The @

We note with sadness the passing of Ray Tomlinson on 7 March 2016, whose name and history are unknown to the general populace but whose innovation is used hundreds of millions of times each day by folk on every continent. Ray Tomlinson, while working as an engineer in Boston, in 1971 was tasked with figuring out uses for the new ARPANET.  He invented a way to send a message from one computer to another; today we call it email. While figuring how to keep, in a line of text, the recipient separate from the address, he chose the @ on his keyboard, since it was used for little else. One article eulogizing Tomlinson said that the @ would probably have fallen out of use and off of keyboard layouts if not for him.

Of course, it was used before Tomlinson to designate a rate, such as "1 apple @25¢."

But...where did it come from?

To the left we see it in a record of a shipment of wheat from Castile to Aragon in 1448. There it was an abbreviation of Spanish arroba, meaning "a quarter" and being equivalent to 25 pounds of weight.

One theory holds that its use in other countries derived from a monastic scribal abbreviation to save space, reducing Latin ad [at, toward, by, about] to an a with a lower-case d curving around it. This would save ink and expensive parchment.

The earliest manuscript in which we find it, however, is a real puzzle. In a 1345 Bulgarian copy of the Greek Manasses Chronicle, a history written by Constantine Manasses (c.1130-c.1187), we find the word "Amen" written as "@men." Why it would be used for an upper-case "a" is unknown. Clearly, the symbol was a known figure that the audience was expected to understand.

In English we call it the "at" sign or symbol, but other languages have different names for it. French, Spanish and Portuguese call it arroba or arobase, a unit of weight (already mentioned). But other countries have more colorful names. Norwegians see a "pig's tale"; Hungarians see a "worm"; it is a "duckling" in Greek and a "rose" in Turkish.

A Day Late, A Dollar Short

Abu ʾl-Qasim Ferdowsi Tusi (940 - 1020) was a Persian poet, creator of the longest single-author epic poem in the world. The poem in question, the Shahnameh [Persian: "Book of Kings"] is the national epic of Iran.

Tomb of Ferdowsi [link]

The reason for its length might not have been only because of the grandeur of the subject matter. The legend of Ferdowsi is that he was offered one gold piece per couplet by the Sultan. This sounds like a set-up to a story, but it is not as ludicrous as you might think. The Sultan, Mahmud of Ghazni (971 - 1030), was known for numerous plundering expeditions into India, whence he gained the wealth to promote culture back home. He built a library, a museum, and a university.

Ferdowsi asked that the payment come as a lump sum when the work was finished and in the hands of the Sultan. Shahnameh was completed on 8 March 1010. When the Sultan would have paid, the courtier assigned to deliver the 60,000 gold pieces decided to deliver silver pieces instead. The poet was enjoying a bath house when the money was delivered, and was so insulted by what he thought was the Sultan's reneging on their deal that he gave the money away to the bath house staff. The courtier told the Sultan that Ferdowsi had insulted him by giving away his payment, so Mahmud threatened execution. The poet fled into exile and wrote a satirical poem about Mahmud.

Eventually, Sultan Mahmud learned of the deception perpetrated by his courtier on the poet, and banished the courtier (or maybe executed him; we are not sure). Many years later, Ferdowsi wished to return to his home, the city of Tus. Sultan Mahmud assembled 60,000 gold pieces and sent them to Tus. As the servants bearing the long-awaited payment entered the gates of Tus, the funeral procession of Ferdowsi was departing. He had died of heart failure the day before.

The Forgotten Vegetable

In The Forme of Cury cookbook from Richard II's court, there is a recipe for "Rapes in Potage," "rapes" meaning turnips. Let me offer my translation of the recipe:

Take turnips and wash them, cut them into squares, parboil them. Take them out of the water, put them into broth and continue cooking. Mince onions and toss them with saffron and salt; add them to the pot. Sprinkle with sweet powder and serve. You can also do this [the author adds] with parsnips and skirrets.

From an 1885 German book

Turnips and parsnips we understand, but "skirrets" are mostly a mystery to modern cooks, despite a few attempts to create a revival.

The plant itself came from China, but traveled westward via trade to Europe. It became known in Germany as Zuckerwurzel ["sugar root"], and Hildegard of Bingen addressed its effects and medicinal properties in her treatise, Physica. The Dutch and Danish also call it "sugar root."

The Forme of Cury not only mentions them as a substitute for turnips, but also has a recipe for skirret fritters. In England, it was called skirwhit or skirwort which mean "white root." The whiteness and sweetness of the roots seem to be their chief attribute, praised by cooks through the ages.

The plant itself is hardy, resistant to cold and pests, and prefers moist soil—making it ideal for the English climate. The roots are best if dug up and eaten when the plant goes dormant in winter, making them a good source of food during the coldest months.

Modern attempts to work with skirret seem to disagree with the cooks of Richard II. The gardeners of Hampton Court have added this forgotten vegetable to their stock, and find that it is delicate enough that even parboiling ruins the flavor. Food historian Marc Meltonville says "Celebrate it on its own. Eat it raw or cube it up and fry it in butter with a little garlic, in an iron pan if possible." [link]

If you wish to try your hand at a long-lost root vegetable, you can order from here or here.

Noting the Bern

The Smithfield Decretals have been mentioned recently. They are a book of decrees drawn from 1,971 letters from Pope Gregory IX, with glosses (detailed commentaries) and lavish illustrations. About 700 copies of these decretals exist—most of them created after the advent of mass printing technology; this particular one was made in France in about 1300, but found in Smithfield in the UK, hence its name. It is thought that the owner in England had the illustrations added in about 1340.

Apes fighting as knights, from page 75

Thanks to the British Library's plan to digitize all of its manuscripts, you can actually flip through the pages if you go here. You will see all the illustrations, including depictions of daily life as well as fanciful portrayals of animals acting like humans.

But those are just the side show. The reason 700 copies exist of the writings are because of the importance of the papal letters, and the explicating of the important statements within. The editor of the decretals was one Bernard of Botone (d.1263), also called Bernard of Parma because of his birthplace. He studied at the University of Bologna, where (according to his gravestone) he became Chancellor in his later years. An expert at canon law, he was an ideal commentator for the decrees.

Bernard drew from multiple sources for the commentaries. Many medieval manuscripts give no hint as to authorship, or editor-ship. In the case of the Decretals, however, attribution is always given to the other authors and commentators whom he quoted. Whenever the notes and commentaries were his own, he signed with a simple "Bern" at the end.

The whole thing is finished; give the guy who wrote it a drink.

Bernard died in 1263, and the copies that exist were all made years later. In the case of the Smithfield decretals copy, we do not know who the copyist was, nor who the illustrators were. The copyist, however, did leave a "personal stamp" on the manuscript. On the very last page, after the last line, he added the following:

The whole thing is finished; give the guy who wrote it a drink.

