Constructing the Cámara Santa: Architecture, History, and Authority in Medieval Oviedo

by

Flora Thomas Ward

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Department of Art University of Toronto

© Copyright by Flora Thomas Ward 2014

Constructing the Cámara Santa: Architecture, History, and Authority in Medieval Oviedo

Flora Thomas Ward

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of Art University of Toronto

2014 Abstract

My dissertation examines the Cámara Santa of the Cathedral of Oviedo as both a medieval and modern monument, shaped by twelfth-century bishops and twentieth-century restorers. I consider the space as a multi-media ensemble, containing manuscripts, metalwork, and sculpture, arguing that we must view it as a composite—if fragmented—whole. My analysis focuses on the twelfth century, a crucial period during which the structure, decoration, and contents of the Cámara Santa were reworked. A key figure in this story is Bishop Pelayo of

Oviedo (d. 1153), who sought to enhance the antiquity and authority of the see of Oviedo by means of the cult of its most important reliquary: the Arca Santa. I argue that this reliquary shapes the form and function of the twelfth-century Cámara Santa, considering the use of the space in the context of liturgy and pilgrimage. Finally, I consider the sculpture that lines the walls of the space, arguing that it animates and embodies the relics contained within the Arca

Santa, interacting with the pilgrims and canons who used the space. Thus, this sculpture represents the culmination of the long twelfth-century transformation of the Cámara Santa into a space of pilgrimage focused around the Arca Santa and the memory of the early medieval patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, a memory which abides to this day. What is importantly new about my project is this historiographic frame, combined with a theoretical approach that challenges traditional methods and interpretations. I foreground the importance of the Cámara ii

Santa for both regional and national identity. My reflexive reading of the medieval and modern histories of the Cámara Santa offers alternative interpretations for a space whose meaning has long been presented as ideologically fixed.

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a mis hermanas ovetenses,

Gema, Vio, y Maipi

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Acknowledgments

This dissertation could not have been completed without the support of numerous colleagues in Canada, Spain, and the United States. First and foremost, I would like to thank my supervisor, Jill Caskey, and the members of my committee, Adam Cohen and Mark Meyerson, for their invaluable guidance throughout this process. Thanks also to Conrad Rudolph and M. Michèle Mulchahey, who helped polish the final product.

The research and writing of this dissertation were made possible thanks to the generosity of several organizations and institutions. At the University of Toronto, I received support from the Connaught Scholarship and Graduate Expansion Fund of the University of Toronto- Mississauga. My research in Oviedo was made possible by a Samuel H. Kress Travel Fellowship and a Fulbright Full Grant. The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union's Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007-2013), ERC grant agreement no. 263036.

While in Oviedo, my research was facilitated by several generous individuals. I would like to thank the dean and chapter of the Cathedral of Oviedo, especially Don Augustín Hevía Ballina, for opening the cathedral archive and allowing me to photograph material within it. At the University of Oviedo, Raquel Alonso Álvarez provided much-needed guidance and support at every step of my research process, while Javier Fernández Conde opened many doors along the way. In Madrid, I benefitted from the company my colleagues at the Center for Humanities and Social Sciences, especially Glaire Anderson, Julio Escalona Monge, Alexandra Gajewski, Jennifer Ní Ghrádaigh, José Antonio Haro Peralta, Julie Harris, Therese Martin, and Stefanie Seeberg.

Outside of Spain, the community of scholars specializing in medieval Iberia is relatively small, but its members are both immensely knowledgeable and tremendously generous. I would like to thank John Williams for his feedback and insight over the course of my degree. James D’Emilio also generously shared his knowledge at several points during the development of my dissertation. In London, Miriam Rosser Owen of the Victoria and Albert Museum helped me develop my thinking about the casket of St. Eulalia.

Finally, I would like to thank my family and friends, without whose support none of this would have been possible. Thanks to Piers Brown for constantly pushing me to develop my v

thinking in new ways, to Amanda Dotseth for discussion about architecture and everything else, to José Manuel López for chauffeuring me to countless Romanesque churches, to Julia Perratore for sharing her photographs and explaining Aragón, and to Shannon Wearing for being my comrade in cartularies. Thanks also to the tremendous community of current and former graduate students at the Department of Art in the University of Toronto, including Anna Bücheler, Rebekah Carson, Sarah Guérin, John McQuillen, Betsy Moss, and Tianna Uchacz. My deepest gratitude goes to my parents, James Liphus Ward and Victoria Thomas.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments...... v

List of Figures ...... vii

List of Appendices ...... xvii

List of Abbreviations ...... xviii

Introduction – The Cámara Santa between Memory and History ...... 1

Chapter 1 – Constructing the Past: Architecture and Memory in the Cámara Santa...... 8

Chapter 2 – Forging the Past: Bishop Pelayo and Medieval Historiography ...... 44

Chapter 3 – Framing the Past: Relics and Reliquaries in the Cámara Santa ...... 89

Chapter 4 – Touching the Past: The Cámara Santa between Modern Restoration and Medieval Ritual...... 137

Conclusion – Monuments, Memory, and the Dead ...... 174

Bibliography ...... 182

Appendices...... 220

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List of Figures

Introduction

Figure 1. The Cámara Santa after the blast of 12 October 1934 (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 1).

Figure 2. Franco carrying the Cross of Victory, Oviedo, 7 September 1942 (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

Figure 3. Arca Santa in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

Figure 4. Cross of the Angels in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

Figure 5. Cross of Victory in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

Chapter 1

Figure 1.1. Plan of the Cathedral of Oviedo, with a detail of the area around the Cámara Santa (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 328-29).

Figure 1.2. Destruction of the cloister near the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 10).

Figure 1.3. Destruction of the Chapel of Covadonga, also known as the Chapel of San Ildefonso (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 13).

Figure 1.4. The Arca Santa and the Cross of the Angels in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 16).

Figure 1.5. The Cross of Victory in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 17.

Figure 1.6. Plan by Luis Menéndez Pidal of the crypt of Santa Leocadia and nearby buildings (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 4).

Figure 1.7. Section of the Cámara Santa, looking towards the east (left) and west (right) (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 18-19).

Figure 1.8. Closing the vault of the crypt, 15 September 1938 (Photo: Hevia, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción,” 38).

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Figure 1.9. Fragments from the exterior of the Cámara Santa, reassembled, 15 May 1939 (Photo: Hevia, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción,” 38).

Figure 1.10. Exterior of the Cámara Santa with the new opening onto the Pilgrims’ Cemetery (Photo: García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 23).

Figure 1.11. Plan by Menéndez Pidal for the new grille in the Cámara Santa (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 23).

Figure 1.12. Map of Franco’s procession (Map: James Liphus Ward).

Figure 1.13. Ruins of Calle Uria, Oviedo, in the 1930s from the series of postcards, “Oviedo. Ciudad Mártir” (Photo: Biblioteca Ramón Pérez de Ayala, Ast R C 75-6, series 1, nos. 5 and 6).

Figure 1.14. Víctor Hevia’s statue of Alfonso II in front of the Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

Figure 1.15. Bust of Alfonso II (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, title page).

Figure 1.16. Franco in the Cámara Santa, with the Liber Testamentorum in front of him (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

Figure 1.17. Fernández Buelta and Hevia’s reconstruction of the Palace of Alfonso II (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 24-25).

Figure 1.18. The Cámara Santa in the ninth (above) and twelfth centuries (below), as imagined by Víctor Hevia (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 96 and 100).

Figure 1.19. Ecclesiastical complex of medieval Oviedo, with the individual insitutions labeled as follows: (1) Cathedral of San Salvador; (2) Cámara Santa and crypt of Santa Leocadia; (3) Santa María del Rey Casto; (4) location of the original church of San Vicente; (5) cloister and dependencies of San Vicente; (6) San Pelayo; (7) cloister of San Pelayo; (8) archaeological remains between the cathedral and episcopal palace (Photo: Carrero Santamaría, “La ‘Ciudad Santa,’” fig. 1).

Figure 1.20. View of the walled up doorway between the Tower of San Miguel and the Chapel of Covadonga (Photo: author).

Figure 1.21. Plan of the basilica of Santa Eulalia de Mérida (Photo: Mateos Cruz, La Basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida, 51).

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Figure 1.22. Plan of the archaeological site at Es Cap des Ports (Photo: Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 167).

Figure 1.23. Menéndez Pidal’s plan of the Pilgrims’ Cemetery, noting location of tombs and the portico (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 26).

