabalus 51
Basil of Ancyra 2, 121 n. 70, 123 n. 75 Elijah 153, 162
Basil of Caesarea 8, 89 n. 70, 110 n. 39, 117, Elisha 170–171
123 n. 74 and 75, 126–127, 141–142 Enoch 118, 162
Bayezid I 37 Ephrem the Syrian 118
Blandina 77, 79 Eunapius of Sardis 17 n. 63
234 Index of Ancient Names

Euphrasius of Poreč 149, 153 Justin II XXV, 37, 56, 66–67, 156
Eusebius of Caesarea 56 n. 64, 57, 174 n. 53 Justinian I 56, 141–148, 152–158
Evagrius Ponticus 172 Justinian II XXV, 68

Felicitas 80 Libanius 32 n. 115

Flavius Hypatius 142, 143 n. 58 Lucian of Samosata 10, 23 n. 89 and 91,
Flavius Probus 143 n. 58 30 n. 109, 32 n. 115, 85 n. 54, 103
Fructuosus of Tarragona 98, 85 n. 52, Lucius Verus 23 n. 91, 42 n. 26
88 n. 65 and 69 Lucretius 21 n. 86
Luke (evangelist) 76 n. 21, 80 n. 29, 88 n. 64,
Gaius Julius Helius 15, 16 89 n. 71
Galerius 62
Galla Placidia 156 n. 96 Macrobius 144
Gallus 60 Manilius 33, 34 n. 122
Genesis XXXIV, 34–35, 107, 123 Manuel I Komnenos 37 n. 2, 68
Germanus of Constantinople 156 n. 95 Marcus Aurelius 8, 48–49
Gracchi (brothers) 47 Marcus Cornelius Fronto 43
Gregory of Nazianzus 8 n. 25, 110 n. 39, Marcus Ulpius Crotonensis 15
119 n. 63, 121–122, 126, 141 n. 52 and 54, Marius 12, 47
142 Mark (evangelist) 39, 80 n. 29, 89 n. 71
Gregory of Nyssa 77 n. 24 Maro (stylite) 172
Gregory of Tours 157 n. 104, 160 n. 8, 162 n. 11 Martial 29
Gregory the Great 178 n. 61 Mary (Virgin) 97, 110, 153, 162, 174
Matthew (evangelist) 80 n. 29, 89 n. 71
Hadrian 48–49, 50, 54 Maximian (emperor) 53–54
Hesiod 35 Maximian of Ravenna 153, 155–156
Homer 12, 183 Maximus of Turin 112, 114 n. 51
Honorius 58, 60, 67 Menas 175, 184
Methodius of Olympus 108–109, 110 n. 38,
Iamblichus 120 119 n. 63
Ignatius of Antioch 74 n. 12, 80 n. 30, Michael Italikos 37 n. 2
83 n. 45, 88 n. 65, 125 n. 2 Minucius Felix 82
Irenaeus of Lyon 174 n. 53 Moses 30, 32–34, 73, 83, 95, 145, 153
Isaiah XXX Myron 33
Isidore of Pelusium 136 n. 36
Narsai 110 n. 38
Jacob (apostle) 153 Nero 29, 35, 48
Jerome 88 n. 65 and 68, 94 n. 85, 105 n. 19, Nicolaos of Damascus 12 n. 40
132, 133 n. 24, 162 Niketas Choniates 68 n. 104
John (the Apostle) 32, 34, 81–83, 97, 153, 184
John (the Baptist) 178 n. 64 Optatus of Milevis 88 n. 65
John Cassian 122 n. 73 Origen XXIX n. 14, 82, 82 n. 39, 98, 105 n. 19
John Chrysostom 44 n. 31, 60 n. 77, 64 n. 93, Ovid 4–5, 104
101, 110, 112, 118, 123 n. 74 and 75, 127,
170–171, 174 Pacatus 44 n. 31, 52 n. 58
John of Ephesus 173 n. 47 Pachomius 95
John the Deacon 178 n. 61 Palladius 94 n. 84
Julius Caesar 12–13, 40 n. 20, 47 Paphnutius 166 n. 25
Index of Ancient Names 235