Yoda's Medieval Manuscript

Yesterday mentioned the Smithfield Decretals, a detailed work on ecclesiastical law. It was produced in the 14th century, full of important decisions gleaned from the papal decrees of Pope Gregory IX, additional material like the explanation of how to celebrate the feast day of St. Matthias, and curious illuminations.

One of these illuminations is of particular interest to fans of Star Wars, because it seems to be an early illustration of Jedi Grandmaster Yoda.

The similarity was first noted by Julian Harrison, curator of pre-1600 manuscripts at the British Library and pointed out in his Medieval Manuscripts Blog. The figure has the grayish-green complexion, the large pointed ears, and the ridged forehead of Yoda's race. Also, the hands, like Yoda's, or not five-fingered. He also wears a long robe.

What are the chances that a specimen from a long-lived race in a galaxy far, far away could travel to Earth and be portrayed in a 14th century manuscript?

The figure perches atop a passage on Samson and Delilah. Although not likely to have been intended as a portrait of Goliath, it may simply be there to evoke the idea of monstrous creatures, such as Goliath would have seemed. Some have suggested that the figure may represent the Devil, tempting Delilah to cut Samson's hair. Or it is just a random figure from the fertile mind of a bored monk. This is a manuscript that includes archer rabbits hunting greyhounds and battling monkeys dressed in armor, after all.

The Leap Saint

Following on the heels of yesterday's discussion of Leap Day, I thought we should give some attention to the poor saint whose feast day happened to fall on a day that only appeared in the calendar every four years.

Matthias, from the workshop of the
Italian painter Simone Martini (c.1284-1344)

St. Matthias was not a medieval saint. He was one of the Apostles, and is thought to have died in 80 CE. That is the only quantitative piece of data that is agreed upon. He died in either Jerusalem or Judea or Colchis. Chosen by lot to replace Judas, he was called either Matthias (Acts 1:24-25) or Zacchaeus (by Clement of Alexandria), or Tolmai (by Eusebius), or Barnabas (by literature ascribed to Pope Clement I); and a 19th century German scholar thinks he is the Nathanael in the Gospel of John.

One thing that is not in dispute, however, is that his feast day was 24 February. To modern readers, that does not ring any bells. In the Classical Era and the Middle Ages, however, this put him in an unusual spot in the calendar: Leap Day.

That's right: Leap Day used to be 24 February, which you can read about here. The unusual thing about 24 February being the extra day in a Leap Year wasn't so much that it was not placed at the end of the month, but that—it being an "extra" day of the year—it was treated as a "bonus" and was simply repeated; that is, 24 February appeared twice in a row in Leap Years.

Does that mean that the feast day of St. Matthias was celebrated twice? Yes. The Smithfield Decretals, an expansive book on ecclesiastical law, explains:

A standard solar year has 365 days and six hours, so in four years’ time these hours make 24 extra hours, which must be added as a new day to every fourth year. This additional day is what we call “double-sixth-day”, because, although it is counted as an addition, it stands under the same number as the previous day in the calendar, so that the two days are regarded as one and the same. The extra day is inserted in the calendar after 24 February (six days before the first day of March) so that we celebrate the memory of St Matthias the Apostle (24 February) on the next day, too. [link]

Lucky Matthias! Little is known about him, but he gets to be venerated two days in a row! Well, not anymore. The Church of England has kept him at 24 February, but in 1969 the Roman Catholic Calendar moved him to 14 May so that he could be celebrated outside of Lent and on a post-Easter day that would be closer to what would have been the day of his choosing.

The Leap Day That Wasn't

Bernard of Botone (d.1266) gloss on Leap Day

Most of you know that Julius Caesar in the 1st century BCE wanted to fix the fact that solstices and equinoxes were "sliding" from their original locations in the calendar, due to the fact that Earth's orbit around the Sun did not take place in an even 365 days. The extra six hours meant that, every four years, the calendar was "off" by an entire day. "Everyone knows" that the extra day was added to the end of February, creating February 29th every four years.

Except it wasn't.

Truth is, it just wasn't that simple. The standard Roman year at the time of Julius was 355 days. A "intercalary month" was added every three years or so to even things out and restore some normalcy to the spacing of festivals. The new year started on 1 March, and so the "extra month," which was called Mercedonius, was inserted prior to 1 March.

But that would throw things off even more—adding that month made those years 377-8 days long. So that the year would not get too long, they shortened February to just a little over three weeks. A year that needed Mercedonius had a February that ended on the 23rd. Why the 23rd? because that was Terminalia, the festival of Terminus, god of boundaries, and therefore a fitting end to the month.

Julius realized that this was a mess of overcorrecting for the astronomical inequality, and so he demanded that his scholars figure out what the calendar needed. They shifted some months, rewarded him for his wisdom by naming the seventh month after him, and told him the calendar could be kept stable by adding a single day every 4th year.

But where to add it?

Well, since inserting a correction in February was already a common practice, why not there? Excellent! So it was added—right after the day after Terminalia. There was no interest, however, in giving this new day its own identity—after all, it was only going to be around every four years, so who would count on it? Therefore, instead of calling it 24 February, they called it bis septum [Latin: "twice sixth"] because 24 February would have been the sixth day before the Kalends of March, so they would simply have 24th February repeated.

Therefore, even after the Leap Day was introduced into February, there was no 29 February until the Middle Ages, with the widespread European adoption of a sequential system of numbering, rather than counting forward and backward from the Ides and Kalends of the Roman system.

Paper-Thin

One of the questions we have about the numerous books that were created in the Middle Ages is: how did they turn animal skins into parchment of exceeding thinness?

Skin stretched to make parchment [source]

Simple answer? We don't know.

The pages are so uniformly thin—thinner than one would expect from calf skin—that theories have been put forth to find other sources. One of the most popular has been that the pages are from the much thinner calf uterine tissue. This would require an enormous number of female calves to be raised and slaughtered for book pages.

Others have suggested hides from other animals, such as rabbits. This, too, would suggest an enormous breeding program to produce the number of paper-thin pages  used in all the illuminated manuscripts we have, which of course is only a fraction of what would have been produced.

The obvious solution to the mystery is to determine the genetics of the parchment, but since that would require destroying part of a valuable antique—several parts, to test several pages—no one was eager to pursue that method. Science has provided a non-destructive method, however, with the aid of an old-fashioned PVC eraser. It turns out that rubbing a PVC eraser gently across the page creates an electrostatic charge that lifts proteins from the surface of the parchment. These proteins can then be examined for their genetic content.

The research, which is published in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS), involved scientists and scholars from France, Belgium, Denmark, Ireland, the USA and the UK. They analysed 72 pocket Bibles originating in France, England and Italy, and 293 further parchment samples from the 13th century. The parchment samples ranged in thickness from 0.03 -- 0.28mm. [source]

It turns out that the parchments are made from several different animals, and there is no evidence of uterine skin. Unfortunately, this leaves us with the original question: How did they produce such thin parchment? Clearly, parchmenters had techniques centuries ago that we have not yet re-discovered.