Chapter 2

Figure 2.1. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.2. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.3. Miniature of Julian Pomerius and Wamba, BN MS 1513, fol. 38v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.4. Miniature of Sebastian and Pelayo, BN MS 1513, fol. 43v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.5. Miniature of Sampiro, BN MS 1513, fol. 48v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.6. Miniature of Pelayo and Bermudo, BN MS 1513, fol. 64r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.7. Alfonso VI sends envoys to Rome, BN MS 1513, fol. 67v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.8. Pope Urban II with envoys, ACO MS 1, fol. 79v-80r (Photo: author).

Figure 2.9. Pope John and the messengers Siderius and Severus, ACO MS 1, fol. 5v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.10. Papal privileges, BN MS 1513, ff. 70v-71r, 71v-72r, and 72v-73r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.11. Letter of Paschal II, ACO MS 1, ff. 83r and 83v, details (Photo: author and Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis).

Figure 2.12. Privilege of Paschal II, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 17 (Photo: author).

Figure 2.13. Privilege of Urban II, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 7 (Photo: author).

Figure 2.14. Decree of Alfonso V and Elvira, BN MS 1513, fol. 102r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.15. Decree of Fernando I and Sancha, BN MS 1513, fol. 106r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.16. Cross from the vetustissimus ovetensis, BN MS 1346, fol. 1v (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.17. Pelayo at Covadonga, BN MS 2805, fol. 23r (Photo: BN).

Figure 2.18. Pelayo at Covadonga, RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 16v (Photo: RAH).

Figure 2.19. Alfonso II praying in the Cámara Santa, ACO MS 1, fol. IIIv (Photo: author). x

Figure 2.20. Ordoño I and Mummadonna, ACO MS 1, fol. 8v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.21. Alfonso III and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 18v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.22. Ordoño II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 26v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.23. Fruela II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 32v (Photo: Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis).

Figure 2.24. Bermudo II and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 49v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.25. Alfonso V and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 53v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.26. Bishop Martin, ACO MS 1, fol. 74v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.27. Bishop Pelayo and two canons, ACO MS 1, fol. 78v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.28. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 14 (Photo: author).

Figure 2.29. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO MS 1, fol. 99v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.30. Crucifixion with donors, Pantheon of the Kings, San Isidoro, León (Photo: Martin, Queen as King, plate 96).

Figure 2.31. Archbishop Adulfus, ACO MS 1, fol. 3v (Photo: author).

Figure 2.32. Successive royal signatures, León Cathedral Archive, no. 2 (Photo: Millares Carlo, Tratado de paleografía española, vol. 2, plate 110).

Chapter 3

Figure 3.1. Arca Santa, general view (Photo: Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” fig. 1).

Figure 3.2. Detail of the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 53, no. 84495).

Figure 3.3. Detail of the Crucifixion from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 57, no. 25255).

Figure 3.4. Detail of Dimas, the good thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 55, no. 84497).

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Figure 3.5. Detail of the angels atop the crucifixion of Dimas, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, folder 14, photo 54, no. 84496).

Figure 3.6. Detail of Gestas, the bad thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 64, no. 84503).

Figure 3.7. Front of the Arca Santa, before its restoration (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 32, no. 84478).

Figure 3.8. Right side of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 47, no. 84490).

Figure 3.9. Left side of the Arca Santa with the Infancy narrative (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 41, no. 84484).

Figure 3.10. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).

Figure 3.11. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(A) (Photo: author).

Figure 3.12. Detail of the monogram of Urraca, ACO series B, folder 2, number 9(A) (Photo: author).

Figure 3.13. Detail of monograms, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).

Figure 3.14. Account of the Arca Santa in the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 1r (top) and 1v (bottom) (Photo: author).

Figure 3.15. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v (Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).

Figure 3.16. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 3r (Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).

Figure 3.17. Casket of Arias (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. O4).

Figure 3.18. Gundisalvus Diptych, open (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).

Figure 3.19. Gundisalvus Diptych, closed (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).

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Figure 3.20. Casket of St. Eulalia (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 69, no. 84476).

Figure 3.21. Casket, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid, acq. no. 50867 (Photo: Maravillas de la España medieval, vol. 1, cat. no. 21).

Figure 3.22. Casket, San Isidoro (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47).

Figure 3.23. Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, now lost, formerly located in the right corner of the image (Photo: author).

Figure 3.24. Four painted relief panels in the Cathedral Museum of Oviedo (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. nos. E29, E30, E31, and E32).

Figure 3.25. Panel with Sts. Eulogius and Vincent and the arms of Charles V (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E31).

Figure 3.26. Panel with Sts. Eulalia and Lucretia and the arms of Bishop Cristóbal de Rojas y Sandoval (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E32).

Figure 3.27. Panel with Alfonso II and the archangel Gabriel (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E29).

Figure 3.28. Panel with Alfonso VI and the Virgin Mary (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E30).

Figure 3.29. Anonymous photograph of the Cámara Santa with the four panels in situ (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/3).

Figure 3.30. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso VI (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/33).

Figure 3.31. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso II (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/32).

Chapter 4

Figure 4.1. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.2. Simon and Judas Thaddeus, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.3. Thomas and Bartholomew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.4. Peter and Paul, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.5. James and John, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.6. Andrew and Matthew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.7. James the Lesser and Philip, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.8. Diagram showing the disposition of the sculptural iconography in the Cámara Santa (Diagram: James L. Ward).

Figure 4.9. Christ in Majesty surrounded by the apostles, capital above Andrew and Matthew (Photo: author).

Figure 4.10. Three Marys at the tomb of Christ, front of the capital above Peter and Paul (Photo: author).

Figure 4.11. Holy Family and unidentified figures, left face of the capital above James and John, Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.12. Annunciation with a scene of the Virgin and the prophet Isaiah, and the boar hunt, front of the capital above James and John (Photo: author).

Figure 4.13. Harrowing of Hell and the boar hunt, right face of the capital above James and John (Photo: author).

Figure 4.14. Section, plan, and details of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Amador de los Ríos, Monumentos arquitectónicos de España, unnumbered plate).

Figure 4.15. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Parcerisa, Recuerdos y bellezas, 45).

Figure 4.16. Cámara Santa, photograph from around 1898/1899 (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, Comisión Provincial de Monumentos, box 83735/3).

Figure 4.17. Santiago and John, Cámara Santa (Photo: Archivo Mas).

Figure 4.18. Apostles on the floor of Víctor Hevia’s workshop after the explosion of 1934 (Photo: Alejandro Ferrant, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 11, photo 73).

Figure 4.19. Restored apostles of the Cámara Santa (Photo: La Nueva España, 7 September 1942).

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Figure 4.20. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the figures of Simon and Judas (Photo: author).

Figure 4.21. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the staff of James (Photo: author).

Figure 4.22. Plan of the cathedral and cloister (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, unnumbered plan).

Figure 4.23. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of Simon and Judas Thaddeus (right) (Photo: author).

Figure 4.24. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of Paul (right) (Photo: author).

Figure 4.25. Entry to the chapter house, with reliefs of Peter and Paul above the doorway (Photo: author).

Figure 4.26. Photograph showing the location in the chapter house where two of the relief panels now in the cloister were found (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 161).

Figure 4.27. Cloister relief, Peter (Photo: author).

Figure 4.28. Cloister relief, Paul (Photo: author).

Figure 4.29. Cloister relief, Nicholas of Bari (Photo: author).

Figure 4.30. Cloister relief, unidentified female figure (Photo: author).

Figure 4.31. Cloister relief, unidentified male figure (Photo: author).

Figure 4.32. Cloister relief fragment, unidentified male figure (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, cat. no. 67).

Figure 4.33. Figure of Santiago, Santa Marta de Tera (Zamora) (Photo: Enciclopedia del Romanico en Zamora, 141).

Figure 4.34. Series of relief panels from the Romanesque Cathedral of León (Photo: Boto Varela, La memoria perdida, figs. 26-29).

Figure 4.35. Apse with column figures, San Martín, Uncastillo (Aragón) (Photo: Julia Perratore).

Figure 4.36. View of the carved pilasters between the apse and ambulatory, Santo Domingo de la Calzada (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.37. Apostles in the apse of La Seo de Zaragoza (Photo: Iñiguez, “El ábside de La Seo de Zaragoza,” fig. 1).

Figure 4.38. Apostles from the apse of San Juan in Alba de Tormés (Salamanca) (Photo: Enciclopedia del Románico en Castilla y León: Salamanca, 76).

Figure 4.39. Column figure from the apse of San Martín, formerly in Fuentidueña (Segovia) (Photo: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, acc. no. L.58.86).