Paulinus of Nola 92 Severian of Gabala 171 n. 42

Pausanias 17 n. 65, 26 n. 99 Severus of Ravenna 155
Perpetua 75 n. 18, 76 n. 22, 77 n. 24, 80 n. 30 Sixtus III (Pope) 134 n. 30
and 31, 85–86 Sophronius of Jerusalem 149 n. 82
Pertinax 32 n. 116 Statius 48 n. 40, 52 n. 59
Peter (apostle) 89, 98, 153, 167, 170, 178 n. 64 Stephen (protomartyr) 82, 184
Peter Chrysologus 108, 156 Stephen of Heracleopolis Magna 166 n. 27
Petronius 24, 50 n. 48 Suetonius 13 n. 43, 15 n. 59, 47 n. 38,
Pheidias 33 51 n. 52
Philip the Arab 54 Sulla 12
Philo of Alexandria 7 n. 23, 32–33, 41 n. 21 Symeon Stylites the Elder 160–161, 164, 167,
Photios 158 169 n. 36, 170, 172, 177, 179
Pionius 75 n. 18, 76 n. 22, 86, 88 n. 66 Symmachus (Quintus Aurelius) 100–101
Plato 7 n. 24, 8, 19, 144 Synesius of Cyrene 64, 66
Pliny the Elder 40 n. 13
Pliny the Younger 44 n. 31 Tacitus 31 n. 114, 39–40, 76
Plotinus 7 Tamerlane 37
Plutarch 7 n. 21, 31 n. 112, 32 n. 117 and 119, Terentius Neo 5, 6
33, 47 n. 35, 73 n. 6 Tertullian 40 n. 14, 80 n. 30, 82, 85 n. 54
Polycarp of Smyrna 79, 85, 98, 172 Thekla 175, 184
Polycleitus 33 Theon 166 n. 25
Pompey the Great 12, 47 Theodore of Mopsuestia 108, 118
Pontius 86 n. 60 Theodoret of Cyrrhus 94 n. 84, 164,
Procopius of Caesarea 56 n. 66, 143 166 n. 27–29, 169 n. 37
Proclus 104 n. 15 Theodoric 140
Prohaeresius 17, 23 Theodosius 60, 67, 130
Prudentius 76 n. 23, 82 Trajan 42, 43, 66
Pseudo-Aristotle 7 n. 20
Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite 144, 149 Ursicinus 155
Pseudo-Jerome 96 n. 93 Ursus 155
Pseudo-Leontios of Neapolis 173, 175 n. 57,
180 Valens 141–142
Ptolemy 100 Valentinian II 67, 100
Venantius Fortunatus 95 n. 87, 149 n. 82
Quintilian 3 n. 8, 7 n. 22, 8 n. 26, 111 n. 41 Vespasian 13, 39
Victor 177
Sabina (wife of Hadrian) 54 Victricius of Rouen 88 n. 66, 89, 93
Samuel 141 Vulfilaic 161
Saturus 86
Seneca 14 Zachariah 90–92
Septimius Severus 49, 51 Zeno of Verona 108, 114 n. 51
Index of Places

Notes

1. Given the high the number of occurrences, ‘Rome’ was not indexed.
2. References to figure captions are given in italics.

Alexandria (Egypt) 39, 44, 46, 141 Herculaneum 26, 27

Ancient Near East 3 n. 11 Hispania 60
Ankara 37 Hosios David 139
Antioch 172
Apamea on the Orontes 44, 45 Isola Sacra 24, 25
Arch of Beneventum 42, 43 Italy 22, 54
Arch of Constantine 49, 50, 62 n. 83
Arch of Galerius 62 Jbeil 173
Asia Minor 39, 99, 134 Jerusalem 141, 143
Athens 37 n. 3, 99 Jordan (river) 114, 184
Jordan (area) 164
Basilica Euphrasiana 91, 151, 154
Benevento 43 Kaper Koraon 90
Bethlehem 143 Kathisma (in Constantinople) 66, 67
Boscotrecase 77, 78, 161 Kelibia 116
Kenchreai 104
Caria 134 Kiev 178 n. 64
Carthage 86 n. 60 Konjica 105–106
Chrysotriklinos 67, 156
Cilicia 39 Lateran Basilica (Basilica Salvatoris) 128,
Classe 148, 153–155 131, 135
Colosseum (Flavian amphitheatre) 51 Lebanon 173
Constantinople 48 n. 40, 56–57, 60, 66–67, Libya 64
121, 136, 141, 146, 156, 158, 172, 184 Liguria 58
Corinth 18, 73, 104, 119 Lyon (Vienne) 77, 79
Cyrenaica 64
Manhattan 29
Delphi 32 n. 117 Mausoleum of Diocletian 52, 69
Mesopotamia 3, 38
Egypt 38–39, 44, 46, 58, 141, 176, 179 Milan (Mediolanum) 53
Eleusis 17, 100 Mount Athos 92
Esquiline 48, 135, 137
Naples 113, 114, 115, 117, 119–120
Fayoum 178 Nativity Church (Bethlehem) 143
Nazianzus 121
Galata 157 Nicomedia 62 n. 83
Greece 3 n. 11 North Africa 77, 85

Hagia Sophia 143, 145–147, 152 Orthodox Baptistery in Ravenna 113, 116
Haterii Tomb 13–14 Ostia 24, 25
Index of Places 237

Palace of Diocletian 52–53, 60, 62, 66, 130 Sant’Apollinare in Classe 148, 154, 155
Palatine 48 Santa Pudenziana 133 n. 28, 137
Palestine 97, 159, 162, 184 Santa Sabina 138
Pergamon 105 San Vitale in Ravenna 129, 148–156
Pompeii XXVII, 5, 6 Sasima 121
Poreč 90–92, 149, 151, 153–154 Sebasteion in Aphrodisias 134–135
Porta Fontinalis 15, 16 Sinai 143, 178
Proconnesus 144 Split (Spalatos) 52, 53, 62, 66, 69
Ptolemais (Cyrenaica) 64 Syria 44, 45, 54, 90, 160 n. 4, 170, 179
Pulvinar (in Rome) 66
Tabernacle of Moses 145
Qal’at Sem’an 170, 172 Tabor 34
Temple of Solomon 145
Ravenna 113, 116, 119–120, 129, 148–149, 150, Temple in Jerusalem 33, 34, 82, 83, 85,
153–156 96–97
Rouen 2, 5, 93 Thasos 144
Thessaloniki 62, 139, 167, 168
Saint Demetrius in Thessaloniki (church) Tomb of Constantine the Great 57
167, 168 Trier (Augusta Treverorum) 101, 162
Samothrace 17, 100 Tunisia 116
San Giovanni Evangelista in Ravenna
156 n. 95 Umm ar-Rasas 164
San Giovanni in Fonte Baptistery 113, 114,
115, 116–117 Vatopedi Monastery 92
San Paolo fuori le mura 138 Via Labicana (Rome) 13
Santa Maria Maggiore 133–135, 137, 140, 142