The "First Christmas"

We have looked at some of the possible reasons for dating Christ's birth to December 25th, but how early was that dating settled upon?

Month of December; the figure is playing
dice on a table, which was only allowed
during festivals.

Eastern churches (especially Egypt) liked to celebrate on 6 January, but usually because that was the day of the Epiphany, when the Magi showed up and acknowledged the baby's special significance. The church at Constantinople accepted 25 December for the Nativity in 379, and Antioch followed in 386. Alexandria and the rest of Egypt accepted the December date in 431.

The official choice of date did not come before the  practice of celebrating it, however. There is a document called the Chronography of 354 that offers a clue. The Chronography was made for a wealthy Roman, Valentines, by one of the best-known scribes of the day, Furius Dionysius Filocalus (for that reason, copies of the manuscript through the ages have sometimes been called the Calendar of Filocalus).

The Chronography is an illustrated calendar and almanac in several parts. Its 16 sections contain, among other bits of information, pictures of cities, pictures and important dates of emperors, the planets and the zodiac, calculated dates for Easter from 312 to 411 CE, and an error-prone catalogue of early popes.

Section six is a straightforward calendar, with each month and day listed, along with their important events.  Here is listed, on 25 December, "N INVICTI"; it stands for Dies Natalis Solis Invictus, the "Day of Birth of the Unconquered Sun," a reference to Mithras. (Note: The Saturnalia festival is, of course, mentioned, but that ran from the 17th to 23rd, so early persecuted Christians using it to mask Christmas, when Christmas was listed as the 25th, seems like a hypothesis that has outlived its usefulness.)

Section 12 is what interests us. It is a list of the feast days of martyrs. The very first entry is:

VIII kal. Ian. natus Christus in Betleem Iudeae

This means "On the 8th Kalends of January, birth of Christ in Bethlehem of Judea"

The 8th Kalends of January is 25 December. So a generation before the early churches started declaring 25 December  the day of Christ's birth, it was already being celebrated as such by Christians.

Sol Invictus

Was December 25th the default date for Christmas because of a Roman Saturnalia or because of deliberate copying with Mithraism?

Connected with the Winter Solstice was Mithraism, an early competitor to Christianity. Mithras, a favorite of Roman soldiers, was connected to the Sun, which, because it returned every December 25th, was called Sol Invictus [Latin: "Unconquered Sun"]. Mithras' was celebrated on December 25th, called Dies Natalis Solis Invictus [Latin: "Birthday of the Unconquered Sun"].

Mithras being born from
a rock, 2nd century

The first few centuries of the Common Era debated over the divinity of Christ and the extent to which Christ was God and/or human. By the 4th century, the divinity had been largely agreed upon, but since Christ became human, it was important to pick a date of birth. December 25th was settled upon.

A persistent idea that the iconography of Christ was based on Mithras is interesting, but inconsistent, as the picture here suggests. True, both religions involved a communal meal (Mass, the Last Supper), and a sacrifice, but Christ was not said to be born from a rock bearing a sword and torch, nor did he perform Mithras' other great feat, killing a bull.

And association of Christianity with the Sun did not require "imitation" of Mithraism. After all, Constantine converted when he saw the sign of the Cross over the Sun at Milvian Bridge, and the book of Malachi mentions the "sun of righteousness," associated with Jesus. Early churches were oriented toward the Sun, and some early Christian graves in the Roman catacombs have sun imagery on them, from before the Church settled on the Winter Solstice-related date for the Nativity.

One theory says that the persecuted Christians celebrated on the 25th to conceal their subversive worshipping among the pagan Roman festivities. By the time the 25th of December had been chosen by Christianity, however, Constantine had made Christianity an official religion in the Roman Empire. Also,

...while the winter solstice on or around December 25 was well established in the Roman imperial calendar, there is no evidence that a religious celebration of Sol on that day antedated the celebration of Christmas. [S.E.Hijmans, The Sun in the Art and Religions of Rome]

Also, the Feast of the Annunciation, when the angel told Mary that she had conceived, is on March 25th. (Note: March 25th for many cultures was the start of the New Year, since it marks the point after the Vernal Equinox when days become longer than nights.) Putting the birth of Christ nine months after the Annunciation just made sense, a theory accepted by the Church of England Liturgical Commission.

So how early was Christmas celebrated on December 25th? Tomorrow we will look at the earliest known reference.

Sun Stands Still

Sunrise on the Winter Solstice at Stonehenge

Sol stitium [Latin: "sun standing still"] is the origin of the Modern English solstice. It describes the day when the sun—which during the course of the year changes the position on the horizon where it rises and sets—seems to "stand still" because its forward movement seems not to have changed from the previous day. In the days to follow, its course seems to reverse, and whereas it seemed to rise (or set) further and further south (or north) each day, it now seems to be coming back.

To early peoples, who (in the Northern Hemisphere) noticed the days getting shorter as the sun moved south on the horizon, it was good to know that the trend would reverse and the days would get longer again. They did not know that the reason was the tilt of the Earth's axis and the fact that it was pointed away from the Sun. All they knew was that the nights got longer.

Memory told them that the same thing happened last year, and the Sun always paused for a day, and then returned. To the naked eye, it was not always easy to be certain that the Sun was returning and the days were lengthening; four days was a sufficient span to be certain. Therefore, although the 21st of the month (by the reckoning of people who used the ancestor of our current calendar) was the Solstice, it was the 25th of the month that was celebrated as a certainty of the return of the Sun.

Some cultures designed ways to be certain that they had reached the "darkest part" of the year. The arrangement of rocks on Salisbury Plain that we call Stonehenge was apparently designed (among other reasons) to mark the Solstice.

The day that they were certain the Sun was "returning" was a time for feasting. With winter established, livestock were slaughtered because they could not be easily fed during the next few months; fresh meat was now plentiful and it was a time for a mid-winter feast before hunkering down to wait out the harsh cold months until planting should begin.

The Demonization of Cats

Here is a description of a medieval cult:

At length, when the novice has come forward, [he] is met by a man of wondrous pallor, who has black eyes and is so emaciated [and] thin that since his flesh has been wasted, seems to have remaining only skin drawn over [his] bone. The novice kisses him and feels cold, [like] ice, and after the kiss the memory of the [C]atholic faith totally disappears from his heart. Afterwards, they sit down to a meal and when they have arisen from it, the certain statue, which is usual in a sect of this kind, a black cat descends backwards, with its tail erect. First the novice, next the master, then each one of the order who are worthy and perfect, kiss the cat on its buttocks. Then each [returns] to his place and, speaking certain responses, they incline their heads toward to cat. 