Figure 4.40. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María de Lebanza, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 98).

Figure 4.41. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María la Real, Aguilar de Campoo, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 97).

Figure 4.42. Detail of the microarchitecture on the pedestals in the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.43. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

Figure 4.44. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Chapel of Santa María del Rey Casto (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 92).

Figure 4.45. St. George, stucco head and painted body, Saint-Chef-en-Dauphiné (Isère) (Photo: Sapin, Le Stuc, 206).

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List of Appendices

Introduction

Appendix 1. Genealogical Chart of the Kings of Asturias, ca. 718-910

Chapter 2

Appendix 2.1. Contents of the Alcalá Codex, BN MS 1358

Appendix 2.2. Contents of the Batres Codex, BN MS 1513

Appendix 2.3. Contents of the vetustissimus ovetensis, BN MS 1346

Appendix 2.4. Description of the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1

Chapter 3

Appendix 3.1. Inscription from the Lid of the Arca Santa

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List of Abbreviations

ACO Archivo de la Catedral de Oviedo

AGA Archivo General de la Administración

BAH Boletín de la Academia de Historia

BIDEA Boletín del Instituto de Estudios Asturianos

BN Biblioteca Nacional

BRAH Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia

BRIDEA Boletín del Real Instituto de Estudios Asturianos

CCCM Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis

CNRS Centre national de la recherche scientifique

CSIC Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas

IDEA Instituto de Estudios Asturianos

MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica

PL Patrologia Latina

RIDEA Real Instituto de Estudios Asturianos

xviii 1

Introduction: The Cámara Santa between Memory and History

I felt dizzy with such comings and goings of towns with strange names, with such a parade of kings and of battles, with such intricacy of relationships, marriages, and distributions of inheritances. Kings came and were killed so quickly that there was no cause to grieve their death, since one did not have time to know them. So great was the bustle that I wished that they had been finished off all at once, killed in a single battle.1

So great was the schoolboy Miguel de Unamuno’s confusion about the intricacies of medieval history that he was driven to fantasize about a single, apocalyptic battle in which all the kings who so bedeviled his history lessons would be wiped out, erased from both history and memory. Fortunately, as he goes on to narrate, Unamuno (1864-1936) was able to recall only the sketchiest details of Spanish medieval history from his school days; those kings and their endless battles did not burden the memory of this renowned writer and intellectual of the early twentieth century. The weight of history, however, was not so easily shrugged off for many of his compatriots.

The generation after Unamuno wrote his recollections of childhood was a time of turbulent change. The past erupted into the present with ever-increasing intensity. The conflicts of the present were inscribed onto the past, and the tangible monuments of that past became the sites of not only of abstract intellectual conflict, but also very real violence. As if in fulfillment of the schoolboy Unamuno’s fanciful daydream, on the morning of the twelfth of October, 1934, four hundred kilograms of dynamite were detonated in the heart of the Cathedral of Oviedo, in a small building known as the Cámara Santa (Figure 1). All of the relics of the power and sanctity of those tedious kings were “finished off all at once” in a single powerful explosion. The weight of all the history contained within—the pressure of the past upon the present—was blown up as much as the building itself.

1 “Me mareaba aquel ir y venir de pueblos, con nombres raros, aquel desfilar de reyes y de guerras, aquel intrincamiento de parentescos, matrimonios y repartos de herencias. Venían reyes y los mataban tan pronto que no había lugar a acongojarse de su muerte, pues no había tenido uno tiempo de conocerlos, y era tal el trajín, que se deseaba hubieran acabado de una vez con todos matándolas en una sola batalla.” Unamuno, Recuerdos de niñez, 125.

2

In September 1942, eight years after this dramatic explosion, General Francisco Franco participated in massive civic processions in Oviedo to celebrate the Cámara Santa’s reconstruction, carrying a tenth-century jeweled cross through the city’s streets like a latter-day medieval monarch (Figure 2). Symbolically, this procession wedded the architectural restoration of the cathedral with Franco’s “restoration” of a conservative, Catholic Spain. As these events suggest, the Cámara Santa is far from ideologically or politically neutral, an anodyne monument innocent of involvement in the “bustle” of contemporary life. This dissertation explores how the Cámara Santa was mobilized for ideological purposes in the modern era, and considers how the overtly ideological meanings attached to the structure have shaped scholarship of the medieval site.

According to the standard narrative of Asturian art, the first building on the site of the cathedral, dedicated to San Salvador, was erected by Fruela I (d. 768) in the eighth century. Following its destruction by Muslim raiders, the cathedral was rebuilt during the reign of Fruela’s son, Alfonso II (d. 842). Alfonso II is also said to have built the Cámara Santa in order to house the precious Arca Santa, a reliquary chest containing numerous relics of saints and biblical figures, assembled in Jerusalem by disciples of the apostles in the years after Christ’s death (Figure 3). In 808, the same monarch donated to the cathedral a jeweled cross that was miraculously made by a pair of angels, from which it receives its name, the Cross of the Angels (Figure 4). This cross functions as the emblem of the city of Oviedo and is found on everything from city buses to Christmas decorations, official municipal correspondence to manhole covers.

While the Cross of the Angels is the symbol of the city of Oviedo, another medieval cross is the symbol of the entire Principality of Asturias. In bright yellow on an azure background, the tenth-century Cross of Victory dominates the region’s flag. This cross was donated in 908 to the Cathedral of Oviedo by Alfonso III (d. 910) in emulation of his august predecessor Alfonso II’s donation of the Cross of the Angels (Figure 5). While this tenth-century cross was decidedly not made by angelic hands (an inscription records the more prosaic site of its manufacture at the royal fortress of Gauzón), its legendary associations have given the cross a near-sacred status. According to popular belief, the wooden core of the jeweled cross was the very cross carried in the 722 battle of Covadonga by the warrior-king, Pelayo.

Covadonga is the legendary birthplace of the Reconquest, a term given by modern historians to the centuries-long struggle to restore Christian order following the eighth-century

3

Muslim invasion of the Iberian peninsula. According to the classic account of the Reconquest, the territorial expansion of the Muslim invaders was halted at the battle of Covadonga by a group of Asturian fighters under the leadership of Pelayo, said to be the progenitor of the line of Asturian kings who made Oviedo their capital (see Appendix 1). According to this reductive teleology, the Christian kings of Asturias are the progenitors of the Reconquest—and of the kings of Castilla and León who finally accomplish their mission of Reconquest in 1492, unifying Spain and forming the basis for the modern state. Within this narrative, Asturias—Oviedo in particular—becomes the point of origin of medieval Spanish history and modern national identity.

The ninth-century Cámara Santa did not, of course, reach the twentieth century unscathed. During the twelfth century, both the ninth-century fabric of the cathedral and the records of its early history were reworked in order to grant antiquity and authority to the diocese. I argue that the textual, pictorial, and monumental transformations of the twelfth century have come to frame our understanding of the Cámara Santa. This ninth-century structure was a small, two-storey building, whose upper storey became known as the Cámara Santa. This space was not, so far as we know, vaulted, and there are no references to interior decoration. The Cámara Santa did not begin life as a monumental reliquary built by Alfonso II to house the Arca Santa. Rather, documentary sources indicate that it was built in the late ninth century as a treasury, whose interior was not intended for a wide audience but rather was built to be a secure place to store precious royal and ecclesiastical possessions. The Cámara Santa was radically transformed in the twelfth century in terms of both its form and its function. The space was expanded and vaulted, and later in the twelfth century an elaborate program of decoration, including sculpture and painting, was added. As I argue, these changes to the building must be interpreted in tandem with the changing meaning and function of the treasury from a small stronghold to a far more public site of pilgrimage, in which the spiritual and material treasures of the Asturian Monarchy were displayed to pilgrims. The most important of these treasures by far was the Arca Santa, and this reliquary is central to the transformation of the structure and meaning of the Cámara Santa that occured over the course of the twelfth century. I argue that the Arca Santa was installed in the Cámara Santa during the late eleventh century, and its cult gained wide diffusion beginning in the early twelfth century thanks to the writings of Bishop Pelayo of Oviedo (d. 1153). The architectural setting of the reliquary was adapted in the late twelfth century in response to the

4 success of the cult of the Arca Santa and to changes in the organization of the cathedral chapter, whose canons served as the curators of the space.

The simplicity of this schematic synchronic narrative of the history of the Cámara Santa is belied by complex layers of meaning granted to the space within both our twelfth-century sources and later twentieth-century reconstruction. Rather than reconstruct a single original, authentic Cámara Santa stripped of associations, transformations, and interpretations, I am concerned with exploring these layers of meaning and how they work with—and against—the physical building, its contents and decoration. I examine the long life of the building, its contents and decoration, in order to highlight the role played by the site in developing narratives of local and national history. This is not, therefore, a work of traditional architectural history; the building acts as a conceptual container, laden with centuries of meaning. The organization of this dissertation is thus strongly diachronic. While each chapter is grounded in analysis of twelfth- century material, I bring in other historical frames of reference. Each chapter functions like a diptych, in which the reader is invited to contemplate the ongoing dialogue between historical periods and artistic media that are typically isolated from one another. This conversation across time and media is crucial to our understanding of the Cámara Santa as a complex, composite monument with multiple pasts and forms.

I begin by considering the physical structure of the Cámara Santa in light of twentieth- century restoration. Our knowledge of the archaeology of the larger site depends almost entirely on the excavations performed in the wake of its destruction in 1934, while the reconstruction carried out after these excavations has shaped our contemporary experience of the monument. I highlight the ideologically charged meanings given to the Cámara Santa by partisans of both left and right before, during, and after the Spanish Civil War. After the victory of the forces led by Franco, the tiny treasury of Oviedo Cathedral played a prominent role in the strategies of legitimation of the new Francoist government, as reconstruction became not just an architectural, but also a political, necessity. In contrast to these politically conservative, nationalist interpretations of the Cámara Santa, in the second half of the chapter I reconsider the early form and function of the space: a two-storey structure, a treasury atop a crypt. I explore the concept of the treasury, both the collection of precious objects and their architectural frame, and its relationship to the commemoration of the dead. I argue that the early Cámara Santa gradually opened up over the course of the eleventh and twelfth centuries as the form, function, and

5 meaning of the space was transformed into a site of memory of monarchs past and a site of pilgrimage to the venerable relics housed there. I propose an interpretation of the Cámara Santa not as the ideologically fixed monument it has become, but as a fluid container for changing meanings over the course of the Middle Ages.

In the second chapter, I look more closely at the historiographic material that informs the ideological interpretation of the Cámara Santa implicit in its twentieth-century restoration and ongoing valorization. I focus on the textual production of the early twelfth-century bishop of Oviedo, Pelayo (d. 1153). Pelayo oversaw the production of the Liber Testamentorum, an illuminated cartulary containing copies of documents attesting to the privileges and possessions of the cathedral, and the Liber Cronicorum, a universal chronicle that grants Oviedo and its early medieval monarchs a privileged status. I argue that his historiographic labors produce a set of meanings and interpretations of the early medieval history of the Cámara Santa and its precious contents that inform subsequent adaptations of the site. I aim to show, however, how closer study of the Pelagian corpus complicates our vision of the Asturian past and the interests and intentions of its twelfth-century interpreters. While much of early medieval Asturian historiography has been interpreted as an attempt to bring Visigothic Toledo back to life in Oviedo, I argue that we see a much more complex and ambivalent attitude towards the legacy of the Goths in the writings of Pelayo. The relationship between Oviedo and Rome, rather than Oviedo and Toledo, was of primary interest to Pelayo. Finally, I consider the visual rhetoric of Pelayo’s cartulary, exploring the memorial function of the images. The images of the Liber Testamentorum witness and re-enact the reciprocal relationship between monarchs and bishops, presenting an idealized vision of royal patronage of the Cathedral of Oviedo, whose memory is kept alive down to the present day.

The centerpiece of Pelayo’s historiographic project, and of the space of the Cámara Santa itself, is the large reliquary chest known as the Arca Santa. Bishop Pelayo recounts how this ark, assembled by disciples of the apostles in the Holy Land, made its perilous way to Asturias and finally to the Cámara Santa by the early ninth century. I dedicate the next chapter to this enigmatic ark and the texts and objects surrounding it. I argue that the Arca Santa, specifically as it is described and interpreted in the texts of Pelayo, is the key to understanding the Cámara Santa, its subsequent devotional use and decoration. I explore part of that subsequent use in the second portion of this chapter, which examines a pair of sixteenth-century painted and gilded

6 panels depicting the opening of the Arca Santa. I locate the Arca Santa within a constellation of objects and images, activated by liturgical performance and pilgrimage that together conserve the memory of the reliquary’s contents and royal patrons.

The final chapter concentrates on the late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa, which consists of a group of twelve sculpted apostles flanking the north and south walls of the space, as well as the sculpted heads of Christ, the Virgin, and John above the western entrance. This sculptural decoration animates and embodies the narrative of the Arca’s apostolic origins, interacting with the pilgrims who come to see and revere the relics, as well as the canons who controled access to this sacred space. The presence of these pilgrims is difficult to discern; the destruction of the building eliminated their physical traces, an erasure underscored by the disciplinary narratives of art history that have focused on questions of style and dating, rather than audience and reception. I take a critical look at the historiography of the sculpture of the apostolado, and its emergence in the nineteenth century as an art historical monument. A crucial figure in this analysis is the sculptor Víctor Hevia (1885-1957), whose multiple interventions in the sculpture between 1900 and 1942 shape the ongoing study and reception of the Cámara Santa. Hevia and his restorations function as a hinge within this chapter, which moves between making and meaning in the twelfth century and the twentieth.

My approach stems from the fundamental fact that the medieval Cámara Santa no longer exists. What was left of it was blown up in 1934, and the monument that was rebuilt over the next eight years is a hybrid historicist creation. Reconstruction did not replace the Cámara Santa, but rather multiplied it, adding yet another layer to this complex structure, one that must be studied in conjunction with its earlier incarnations. Rather than viewing these events as unrelated to the medieval history of the site, a mere modern postscript, I argue that these events underscore the extent to which medieval and modern are woven together, imbricated within each other on both a structural and symbolic level. To separate medieval from modern is to ignore the restored monument before our eyes, and to drain the site of the power that makes it resonate through the centuries and down to the present day.2 The Cámara Santa confronts us with the fact that history

2 A small but growing number of publications are using this sort of diachronic approach to architecture: Camerlenghi, “The Longue Durée;” Trachtenberg, Building-in-time; Marquardt and Jordan, eds., Medieval Art and Architecture; Marquardt, From Martyr to Monument; Nelson, Hagia Sofia, 1850-1950.

7 and its monuments belong entirely neither to the past nor to the present, but, somewhat uncomfortably, to both.

8

Chapter 1 Constructing the Past: Architecture and Memory in the Cámara Santa

Let me begin by describing a visit to the Cámara Santa today. While visitors are free to wander around the nave and transept of the Cathedral of Oviedo, they enter into a deliberately musealized space when they wish to see the Cámara Santa. First, a ticket must be purchased in a small chamber off of the south transept, rehabilitated following restoration for its use as a ticket office and souvenir shop. There is no guided tour, although visitors are provided with a small leaflet describing the Cámara Santa. From there, the visitor’s route is set out: first up the stairs installed in the Romanesque tower known as the torre vieja, then into a large antechamber in the upper storey. This is a large, empty space, free of any interpretation or explanation, and decorated only with color photographs of the Cross of the Angels and Holy Shroud. Most tourists spend little time in this space, which is unsurprising, given that they are given no context for what they are looking at. Most head directly down the small flight of stairs, underneath the fifteenth-century doorway decorated with a sculpture of a pair of angels holding a depiction of the famous cross donated by Alfonso II, and into yet another antechamber, the Tower of San Miguel. This is another completely uninterpreted space, though the large plaque dedicated to Víctor Hevia Granda on the right of the doorway into the Cámara Santa does hint at its tumultuous history of destruction and restoration. Passing through another doorway, tourists reach the Cámara Santa itself, brightly illuminated, revealing its magnificent sculpture in all its (lamentably dusty) glory. A large metal grille separates the main nave of the chamber from the apse area, where the relics are kept. Yet another layer separates visitors from the famous Arca Santa, for the reliquary is kept in a sealed glass case.

Inside the Cámara Santa, the visitor relies on the pamphlet purchased with the ticket, which describes the construction of the building by Alfonso II in the early ninth century to house the cathedral’s famous collection of relics. This space was, so we are told, used as a private chapel by the king himself, whose palace was nearby. In this interpretation, the Cámara Santa is blessed with both royal and divine favor. Despite the emphasis placed on the sacrality of the space’s contents, there is little room for displays of religious devotion. The Cámara Santa, as far as I know, has no contemporary liturgical use, and the only relic that is regularly used, the Holy Shroud, once part of the collection in the Arca, is now kept in another location. To all intents and

9 purposes, the Cámara Santa has been voided of its sacred contents; now, its air of sacrality comes from its status as an artistic monument. And not just any monument, but one which has been resurrected through restoration.