This is from a papal bull called Vox in Rama ["A Voice in Ramah"], issued by Pope Gregory IX somewhere from 1232 to 1234, condemning a German heresy. There is more, outlining the practices of this form of devil worship, requiring German authorities to root out and stop this practice, and kicking off a demonization of cats that caused them—especially black cats—to be killed in large numbers. This destruction of cats, and the subsequent increase in rodents population, enhanced the spread of the Black Death a little over a century later.

...and it is all very likely untrue.

Let us start with the Black Death: killing all the black cats—or even more cats—in Western Europe would not stop the spread of the Plague in India, China, Constantinople, etc. The earliest text we have of Vox in Rama is from an 1883 collection printed in Germany of Latin texts. It is possible that Gregory sent a letter to Germany that got collected here, but it does not sound like a typical papal bull. If his injunctions were applied at all, they may have been applied only locally in a very few areas.

Some even question whether it is a late forgery: Gregory was very erudite, and a lawyer. This document is very unlike any of his writings. It seems like a document created later to support a theory of devil worship.

This was not necessary to stain the reputation of cats, however. The 12th century English author Walter Map had already associated cats with witches who take feline form in De nugis curialium [Latin: "The trifles of courtiers"]. He relates many supernatural folktales.

Maybe the independent nature of cats bothered people, who felt that creatures were created by God to be subservient to man. Maybe the fact that Muslims liked cats—Muhammad speaks well of them—made cats seem pagan and suspicious. Some combination of circumstances singled out cats for vilification. We will probably never know for certain the underlying reason.

The Talmud Compromise

Although Pope Gregory IX felt it his duty to protect the Jews, he had issues with their Talmud, the collection of Jewish laws and practices. Was it harmful and heretical, or simply a way of life that was different?

A converted Jew had presented to Gregory 35 places in the Talmud that he considered blasphemous to Christianity. This led to the Disputation of Paris (about which I really should write a post soon). After the Disputation, a tribunal was assembled to decide whether the Talmud was dangerous to Christianity. One of the men involved, Odo of Châteauroux (c.1190 - 25 January 1273), was chancellor of the University of Paris. The decision of Odo and the tribunal was that the Talmud was heretical and should be burned.

Burning the Talmud

In 1242, 24 cartloads of copies of the Talmud and other Hebrew books were burned at a ceremony in Paris. Skip forward to 1243, however, and Pope Innocent IV was on the throne of Peter. At first, he continued the policy of Gregory, and Talmuds were gathered to be destroyed. He began to question, however, whether this policy was not in opposition to the Church's traditional stance of tolerance for Jews.

In 1247, the pope listened to complaints brought to him by some Jews, and he asked Odo to take a second look, but this time to try to see it through the eyes of the Jewish rabbis. Was the Talmud truly heretical and a danger to Christianity, or merely misguided and could be treated simply as an error-prone text and studied as such, the way philosophy would be treated. He thought that the Talmud might prove harmless, and that the confiscated copies might be returned.

Odo was having none of it, and he condemned the Talmud again, in May 1248. Innocent listened carefully, and also listened to the rabbis who claimed that they could not understand the Bible if they did not have their Talmud, which was so intertwined with the Old Testament. Against the objections of Odo and others, Pope Innocent decreed that the Talmud should not be burned, merely censured as erroneous insofar as Christianity is concerned. He decreed that the Talmuds in possession should be returned to their owners.

The popes after Innocent continued this policy.

Popes and the Talmud

The Talmud [late Hebrew talmūd, "instruction"] is the body of Jewish civil and ceremonial law. It includes the Mishnah (exegetical material embodying the oral tradition of Jewish law) and the Gemara (rabbinical commentaries on the Mishnah). The Talmud had a rocky existence in Christian Europe, even at the hands of one of the popes who was most supportive of the Jews, Gregory IX.

Talmud from 13th-14th centuries

Pope Gregory IX (c.1145 - 1241) was responsible for the Decretals (a codification of canon law that some say was designed to establish his authority over the Church) and the Papal Inquisition (and let us not forget his part in the demonization of cats). This centralization of power of the papacy seemed to inspire him to be the guardian of all God's children, however. He was steadfast in his protection of persecuted Jews, so long as they were not guilty of what he considered to be sins.

In 1233, for instance, Jews in France complained to Gregory that they were being mistreated. He declare that any imprisoned Jews were to be set free and not injured in their person or their property, so long as they agreed to forsake usury (the practice of charging high rates of interest, considered to be sinful due to the Bible).

In the 1234 Decretals, Gregory declared the doctrine of perpetua servitus iudaeorum. That is, the Jews were in perpetual political servitude until Judgment Day, making them officially second-class citizens in the Empire. As abhorrent as this was, it also made Gregory treat them as a group that needed his protection, so that in 1235 he re-affirmed an earlier papal bull, Sicut Judeis ["and thus, to the Jews"], which declared their right to enjoy lawful liberty.

1236 was a busy year for Gregory. He presented a list of charges against Emperor Frederick II concerning offenses against the Jews. In September he wrote to several bishops of France, requiring them to make sure that Crusaders who had killed and robbed Jews make full restitution. He also wrote to King Louis IX of France concerning the same.

Gregory had a serious problem, however, with the Talmud. He had to determine if it fell into the category of "heresy." His conclusion was harsh, but fortunately not universally accepted. We will look at that tomorrow.

The Oath of Purgation

The post Charlemagne and the Popes mentioned Pope Leo III taking an Oath of Purgation to "prove" his innocence of accusations made against him. It seems strange to a modern audience that simply swearing that you are innocent is enough to exonerate you, but the Middle Ages believed that God who sees the sparrow fall observes your deeds and will treat you accordingly if you lie. Therefore, swearing an oath puts yourself firmly into God's hands for judgment, and no one in his right mind would do that if he were actually guilty.

Detail from The Oath of Leo III by Raphael, 1516

There were two levels of purgation [from Latin purgare "to cleanse" by way of Old French  purgacion]. Vulgar Purgation was the clearing of one's name through ordeals such as trial by fire or water. You can read about those here.

The other form was Canonical Purgation, the act of clearing your name by swearing your innocence in the presence of reliable witnesses who would state their trust in your statement. (The number of witnesses was frequently required to be 12, like the Twelve Apostles.)

The Canonical Oath of Purgation is made with the hand on the Bible:

I, __________, now under process before the Session of the Congregation of C for the sin of _, alleged to have been committed by me: For ending said process, and giving satisfaction to all, do declare, before God and this session, that I am innocent and free of the said sin of charged against me. And I hereby call the great God, the judge and avenger of all falsehood, to be witness, and judge against me in this matter if I be guilty. And this I do by taking his blessed name in my mouth, and swearing by him who is the searcher of the heart, and that in sincerity, according to the truth of the matter and my own innocence, as I shall answer at the great day of judgment, when I stand before him to answer for all that I have done in the flesh, and as I would partake of his glory in heaven after this life is at an end.