Today’s visitor to the Cámara Santa encounters an artistic monument replete with historical significance, whose form and meaning is presented as whole, fixed, and unchanging. It is a shrine to the Asturian monarchy and its saintly kings, particularly Alfonso II. Despite the importance granted to this site in modern memory and medieval history, it is strangely difficult for the visitor to get any sense of the building’s past; the walls are smooth, and recent repairs appear to have been made with modern Portland cement, a glaring anachronism in a medieval space. The Cámara Santa feels above all like a modern monument, a mere repository for the historical meaning attributed to it, which is not visible in the structure itself. In this chapter, I confront the alienation of the building from its own past by examining the history of transformation of the site in both the medieval and modern eras. I seek to recover a sense of the Cámara Santa as a space whose meanings and functions shifted over its long history, rather than as the ideologically fixed monument that it has become.

This chapter functions as a diptych, in which the modern and medieval halves work together to create a diachronic dialogue. I examine the structure of the Cámara Santa, both its medieval origins and adaptations, as well as how it was reconfigured during the processes of destruction and restoration during the first half of the twentieth century. First, I analyze the rhetoric of a series of texts from the 1930s and ’40s in order to situate the building in a complex network of conflicting narratives about the past and its monuments. These debates continue to resonate down to the present day, as shown in the introduction. I then turn to the rituals surrounding the reconsecration of the Cámara Santa, whose overtly ideological National Catholicism has effectively been erased from memory, but which, I argue, remains implicit in the ongoing preservation and promotion of the site. I also consider how scholarship on the medieval monument, including its archaeological excavation in the 1940s, has been shaped by the ideological concerns of early Francoism.

The hinge in this diptych is the figure of José Cuesta Fernández, canon and archivist of the Cathedral of Oviedo, who wrote the most thorough and authoritative guide to the cathedral during the post-war period. Cuesta is a crucial figure in the making of the modern Cámara Santa, as well as for the interpretation of the medieval site. After tracing the outlines of Cuesta’s still-

10 influential historical narrative, I consider the medieval origins and transformations of the Cámara Santa. My analysis builds on recent scholarship in order to explore alternative interpretations of the space and its function that do not fit easily within the ideological narratives that so dominate the study of early medieval Asturian art and architecture.

I focus on competing interpretations of the structure’s form and function, placing it within the context of the early medieval city of Oviedo. Fundamentally, the original Cámara Santa must be understood as part of a two-storey complex, consisting of a treasury above a crypt. These two distinct spaces are frequently conflated, as if “Cámara Santa” were a shorthand way of referring to both storeys of the structure. I wish to distinguish between these two separate spaces, whose function and meaning were distinct, but complementary. The distinction between these two spaces was collapsed at some point over the course of the late eleventh and twelfth centuries, when the cult of the relics (and perhaps even some of the relics themselves) literally moved upstairs to the Cámara Santa. As we will see, this chronology coincides with the emergence of the cult of the Arca Santa, the cathedral’s most important reliquary, which I discuss in chapter three. With the Arca Santa taking pride of place in the Cámara Santa, the former thesaurum transformed into a site of pilgrimage, and I argue in my last chapter that the late twelfth-century decoration of the space engages directly with this new function as a site of pilgrimage. The twelfth-century incarnation of the Cámara Santa must thus be seen as distinct from its early medieval meaning and function, which I explore in this chapter.

From 1934 to 1942: The Destruction and Restoration of the Cámara Santa

On the morning of 12 October 1934, four hundred kilograms of dynamite exploded in the crypt of Santa Leocadia, beneath the upper storey chapel dedicated to San Miguel (see plan, Figure 1.1). The crypt was almost entirely destroyed, while the upper storey fared slightly better. The chapel San Miguel, a barrel-vaulted space consisting of a larger, high-ceilinged nave and a smaller apse-like area at the east end, maintained a large part of the north wall, but the south wall and vault were destroyed (see Figure 1). The section of the cloister that abutted the south wall was badly damaged (Figure 1.2), and the wall separating the area immediately in front of the Cámara Santa and the chapel to the north, now dedicated to the Virgin of Covadonga but then

11 known as the Chapel of San Ildefonso, was destroyed (Figure 1.3).3 The precious relics housed in the Cámara Santa, including the Arca Santa, Cross of the Angels (Figure 1.4), and Cross of Victory (Figure 1.5), were recovered from the rubble, and were restored along with the building itself.

Nearly one month after these dramatic events, on 9 November 1934, Manuel Gómez Moreno, one of Spain’s foremost experts on medieval art and architecture, gave a report to the Academy of History in Madrid about the destruction of the Cámara Santa. His heartfelt account reveals how the academic discourse of art history could intersect with political rhetoric. The learned context and tenor of his remarks contrast sharply with the obviously passionate feelings the events of October inspire in him. He resorts to historical parallels in order to express his outrage. “Not since the invasion of the barbarians,” he writes, “has such a thing been witnessed, and any other comparison remains obsolete, because such destruction has no precedents, even among the disasters of the Great War.”4 In this historicizing interpretation, the revolutionaries become twentieth-century equivalents of the invading hordes of barbarians of the Middle Ages.5 Their destruction is pure vandalism, random and meaningless: “the remains of the famous sculptures and reliquaries and sacred treasures that were the palladium of the Reconquest lay about in a mad and unlikely dispersion.”6

3 Luis Menéndez Pidal, the architect responsible for the post-Civil War restoration of the Cámara Santa, describes its destruction in his “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 7-9. A contemporary description of the events of 1934 can be found in Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción de la Cámara Santa.” For modern scholarship on the destructions of 1934, see the account by Madrid Álvarez, “La edad contemporanea,” 261-68. See also García Cuetos, El prerrománico asturiano and Chapapría and García Cuetos, Alejandro Ferrant, vol. 2, 91-101.

4 “Desde la invasión de los bárbaros no se habría presenciado cosa igual, y cualquiera otra comparación queda superada, porque una voladura así, ni aun entre los desastres de la Gran Guerra tiene precedentes.” Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” 607.

5 This trope is far from unique to the twentieth-century Spanish context. Gamboni discusses it with reference to a broader European context in his The Destruction of Art, 13-24.

6 “Un monte de cuatro a seis metros de altura, en que se revuelven enormes ladrillos, sillares, pedruscos, tejas y maderas, con todo el detrito de lo hundido, rellenaban su ámbito, y entre medias, en una dispersión loca e inverosímil, yacían los restos de las famosas esculturas y de los relicarios y preseas sagradas que fueron paladion de la Reconquista.” Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” 608.

12

In the context of this reference to the Reconquest, Gómez Moreno’s barbarians can be interpreted as the Arab armies that invaded the Iberian peninsula in the eighth century.7 Early Francoist rhetoric forged a parallel between the medieval Reconquest of the peninsula from the Muslims and the latter-day “Crusade” of the 1930s against left-wing, liberal “Moors.” Franco frequently referred to the battle of Covadonga in speeches, representing himself as a latter-day Pelayo.8 Covadonga was not merely invoked as a rhetorical trope; in 1939, the Virgin of Covadonga, the eighteenth-century cult statue that had disappeared during the Civil War, was recovered and restored to the basilica at a large ceremony presided over both by the Bishop of Oviedo and Franco’s wife, who was from Oviedo.9 Covadonga was one of many historically significant and specifically medieval sites in Asturias whose meaning and monumental form were shaped during the dictatorship of Franco, underscoring the extent to which the physical sites of the past were imbricated in this rhetorical use of historical material by the new Francoist regime.10

Gómez Moreno does not explicitly politicize the Cámara Santa in his discourse, but he uses arguments about the site’s value as an artistic and historical monument in order to elicit outrage at its destruction. Left-wing texts produced in the aftermath of the October Revolution likewise engage with the rhetoric of art history and its valorization of the monument, although they take a more critical stance. Post-war rhetoric painted the opponents of Franco as enemies of culture, history, and the church who reveled in the destruction of works of art and, especially, religious buildings. It is, therefore, important to explore the profound and complex ambivalence about the status of historical and ecclesiastical monuments felt by contemporary left-wing writers.

7 I am grateful to Mark Meyerson for his discussion with me of this point.

8 Barrachina, Propagande et culture, 142.

9 Boyd, “The Second Battle of Covadonga,” 57. As Boyd’s article makes clear, the history of commemoration at Covadonga has roots far deeper than the period of Franco. The basilica and shrine there today were erected in the late nineteenth century, largely thanks to the efforts of the bishops of Oviedo. The statue itself dates to the period after the entire site was destroyed by fire in 1777, although there presumably had existed an earlier, perhaps medieval cult image.

10 On the reconstruction at Covadonga, see Menéndez Pidal, La Cueva de Covadonga.

13

La revolución fue así by Manuel Benavides (1895-1947) and Octubre rojo en Asturias by José Díaz Fernández (1898-1941), both published in 1935 during the immediate aftermath of the revolution, invoke both the language of scholarship and the figures of scholars themselves, creating an image of the building as the literal embodiment of the enemy.11 In the voice of the reporter-cum-narrator, both Benavides and Díaz Fernández ruminate over the meaning of the destruction of the Cámara Santa, framing it as a conflict between logic and superstition, between military pragmatism and historic preservation. According to Benavides:

A superstition among scholars about culture often tied the hands of the revolutionaries. […] Those who had to shout most loudly about the loss of the Cámara Santa—“Romanesque work of great value, constructed by the king of Asturias Alfonso the Chaste and dedicated to St. Michael,” as the shaggy chronicler of the government wrote—were the first to sanction the conversion of its towers into a fortress with the cross on high, a cross which only opens its arms to welcome the Civil Guard.12

Díaz Fernández is less strident than Benavides: “The miners knew nothing of archaeology or history, and the scholars cowered in terror inside their dark cellars at that time, while the cannon thundered and the machine gun roared from the tower.”13 Both authors show a clear awareness of the debates surrounding the value of historic monuments, and the specific art historical language in which these debates were conducted.

11 For more on the literary production of these figures, see Esteban and Santonja, Los novelistas sociales españoles.

12 “Una superstición de bachilleres por la cultura ató muchas veces las manos de los revolucionarios. No les servía el ejemplo de los enemigos. Los que habían de gritar más fuerte por la pérdida de la Cámara Santa—“pieza románica de gran mérito, construída por el rey de Asturias Alfonso el Casto bajo la advocación de San Miguel,” como escribió el lanudo cronista del Gobierno—fueron los primeros en aprobar que se convirtieran en fortaleza sus torres con la cruz en lo alto, una cruz que sólo abre sus brazos para acoger a la guardia civil.” Benavides, La revolución fue así, 283-84.

13 “Los mineros no sabían arqueología, ni historia, y los eruditos estaban a aquellas horas aterrados en sus sótanos oscuros, mientras tronaba el cañón y tableteaba la ametralladora de la torre.” Díaz Fernández, Octubre rojo en Asturias, 114.

14

Beneath this strident condemnation of, in Benavides’ words, the “superstition about culture,” both authors offer evidence that opinion concerning the destruction of the Cámara Santa was sharply divided among the revolutionaries. Benavides describes the events leading up to the explosion. The revolutionary gunners had established their position on Mount Naranco, a high ground to the north of the city center, in order to fire on the positions still held by the Civil Guard—among them, the gothic tower of the cathedral. One of the members of the revolutionary committee asks, “What are the men on Naranco doing?” “Attacking the cathedral,” another responds. “What barbarians! They are going to destroy an artistic jewel! I do not accept responsibility for this foolishness!” To which the gunners on Mount Naranco reply, “And what good to us is this jewel?”14 The transformation of the cathedral into an art historical treasure seems to correspond in Benavides’ mind to its symbolic and military appropriation by anti-

14 “Al tercer cañonazo preguntó el Comité:

¿Qué hacen los del Naranco?

Atacan la catedral.

¡Qué bárbaros! ¡Van a destruir una joya artística! Yo no acepto la responsibilidad de ese desatino.

Creía honradamente que era preferible renunciar a rendir la catedral antes que destruirla. La historia de España sublevaríase contra semejante atentado. Corrió la orden:

¡Eh, avisar a los del Naranco! ¡La catedral es una joya artística! La historia de España...

Enconstráronse con unos camilleros:

¿Muertos?

Heridos.

¿Dónde?

En la plaza de Porlier. Si no vuelan la catedral, no haremos cosa de provecho.

El Comité dice que es una joya artística.

Encogiéronse de hombros los camilleros. Un herido preguntó: ¿Qué dice el Comité?

Que la catedral es una joya artística.

Hubo que sujetarlo; el herido quería echarse fuera de la camilla, con un hombro deshecho por los proyectiles de la catedral, para preguntarle al Comité qué entendía por joya artística.” Benavides, La revolución fue así, 282-83.

15 revolutionary forces. The ominously looming cross, which opens its arms only for the enemies of the Republic, has been conflated with the jewels within the treasury of the Cámara Santa, and the architectural jewel itself. The cathedral has become an embodiment of the enemy, literally firing upon the revolutionaries, as is made explicit in Díaz Fernández’s account. He describes how the order from the revolutionary committee to the gunners: “Do not fire on the cathedral. That would give a bad impression of the revolution.” To which one responds, “You don’t want us to fire on the cathedral. But the cathedral is firing on us.”15

The transformation of the cathedral into an enemy position was frequently invoked as the reason why the Cámara Santa was destroyed. In his two-volume compendium of 1984, Asturias 1934, Paco Ignacio Taibo strives for an even-handed treatment of the events of October 1934. He lists all of the sites destroyed during the course of fighting, juxtaposing those destroyed by revolutionaries with those destroyed by government forces. He claims that, with a couple of exceptions, “all of the […] fires and destructions were done in the midst of combat for military objectives.”16 This insistence on the logic of revolutionary destruction is in sharp contrast to claims that the revolutionaries were indiscriminate vandals who caused utter destruction. The artist Ignacio Zuloaga’s (1870-1945) neat equation of 1937 summarizes this view: “A conservative policy—that of the new Spain, that of Franco. A destructive policy—the Red policy, the Bolshevist policy.”17

While left-wing texts reveal deep ambivalence about the meaning of artistic and historical treasures, after the outbreak of the Civil War in 1936, Nationalists enthusiastically embraced the

15 “Donde se combatía con verdadera furia era en la plaza de la Catedral. Peña, a los artilleros del Naranco, les había rogado desde el primer día:

--No tiréis contra la Catedral. Eso sería de mal efecto para la revolución. Pero la Catedral se convirtió en posición estratégica de los revolucionarios, para defender el Gobierno civil. Algún obrero le dijo a Peña: --Tú no querías tirar contra la Catedral. Pero la Catedral tira contra nosotros.” Díaz Fernández, Octubre rojo en Asturias, 113.

16 “En descargo de ambas fuerzas habría que decir que con la excepción del incendio de Avance y la voladura del Instituto, atribuida a un grupo de incontrolados que querían deshacerse de los presos de derecha, todos los demás incendios y voladuras se hicieron en combate y en función a objetivos bélicos.” Taibo, Asturias 1934, vol. 2, 243.

17 Zuloaga’s remarks appear in English translation in the first issue of the journal Spain, 8. This journal began publication in 1937 with an explicitly pro-Franco focus, oriented to foreign, English-speaking readers.

16 rhetoric of culture and the positive value of monuments themselves.18 If, as they claimed, the Republican strategy was one of total destruction, the Nationalists responded with a strategy of total reconstruction. While the Civil War still raged, Franco established several bureaucratic entities responsible for the promotion, preservation, and reconstruction of Spain’s monuments.19 This campaign of reconstruction was both architectural and ideological, striving to create national unity and homogeneity under the leadership of Franco.20 The formation of a national treasury of historic monuments and works of art helped to constitute Spanish national identity, their preservation acting as a strategy for legitimation for the new government.21

In the case of the Cámara Santa, the historical monuments restored by the Francoist government become not only didactic sites for the diffusion of state-sponsored ideology, but also performative sites used to stage and legitimate Franco’s rule. When Luis Menéndez Pidal y Álvarez (1896-1975) was appointed chief conservator of monuments in Asturias in 1937, he was asked “about which projects it would be best to undertake as soon as possible, in the interests of our Monuments, […] so that they might serve as propaganda in foreign lands for the national cause.” He replied “without hesitation that the first project undertaken in Asturias ought to be the reconstruction of the Cámara Santa.”22 The Cámara Santa in particular thus had the power to

18 On both Republican and Nationalist attempts to preserve artistic patrimony, see Viejo-Rose, Reconstructing Spain, 38-42.

19 As early as December 1936, Franco ordered that each province establish a committee for the oversight of the national artistic patrimony. Alted Vigil, Política del Nuevo Estado, 75.