These days, we don't allow the accused to declare his innocence without proof. Purgation is still used in minor cases. If charged with contempt of court, for instance, the accused may "purge himself of such contempt, by swearing that in doing the act charged, he did not intend to commit a contempt." [source]

The Gentle Prison

We saw here how Charlemagne captured his ex-father-in-law, King Desiderius of the Lombards, and imprisoned him in the Benedictine Abbey of Corbie. Sticking your political enemies away in a monastery was an efficient and humane way to eliminate them from the scene. Monasteries were often remote; the monastic life was carefully regulated, and so someone trying to leave would be discovered quickly; it was not as harsh as a dungeon; your enemies were given plenty of time to contemplate their sin of being your enemy.

In the turmoil that followed the dividing up of the kingdom by Charlemagne's son, Louis the Pious, Louis' grandson Charles failed in his attempt to gain some power and was imprisoned at Corbie. He escaped, however, and was made Archbishop of Mainz by Louis the German, showing that imprisonment in a monastery did not mean you were a convict with complete loss of rights or privileges in the eyes of the world.

Corbie, in Picardy, was particularly favored by Charlemagne because his family had close ties to it. Shortly after Desiderius was sent there, Charlemagne's cousin Saint Adalard became its abbot. Corbie was a desirable position, because it was granted freedom from the jurisdiction of local bishops.

One of Corbie's most prominent features—not surprising given its Carolingian patronage, was an extensive library. This library not only had numerous writings by the early Church Fathers, but also many classical texts and non-religious texts. The geometry of Euclid, as transmitted to the Middle Ages by the works of Boethius, was of great interest to scholars at Corbie. A 9th century monk at Corbie, Headboard, wrote extracts from Cicero, microbus, and Martianus Capella.

Carolingian minuscule

This love of scholarship extended for centuries: a 17th century monk of Corbie, Jean Mabillon, is considered the father of paleography, no doubt after studying the centuries of developing styles of scripts. The distinctive script called Carolingian minuscule was developed at Corbie about the time that Saint Adalard was abbot.

This remarkable center of learning did not survive until modern times, alas. In the 17th century, 400 manuscripts were sent to a monastery in Paris and later sold to a Russian diplomat. During the French Revolution the remaining 300 manuscripts at Corbie were sent to Amiens. About 200 manuscripts from Corbie are known to exist today. The monastery itself was damaged extensively during World War I, but has been rebuilt.

Charlemagne's Father-in-Law

Desiderius, from a 15th century miniature

I mentioned here how Charlemagne fought and defeated Desiderius, King of the Lombards, and sent him to live out his days in a monastery. What I left out was that Desiderius was Charlemagne's father-in-law.

Was his father-in-law, that is.  Charlemagne married Desiderius' eldest daughter, Desiderata, in 770. Marrying her was a political move, forging an alliance between the Lombards and the Franks. The marriage was annulled in 771, however, and she was sent back to her father.

The political alliances of Desiderius were all over the map, so to speak. When he was named King of the Lombards upon the death of his predecessor, King Aistulf, Aistulf's predecessor, his brother Rachis, who had been in a monastery, left it and tried to take the throne. Desiderius defeated him with the help of Pope Stephen II, after promising that he would give lands to the pope. The pope went for this, since Aistulf had made raids against papal lands. Desiderius, however, was not very forthcoming about handing control of the territories over to the papacy, so by the time Pope Stephen III came along, he was opposed to Charlemagne's marriage to Desiderata, and pushed for the annulment.

Desiderius later tried, like Aistulf, to encroach on papal-controlled lands around Rome, and this time Pope Adrian I called on Charlemagne's aid. It was expedient for Charlemagne to take up the request, since it allowed him to do a favor for the pope and annex Lombardy.

There was another "family connection" between Charlemagne and Desiderius. In 774, Charlemagne's brother Carloman died. Carloman's wife, Gerberga, might have expected her sons to inherit his territory, but Charlemagne simply absorbed it into his own. Gerber fled with her sons to Pavia (and later, Verona) and took refuge with Desiderius. Desiderius, unhappy with the treatment of his daughter by Charlemagne, took in the refugees. This contributed to Charlemagne's willingness to besiege Pavia in aid of Pope Adrian. The family was likely sent to monasteries, just like Desiderius, who was surely sorry that he ever got mixed up with the Frankish royal family.

Charlemagne and the Popes

The Vatican is considered the "Smallest Country in the World." Its 0.17 square-mile size (110 acres) makes it the smallest recognized independent state in the world. There was a time, however, when the popes in Rome held much more territory in the same way any temporal lord would. Much of that territory started with a grant of land from Charlemagne's father, Pepin.

The Donation of Pepin, from the French National Archives

The Donation of Pepin gave lands adjacent to Rome to Pope Stephen II in two parts (one in 754, one in 756). In 774, Pope Adrian I named Pepin Patricius Romanus, urging on him the protection of Rome. Pepin took this role seriously, as did his son, Charlemagne.

When in 772 the papal lands were invaded by King Desiderius of the Lombards, Pope Adrian I called Charlemagne for help. Charlemagne attacked Desiderius, captured him, and banished him to the Abbey of Corbie. After this, Adrian got even more land, including Ravenna and five cities on the Adriatic Coast.

Adrian also made the historic decision to change the dating of his decrees. Although calendar years were established by now across Europe, it was customary to date documents according to the reign of kings or emperors. There being no emperor in Rome anymore, documents would be dated by the eastern emperor in Constantinople. A papal document in 772 would be dated "Constantine V 31" (Constantine's rule began in 741, although he had co-ruled with his father since 720). Pope Adrian showed great respect for Charlemagne by dating his documents from then on according to Charlemagne's regnal years.

Charlemagne was appealed to again by Pope Leo III, when the pope was accused of adultery and perjury. Charlemagne agreed to arbitrate. He went to Rome, and on 1 December 800, he met with both sides. There was no easy conclusion, and Leo was finally cleared by taking an Oath of Purgation on 23 December, essentially swearing that he was innocent. Charlemagne accepted this and prevented the pope's enemies from causing further trouble.

Everyone knows the story of Charlemagne being crowned Holy Roman Emperor on Christmas Day 800 by Pope Leo, but few realize how much led up to it. Charlemagne "earned" this recognition, in the pope's eyes, because of all that he and his family had done for the papacy.

Medieval Eclipses

[source]

Eclipses were a mystery for awhile, but eventually enough took place that astronomers could spot the patterns. European astronomers in the 1600s were able to publish books explaining how lunar and solar eclipses took place. Prior to that, however, they were mysterious occurrences whose importance was tied to whatever was happening on the ground.