20 See discussion in Pérez Escolano, “Guerra Civil y Regiones Devastadas,” 139.

21 For a similar discussion of how Francoist artists used art-historical references to construct the propagandistic image of Franco, see Basilio, “Genealogies for a New State.”

22 “Refiriéndome ya a la etapa que me es bien conocida en la reconstrucción de los Monumentos de Asturias, por haber tenido ocasión de participar en ella, diré que al llegar a territorio nacional me encomendó don Eugenio D’Ors, entonces Director General de Bellas Artes, me hiciera cargo de las ruinas de nuestros monumentos, señalando con especial veneración a los restos de la Cámara Santa. Entonces el Ilustre Arquitecto y nuestro amigo don Pedro Muguruza, me preguntó sobre las obras que convendría hacer cuanto antes por interés hacia nuestros Monumentos, y también para que ello sirviera de propaganda en el extranjero a favor de la causa nacional, respondiéndole sin vacilación que la obra primera a realizar en Asturias debería ser la reconstrucción de la Cámara Santa, como así se hizo después, siguiéndole otras en la Catedral y su Torre, obras que todavía hoy continúan por el gran interés que en

17 embody the early Francoist government’s sense of identity, and the monument’s reconstruction was an important strategy of legitimation.

Reinforcing the site’s ideological importance, Menéndez Pidal left numerous writings about his work at the Cámara Santa, as well as a series of drawings and plans (Figures 1.6 and 1.7). It is worth noting, however, that most of these publications occurred well after the completion of restoration.23 Close examination of Menéndez Pidal’s writings reveals not only the architect’s working methods, but also the philosophical underpinnings of his practice of restoration. He states that he began by reinforcing the ruins, then moving to reconstruct the vault of the crypt “with the same stones that were recovered from the ruins” (Figure 1.8).24 He then dismantled the walls, labeling all of the stones so that they could be re-used in the reconstruction (Figure 1.9). After the crypt was complete, he rebuilt the walls of the upper storey. Work began on the vault above the apse at the east end, moving on to the nave, and, finally, to the remaining areas damaged in the explosion.

Menéndez Pidal introduced a series of changes to the monument, particularly to the crypt of Santa Leocadia. He opened a doorway from the crypt onto the so-called Pilgrims’ Cemetery to the east, so that the early medieval buttresses discovered during restoration could be viewed (Figure 1.10). The crypt was then covered in what he terms Roman-style concrete, despite the lack of evidence that such a covering had been used in the Middle Ages. New stone window grilles, modeled on surviving stone grille in the ninth-century church of San Julián de los Prados, were put in place in both the crypt and upper storey. In the Cámara Santa, Menéndez Pidal installed a metal grille between the space of the nave and apse, in emulation of what Ambrosio de Morales described in his sixteenth-century visit to the cathedral (Figure 1.11). Exterior

ellas ha puesto desde un principio nuestro invicto Caudillo, con la intervención de Regiones Devastadas, órgano creado para llevar a cabo reconstrucción nacional, como ha logrado tan brillantemente con los resultados conseguidos.” Menéndez Pidal, Los monumentos de Asturias, 42. See also his “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 12.

23 Menéndez Pidal, “Catedral de Oviedo;” Los monumentos de Asturias; “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo.” The earliest publication dealing with the restoration is the article he wrote together with Hevia Granda, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción.”

24 Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 14.

18 sculptural elements, including a series of metopes and corbels that had been damaged in the explosion, were replaced with similar elements found in the area next to the so-called torre vieja (see plan, Figure 1.1). Menéndez Pidal suggests that these pieces had been moved there from the western facade of the Cámara Santa when the Gothic cloister was built. The precise location of these structural elements remains unknown, and recent work on the reformation of the tower during the eleventh century has not addressed whether or not the sculpture reused in the Cámara Santa could have once been located here.25

The architect emphasizes that “each ornamental sculptural element, ashlar block, and uncut stone … occupied the same location in which it had been placed originally, thus returning to form a part of the monument with the same order that it had before its destruction.”26 As Pilar García Cuetos has pointed out, when placed in its post-war context, Menéndez Pidal’s philosophy and practice of restoration at the Cámara Santa take on an ideological valence.27 The architect describes his restoration as an example of the highest and purest anastylosis.28 According to the 1931 Athens Charter, “[i]n the case of ruins, scrupulous conservation is necessary, and steps should be taken to reinstate any original fragments that may be recovered (anastylosis), whenever this is possible; the new materials used for this purpose should in all cases be recognizable.”29 Despite Menéndez Pidal’s invocation of anastylosis, his actual working practice reveals crucial discrepancies with the ideals of the Athens Charter. He describes how he dismantled the damaged remains that were left standing, cataloguing all the stones, proceeding to rebuild the structure “using the ancient stones that had been collected, together with other new

25 García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 68-69.

26 “Después de reconstruir de este modo cada elemento escultórico ornamental, sillares y mampuestos, cada uno de ellos iba ocupar el lugar donde estaba su originario emplazamiento, volviendo así a formar parte del monumento con la misma ordenación que tuvo antes de su destrucción.” Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 14.

27 García Cuetos, El prerrománico asturiano, 118-32.

28 Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 17.

29 For the text of the Athens Charter, see Petzet and Ziesemer, eds. International Charters for Conservation and Restoration, 31-32.

19 stones, made like those ancient ones.”30 He repeatedly underscores the authenticity of his reconstruction, based on his reuse of original building materials. For Menéndez Pidal, what is new should look old, and the historical integrity of the Cámara Santa is maintained even as it is rebuilt in its entirety.

As Robert Ousterhout has argued in reference to the Byzantine interventions at the church of the Holy Sepulcher, monuments built to house precious relics often acquire the status of relics themselves.31 Menéndez Pidal’s simultaneous and seemingly contradictory commitment to both scientific anastylosis and complete reconstruction reveals another aspect of Francoist medievalism. Like medieval builders before him, Menéndez Pidal treats the Cámara Santa as an essential unity, its form, function, and meaning unchanged despite repeated structural interventions. Moreover, he treats the very stones themselves as if they were relics as reconstruction takes on a near-ritual aspect. Enhancing this ritual aspect was the participation of Franco himself in the reconstruction process, for he laid the final paving stone on 17 September 1939.32 These examples reveal the extent to which ideological ends have been woven into the physical means of reconstruction. The working practices of Menéndez Pidal become an apt metaphor for the ideological reconstruction of the Spanish past during this period. The architect combined the stone salvaged from the site of the explosion with new stone in order to produce an edifice that was whole and complete, bearing no scars of its recent violent destruction. Similarly, Francoist rhetoric used fragments of historical matter to fashion a new ideology of Spanish history, erasing the process of construction, effacing signs of conflict, and naturalizing its product as already-existing historical truth.

This ritual quality implicit in Menéndez Pidal’s reconstruction technique becomes explicit eight years after the initial destruction of the Cámara Santa, when the space was reconsecrated in an elaborate ceremony. Franco’s personal involvement with the reconstruction

30 “El apeo y consolidación de ruinas en los reducidos restos del venerable Monumento fueron los primeros trabajos llevados a cabo, juntamente con el descombro de las zonas donde se iba a operar; siguiendo después con el cierre de la cripta se completa la bóveda, empleando las baldosas antiguas recogidas y con otras nuevasa hechas como aquellas.” Menéndez Pidal, Los monumentos de Asturias, 50.

31 Ousterhout, “Architecture as Relic,” 4.

32 Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 16.

20 of the Cámara Santa culminated in an elaborate procession through the streets of Oviedo in September 1942. Franco, along with a papal nuncio, members of the military and Civil Guard, and representatives of the local and national governments, the church and the University of Oviedo, carried the most precious relics of the cathedral back to their home in the newly rebuilt Cámara Santa. The procession through the ruined streets of Oviedo both celebrated the Cámara Santa’s reconstruction and also reminded everyone of its initial destruction at the hands of the “reds” in 1934. The ceremonial rhetoric of this procession joined in the relentless chorus of Francoist propaganda, which reiterated again and again in stark, absolute terms the dichotomy between the valiant, Christian Nationalist forces of Franco and the godless communists, veritable twentieth-century barbarians.