In 632, an eclipse that was visible in Medina on 27 January coincided with the death of Ibrahim, the son of the Prophet Muhammad. Muhammad interpreted this as a sign for his followers to pray for Ibrahim.

On 2 August 1133, a total eclipse took place. When King Henry I of England died months later, it "confirmed" for the popular culture that eclipses were bad omens for rulers. They knew that the eclipse portended bad news; they just had to wait a long time to find out what the bad news was.

There's a stone in Ireland whose carvings are interpreted as the first recorded eclipse. You can see it above. The two sets of concentric circles colliding in the middle represent the eclipse. The circular carvings above it represent the other stars that appeared in the sky at the moment of totality. The overall pattern enabled astronomers to determine when the eclipse took place. So it is pretty well established that the earliest recording of an eclipse was made on the Loughcrew Cairn Megalithic Monument in Ireland; the eclipse took place on 30 November, 3340 BCE.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

"A Grete Pye" should look like this [source]

What will you do with all that turkey on Friday? Why not a "Great Pie" from the c.1450 cook book known now as Harleian MS 4016?

Grete pyes. Take faire yonge beef, And suet of a fatte beste, or of Motton, and hak all this on a borde small; and caste therto pouder of peper and salt; and whan it is small hewen, put hit in a bolle. And medle hem well; then make a faire large Cofyn, and couche som of this stuffur in. Then take Capons, Hennes, Mallardes, Connynges, and parboile hem clene; take wodekokkes, teles, grete briddes, and plom hem in a boiling pot; And then couche al this fowle in the Coffyn, And put in euerych of hem a quantite of pouder of peper and salt. Then take mary, harde yolkes of egges, Dates cutte in ij peces, reisons of coraunce, prunes, hole clowes, hole maces, Canell and saffron. But first, whan thoug hast cowched all thi foule, ley the remenaunt of thyne other stuffur of beef a-bought hem, as thou thenkest goode; and then strawe on hem this: dates, mary, and reysons, &c. And then close thi Coffyn with a lydde of the same paast, And putte hit in the oven, And late hit bake ynough; but be ware, or thou close hit, that there come no saffron nygh the brinkes there-of, for then hit wol neuer close.

My translation:

Great pies. Take fair young beef, and suet of a fat beast, or mutton, and hack it all on a chopping board; and throw in ground pepper and salt; and when it is chopped small, put it in a bowl.
And mix them well; then make a fair large coffin (crust) and put some of this stuffing in.
Then take Capons, Hens, Mallards, Rabbit, and parboil them clean; take woodcocks, teals, great birds, and submerge them in a boiling pot; and then place all this in the crust, and put in there a quantity of pepper and salt.
Then take [rosemary?], hard-boiled egg yolks, dates cut in half, currants, prunes, whole cloves, mace, cassia (a type of cinnamon) and saffron.
But first, before you stuff the poultry mixture in, put the rest of the original stuffing of beef around it, as you think good; and then strew on it this: dates, rosemary, currants, etc.
And then close the crust with a lid of the same pastry, and put it in the oven, and let it bake enough; but beware, before you close it (the crust) that you let no saffron come near the edges of the pastry, for then it will never close.

Let me know how it turns out.

Happy American Thanksgiving. 

The Avignon Papacy

I like to link items in each post to previous posts that offer more info on those items. I have frequently referred to the time when the popes were not in Rome, but in Avignon; I have, however, not yet produced a post that explains the geographical shift.

The Avignon Papal Palace (It's no Vatican, but it'll do)

I suppose it might have started with conflict between King Philip IV of France, who was taxing the clergy to finance his ongoing wars, and Pope Boniface VIII, whose bull Clericis laicos forbade taxation of clergy with papal approval. After the death of Boniface and the death of his successor, Benedict XI, after only eight months, a Frenchman was elected, Clement V.

Clement V decided he did not want to live in Rome, and moved the papal court to Avignon, which is now in France but was then in the Kingdom of Arles. The French Clement was very friendly to the King of France, pretty much revoking Clerics laicos and beginning a string of seven popes, all French, who more and more came under the influence of the French crown.

The Avignon Papacy lasted from 1309 until January 1377. Pope Urban V wanted to move to Rome, but it was hindered by the War of the Eight Saints. His successor, Gregory XI, finally returned to Rome after (supposedly) being inspired to do so by Catherine of Siena.

The Avignon Papacy was sometimes referred to as the Babylonian Captivity, but worse was to follow.

After Gregory's death in 1378, conflict between his successor, Urban VI, and the cardinals created the Western Schism (1378 - 1417), when a series of rival popes were elected by renegade cardinals and took up residence in Avignon. The Avignon popes during this time are considered antipopes.

To Restore Rome

The Glory of the Roman Empire was seen by the Middle Ages as a Golden Age. Petrarch lamented the loss of learning and art between the peak of the Roman Empire and his own age. In Petrarch's lifetime, however, there seemed to be a chance to restore the greatness that was. The post of the supposed "King John I of France" mentions the figure who tried to elevate the humble Giannino di Guccio to the throne of France, Cola di Renzo (c.1313 - 8 October 1354).

Cola di Rienzo
at the Capitoline Museum

Cola di Renzo himself had humble origins. The son of a washer-woman and a tavern-keeper, he inspired himself with stories of Classical Rome, its literature and history and figures until he decided to make it his life's work to restore Rome to greatness. At this time, remember, Italy was a collection of city-states; Rome was the capital of nothing but itself, and even the popes had forsaken it for Avignon.

After becoming a notary, he was sent as a messenger to Pope Clement VI in Avignon, whom he impressed so much that he was given a place at the pope's court. He eventually returned to Rome and spent a few years gathering support for a "coup" to eliminate corrupt politicians. On the Feast of Pentecost in 1357 (20 May), dressed in armor, he made a speech at the Capitol in which he outlined his plans for a new and restored Rome.

The crowd accepted this speech, and the person who made it, and proclaimed him their ruler. Many politicians and public servants, seeing the tide of popular opinion turning against them, fled the City. Cola di Rienzo took the title of Tribune. Petrarch wrote a letter, urging him to continue in his great work.

Having succeeded in taking over Rome and making changes, he set his sights on restoring/uniting the entire Roman Empire, starting with Italy. He sent letters to all the major cities, bidding them send representatives. He also sent to the rival Holy Roman Emperors, Louis IV and Charles IV, to appear before him. He then celebrated a "festival of unity" in which he was officially proclaimed Tribune.

Unfortunately, although the Kingdom of Naples recognized him, no other political entity felt compelled to declare loyalty to him. Pope Clement VI, wary that di Rienzo's aim would include making the papacy subordinate to him, sent a league to arrest him. It was a little over six months since the speech in Rome that had seemed to cement his future good fortune. His initial success against his enemies did not last, and in December of the same year in which he was declared Tribune, he fled Rome, first hiding in Naples, and then for two years in a mountain monastery.

In 1350 he appealed to Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV, who held him under arrest for a year before turning him over to Clement. He was condemned to death, but the sentence was delayed (possibly due to pleas for leniency from Petrarch) until Clement died. His successor, Pope Innocent VI, sent him back to Rome with the title Senator and the mission to revive his goal of restoring Rome's glory. Within weeks, however, his arbitrary decisions had led to his death by an angry mob.

When two of his goals—the unification of Italy and the reduction of the pope's temporal power—were achieved in the 19th century, Cole di Rienzo was seen as a visionary and a praise-worthy historical figure.

He Thought He Was King

In the post on short-lived reigns, I mentioned John I of France, sone of Louis X and Clémence of Hungary, who reigned five days because he only lived five days. That was in November of 1316. He was buried in St. Denis, and succeeded by his uncle, Philip V (the Tall).

Tomb of the infant John I

In 1354, a merchant in Siena named Giannino di Guccio received a summons that told a different story. Giannino was told that his mother had been a wet-nurse for the infant John I, and when her own child died, she switched the babes. France mourned, thinking that the heir to the throne was dead, and the wet-nurse, Marie, raised John I as her own child Giannino. The boy grew up in ignorance of his true heritage, until the senator of Rome, Cola di Rienzo, contacted him to tell him of the truth of his parentage.

That is how a merchant of Siena was convinced that he was the heir to the throne of France.

Cola di Rienzo's source was the record of a Friar Giordano, to whom Marie confessed her actions at the end of her life. Long before this, Marie had sent her son to live with his father, and she had lost all track of him. Friar Giordano made it his quest to find the boy, eventually asking Cola di Rienzo for help.

Tales of royal babes switched at birth were not a new thing, but it was new for Giannino to be told that he himself was one such babe. Also, given French law, John I was, as the son of the last king, more legitimate than his uncle. If it were accepted that he was, in fact, John I, then the throne should go back to his lineage.

It is generally accepted that this whole affair was masterminded by di Rienzo, who would use the revelation of the try King of France to elevate his own status in Rome. Unfortunately for Giannino and di Rienzo (but probably fortunately for history), di Rienzo was assassinated shortly after, and so was unable to see his plan through. Giannino tried to follow up, visiting the court of Louis I of Hungary, the nephew of Clémence of Hungary, who accepted him as his relative.

The rest of Europe, however, was not willing to play along, although he did manage to amass a small number of troops and financing for a takeover. Coincidentally, while France and England were negotiating peace in late 1360 to wrap up that phase of the Hundred Years War, there was a "stray element" trying to assert his claim to the throne of France. In January of 1361, he was taken into custody and held comfortably in Aix-en-Provence. After an escape, he wound up in Naples under less favorable conditions. Before he died in 1363, he was able to write a memoir, from which we derive much of the knowledge of his actions, since historians did not deem his story worthwhile.

We Hardly Knew Ye...

Queen Elizabeth II of England recently passed a milestone, becoming the longest-reigning monarch of England. I am not certain of the "longest reign" candidates from other countries, but there is well-documented evidence of those who reigned the shortest.

Of course we know about Harold Godwinson, whose nine months and nine days was cut short by William the Conqueror in 1066. Sad for him, but his reign—albeit filled with warfare—was more leisurely than some. With Harold's death, technically he was succeeded by Edgar II, but after one month and 25 days, he relinquished his claim to William.

Empress Matilda was a claimant for the English throne during the Anarchy (discussed here, here, here, and here). She reigned less than nine months in 1141.

King Edmund Ironside (died 1016) ruled Wessex in England for seven months. and seven days King Lulach of the Scots  "beat" him in 1057 by reigning five days fewer, while the Scottish Duncan II lasted less than six months. King Hildebrand of the Lombards was just under seven months, in 744. Dafydd ap Gruffyd lasted for six months and 11 days.

Alexios IV Angelus, who ran afoul of the European 4th Crusaders who helped him to his throne, managed five months and 26 days. But his father, Isaac II Angelus, lasted less than five months. Their usurper, Alexios V Doukas, lasted even less: two months and a week.

Charles II of Hungary was murdered after one month and 24 days, in 1386.

Svein Forkbeard usurped the throne from Æthelred II, but held it only one month and nine days; it went back to Æthelred on Svein's death in 1014.

Then there was the Year of the Four Emperors (in Rome), but that was in the first century CE, and a little too early for a blog with "medieval" in its name. (But, for the record, they were just post-Nero: Galba, Otho, Vitellius, Vespasian.)

If you didn't know how short your reign was, would it matter? King John I of France and Navarre reigned five days. He was the heir of Louis X; John died on 20 November 1316, aged five days!

But... what if John I actually didn't die after five days? I will have a story for you tomorrow about that.

The Women's Quarters

The posts called The Marrying Kind (Parts 1, 2, and 3) mentioned Zoe Porphyrogenita's nephew Michael confining her to "the women's quarters." This is a very common phrase for what was a more complex situation.

Women weaving in the gynaeceum, 500 BCE (Louvre)

Ancient Greek culture promoted separate areas for women and men in their dwellings.  The male quarters were the andron; the part of the building for women's use was called the gynaeceum. In the imperial palace in Constantinople, this space was called the gynakonitis, and was very elaborate, with its own staff and rituals.

When Zoe's third husband, Constantine Monomachos, insisted on bringing his mistress, Maria Skleraina, into the imperial palace, Zoe welcomed her into the gynakonitis. Zoe and her sister, Theodora, allowed the mistress to stand next to them during ceremonies. On nights when Constantine wanted to sleep alone, Maria would have stayed in he women's quarters.

Archaeological evidence of these areas is determined by the presence of looms, olive presses, and other items associated with women's roles, being placed separately from the general living quarters. As dwellings became larger and more elaborate, these women's areas were increasingly placed further away from the front of the house, and had fewer lines of sight to the public areas, and more doors.

Although the placement of the women's quarters might be interpreted as a way to protect the "weaker sex," archaeologists and anthropologists see this elaborate segregation as a way to keep women out of the public sphere—women were not allowed to vote, for instance—and therefore under control domestically and politically by men.

The Myth of Bad Water

One of the things that "everyone knows" about the Middle Ages is that there was no clean water to be had, and so they drank beer and wine all the time.

Of course, many people preferred ale or wine or some other drink (like cider). One of the reasons modern people might think that the Middle Ages did not drink water is because it is rarely mentioned in literature. Instead, references to wine and ale are frequently found. But who bothers mentioning drinking water, when it is so plentiful and common. In a pre-industrial age, sources of clean fresh water were numerous: they drank it, cooked with it, washed things with it. Medical advice included when to drink water, and that cool water was better, although some doctors warned about drinking too much, too fast. One source believed that drinking water during a meal retards digestion.

Still, the clear benefits of drinking water were known. Lupus Servatus was a 9th century Benedictine monk and a prolific writer. One of his bits of advice was:

Let us make use of a healthy, natural drink which will sometimes be of benefit to both body and soul – if it is drawn not from a muddy cistern but from a clear well or the current of a transparent brook.

Servatus' line shows that they understood how to choose good drinking water. The abbot Ælfric of Eynsham stated his drink preferences: "Ale if I have any, or water, if I have no ale."

The need for fresh water was so well understood that cities made it a point to secure sources. Thirteenth-century London established a system called The Conduit that brought fresh water to the center of London. They expanded this as the city grew. Messing with water could be illegal: an 8th century Bavarian law made fouling a public source of water punishable by a fine and being made to clean it up thoroughly.

Clean water was plentiful and much appreciated in the Middle Ages.

The Saint of Mystic, Connecticut

Off the coast of Mystic, Connecticut is Enders Island. Only 11 acres in size, it is named for Dr. Thomas B. Enders, who purchased it in 1918 from the Sisters of Charity and used it as a private estate. In 1954, his wife gave it to the Society of St. Edmund.

Edmund Rich (1175 - 1240), who became St. Edmund, was born on the feast day of St. Edmund the Martyr (20 November), and therefore was named for that saint. His father was a wealthy merchant, hence the surname "Rich" sometimes attached to Edmund. He studied in England and France, and lectured on Rhetoric and Arithmetic at Oxford. It was said that he studied so long at night that he was known to nod off during lectures.

Some time in the early 1200s he was ordained, earned his doctorate in divinity, and started lecturing on theology. By 1222 he was made a parish vicar in Wiltshire, and eventually became Archbishop of Canterbury as a compromise candidate after Pope Gregory IX had refused to confirm three previous appointees. The confirmation was a surprise, since Edmund championed ecclesiastical independence from Rome. But Edmund also was opposed to foreigners taking important offices in England, so he took the job to avoid the chance of the pope putting an outsider in that chair.

Edmund was a powerful preacher and a strong politician. He fought Henry on his excesses against the Church. He also fought against the Pope, who wanted the Church in England firmly under papal control. On a 1240 trip to Rome, Edmund became ill at the Cistercian Pontigny Abbey and headed back to England, but died after 50 miles. The body was taken back to Pontigny. Within a year of his death, miracles were allegedly taking place at his grave, miraculous healings that motivated full canonization in only six years. His feast day is 16 November.

Although his body was left at Pontigny Abbey, relics were granted to other locations. One of his arms  made it to North America: it is in the Chapel of Our Lady of the Assumption at St. Edmund's Retreat on Enders Island in Connecticut.

The Marrying Kind, Part 3

Part 1 tells how Zoe Porphyrogenita had one fiancee die, how she rejected another, and how her first husband died.

Part 2 tells how her second husband betrayed her, and how her adoptive son tried to banish her.

Zoe and Theodora on a gold coin called a histamenon

Empress Zoe was the conduit by whom others became Emperor, but she was never allowed to be sole ruler. The Court brought her sister, Theodora, out of a monastery to be co-ruler, but Theodora did not want the job, even though she proved adept at it. That, and the two sisters' hatred for each other, meant a rocky road ahead.

Their first disagreement came when Theodora wanted to punish Michael V for banishing Zoe and precipitating a crisis. Kind-hearted Zoe wanted to pardon him, but Theodora, after offering him a pardon, had him blinded and forced into a monastery. The truth is, Theodora had the tough mindedness and skills at governing that were not possessed by Zoe. The jealous Zoe decided to marry a third time—the Greek Orthodox Church allowed her three marriages—in order to shut out the need for Theodora. But whom to pick?

There was Constantine Dalassenos, considered a potential groom years earlier, but his current attitude toward Zoe's actions made her reject him. There was Constantine Atroklines, one of her lovers during the time of Romanos, but he died a few days before the wedding—possibly poisoned by the woman he was divorcing in order to marry Zoe. What about Constantine Monomachos? He had been an earlier lover as well. They married on 11 June 1042; it was the third marriage for each of them.

Emperor Constantine IX had his own ideas about marriage to Zoe, one of which was that he be allowed to continue—quite publicly— his relationship with his mistress, Maria Skleraina. Zoe, now 64, and Theodora seemed fine with a third woman in the household. Zoe seemed to be capable of enduring anything, so long as she had a husband who did not abandon her. She spent her remaining days in entertainment and making perfumes and lotions and potions. She was considered a great beauty, with looks that lasted until she was sixty.

The Marrying Kind, Part 2

[continued from Part 1]

After Emperor Romanos III Argyros was found dead in his bath, suspicion fell on Michael the Paphlagonian. Michael had been having an affair with the Empress Zoe, who spoke openly about making him emperor. The only way that could happen was by marriage to Zoe.

The murder of Romanos II by Michael the Paphlagonian
from the Manasses Chronicle

...which is exactly what happened,  on the day immediately after Romanos was found dead. Zoe wasn't messing around. The Patriarch Alexios I was reluctant to officiate, but 50 pounds of gold helped him make up his mind. He wedded the pair, and crowned Michael IV as emperor.

Michael proved to be no more devoted (or trusting) a husband to Zoe than Romanos. Good-looking and charming, he was uneducated and suffered from seizures. Struggling with the complexities of running a government, he came to rely more and more on others, such as his brother John (John "the Eunuch" had been a government official for years). Also, fearing that Zoe would betray him like she did Romanos, he shut her out of power and confined her to the women's quarters, refusing to see her—virtually guaranteeing that she would want to betray him.

Zoe, however, was cut off from exercising any free will or political power. Her status as porphyrogenita remained valuable, however. She was the link to the imperial throne, no matter what. When it was clear in 1041 that Michael was ill and dying, John the Eunuch schemed to keep power where he could control it. He did not wish to force a marriage to Zoe. Instead, he forced her to adopt Michael, the nephew of Michael IV. Therefore, when Michael IV died on 10 December—still refusing his wife, who wanted to see him one last time—the young Michael V was crowned emperor.

John's scheme to keep control of the empire through his nephew failed, however. Emperor Michael V was a grown man (26 years old), and wanted to do things his way. Michael banished John to a monastery, welcomed back nobles whom John had banished as enemies, and declared himself as sole ruler, banishing Zoe.

Zoe, however, was too important in the eyes of the people to be dismissed. The morning Michael announced her banishment, there was a revolt demanding her reinstatement as ruler.

Zoe had endured enough. She declared Michael deposed. He fled, was pursued and, even though he had fled to a monastery and taken vows, he was killed. He had reigned four months.

Feeling that Zoe should not be sole ruler, the Court insisted that he sister Theodora be brought out of her monastery so that they could be co-rulers. The two sisters did not get along, and soon (very soon) Zoe would remember another former lover.

[to be continued]