Witnesses to the events of 1942 must have seen a curious mixture of ruin and restoration. Despite the misery of the years immediately after the Civil War, considerable money and effort was put into the reconstruction of a number of symbolic locations, as well as the urban reconfiguration of the city as a whole to reflect the ideology of the new ruling Falangist party. Streets were renamed, monuments built, and a new complex of government buildings planned.33 The new plan for the urban development of Oviedo was completed in 1940, although work was still moving slowly in 1942 because of lack of resources. Even the cathedral, whose iconic single tower had been badly damaged during the Civil War, was still under reconstruction, and much of the city lay in ruins.

The 1942 procession began at the exterior door of the cloister, next to the episcopal palace, which had been practically leveled and was still in ruins (see map, Figure 1.12). From there, it moved past the monastery of San Vicente and the nunnery of San Pelayo, turning to follow the contours of the city’s medieval walls, which had been partially dismantled during the fighting to create barricades. Leaving the medieval city, the procession turned to pass the thirteenth-century monastery of Santa Clara, with its reformed Baroque façade. Continuing farther away from the old city, it then passed by the church of San Juan el Real, where Franco’s wedding ceremony had taken place in 1923. A nineteenth-century church of little historical

33 Archivo Municipal de Oviedo, vitrina 2, leg. 49, doc. 2: Ayuntamiento de Oviedo, Plan de Urbanización de Oviedo, 2 vols.

21 significance except as the site of Franco’s wedding ceremony, the inclusion of this site in the itinerary speaks to a deliberate involvement—both personal and political—of Franco.

Next, the procession turned to move down almost the entire length of the Calle Uría, Oviedo’s most important commercial street, which had seen particularly desperate fighting during the 1934 revolution and subsequent Civil War. Photographs from the 1930s shows the scale of the destruction on this street, and much of it was still in ruins in 1942 (Figure 1.13). Reaching the end of the Calle Uría, the procession passed by the major government buildings of the province and then the city, returning finally to the cathedral square. The route chosen by the ceremony’s organizers includes most of the city’s important buildings, particularly its civic and religious centers. It also highlights the presence of Franco himself in the city, going out of its way to include San Juan el Real.

The widely published photograph of Franco carrying the tenth-century Cross of Victory through the city’s streets like a latter-day medieval monarch makes explicit a powerful connection between medieval history and contemporary events (see Figure 2). The newspaper caption deploys the rhetoric of Reconquest with unabashed fervor: “Although his heart wavers, choked by the emotion visible in his face, the Caudillo of Spain carries with a firm hand the Cross of Victory, the same Cross that the hands of Pelayo carried one day in the mountains of Auseva. Pelayo began there the reconquest that has so much in common with the one undertaken in July of 1936 by our Generalísimo.”34 These events were commemorated not only in the local press, but also in a contemporary monograph dedicated to the reconsecration of the Cámara Santa, entitled La crónica del milenario de la Cámara Santa. Its author, José Cuesta Fernández, was a canon of the cathedral and author of the authoritative guide book to the cathedral still sold in local bookshops. The millennium of the book’s title refers to the 1,100 years between the reconsecration of the Cámara Santa in 1942 and the death of King Alfonso II in 842. Much was

34 “Con mano firme, aunque el corazón vacile estrangulado por la emoción que le asoma a la cara, el Caudillo de España porta la Cruz de la Victoria, la misma que un día, en las pefias del Auseva, manutuvieron, también con imbatible firmeza, las manos de Pelayo, que inició una reconquista que tanta similitud tiene con la que acometió en julio de mil novecientos treinta y seis nuestro Generalísimo.” Manuel Prados y López, “El Caudillo, en Oviedo,” La Nueva España, 6 September 1942. The term “caudillo” derives from the Latin capitellus, or “little head,” and refers to a military leader or warlord. Franco adopted this term as part of his general strategy to cast himself as an early medieval warlord, like Pelayo.

22 made of this pair of dates, and Alfonso II was a central figure invoked in the ceremonies surrounding the reconstruction. As part of the festivities, Franco unveiled a new statue of Alfonso II by the local artist and restorer of the Cámara Santa, Víctor Hevia Granda, which still stands alongside the façade of the cathedral (Figure 1.14). A portrait bust of the medieval monarch adorns the title page of the La crónica del milenario (Figure 1.15), and a facsimile copy of his famous testament is included in an appendix.

This portrait bust of Alfonso II, as well as other aspects of the design and layout of the book, deliberately emulates the most famous manuscript in the cathedral’s archive, the Liber Testamentorum, an illuminated cartulary—or collection of documents—from the early twelfth century. As I discuss in chapter two, the compiler of this cartulary, Bishop Pelayo (d. 1153), privileges the role played by Alfonso II in the foundation and endowment of the Cathedral of Oviedo, and the representation of the monarch presented in the 1942 text is quite literally dependent on the image of him in the twelfth-century cartulary. Moreover, Cuesta tells his readers how, following all of the ceremonies, Franco “amused himself by leafing through some of the precious manuscripts of the cathedral archive,” including the Liber Testamentorum (Figure 1.16). This manuscript thus became another medieval monument conscripted to the Nationalist cause, along with the famous relics such as the Arca Santa, Cross of Angels, and Cross of Victory that were processed through the streets of the city. Utilizing the vast urban fabric as a stage, and the relics of the cathedral as props, Franco represented himself as an early medieval monarch, rendering tangible his ideology of Reconquest. As the ceremonies surrounding the Cámara Santa’s reconsecration suggest, the Franco government self-consciously drew upon the medieval past and its strategies of legitimation, both architectural and ritual. Spiritual and secular authority became conflated as the sacred past was fused with the sacralized present through the use of ritual and relics. Franco asserted and enacted a continuity with the medieval past that deliberately erased moments of rupture and conflict in order to produce the image of a unified Spain.

Excavating the Medieval Cámara Santa

The rhetoric of Reconquest continued beyond the heady early days of the regime, and the historical ideas of early Francoism were solidified over the passage of years through numerous touristic and scholarly publications. While far less dramatic and overtly ideological, such texts in effect continue the work of the early 1940s. In 1957, Cuesta Fernández published his popular

23 guide to the cathedral. As Guillermo Estrada Acebal points out in his introduction, this eclipsed other attempts, from Fermín Canella’s encyclopedic Libro de Oviedo (1877) to Justo Álvarez Amandi’s brief 1929 guide.35 To Estrada Acebal, this guidebook is not a meaningless tourist- oriented work, but rather represents an attempt to preserve the history of the cathedral and the city as a whole in the face of the destructive wars of the twentieth century. As he writes:

A great fear arose then among the people of Oviedo that we might be left without any history—even worse, we were nearly left without a cathedral. The Eumenides, the infernal furies, were unleashed above our city: the revolutionaries of the month of October 1934 applied themselves with equal zeal and ardor to their dynamite as the “red” artillerymen of ’36 to their canons. [They worked] with such fury and skill in destruction that the Cámara Santa, the holy relics, the tower, and the cloister were nearly lost forever.36

The prospect of losing the cathedral is likened to losing history itself; here as elsewhere, the identity of Oviedo is inextricably tied to its cathedral. The recuperation of the history of the cathedral carried out by Cuesta thus takes on a wider significance as a sort of textual reconstruction of the city’s sense of itself and its past. The Cámara Santa, so central to that history, had recently been rebuilt, and the entire city was likewise under reconstruction when the canon published his guidebook. Cuesta is thus a pivotal figure in the production of the Cámara Santa as a modern monument; he makes only passing references to the tumultuous recent history of the site, and has nothing but praise for its reconstruction, although he does not discuss in depth precisely what was destroyed and what was restored.

Cuesta’s narrative accompanies visitors as they move through the cathedral, arriving at the Cámara Santa after having traversed the nave, aisles, and numerous side chapels. The

35 Estrada Acebal, “Prólogo,” in Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la Catedral de Oviedo, 1.

36 “Surgió también por entonces el gran temor para los ovetenses de Oviedo, porque si en efecto nos quedamos sin historia, lo que es muchísimo peor, a punto estuvimos de quedarnos ¡oh dolor! igualmente sin Catedral, porque desatadas las Euménides, las furias infernales sobre nuestra ciudad, con tanto celo y ardor se aplicaron los revolucionarios del mes de Octubre del año 34, con su dinamita, como los artilleros rojos del ’36, con sus cañones, con tanto furor y maestría en la destrucción, que a poco desaparecen para siempre la Cámara Santa, las Santas Reliquias, la torre y el claustro.” Estrada Acebal, “Prólogo,” 1-2.

24 discussion of the Cámara Santa follows on the heels of his description of the so-called New Cámara Santa, or Chapel of Santa Barbara, built in the mid-seventeenth century in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to re-house the relics of the “holy chamber” in more splendidly Baroque surroundings.37 Cuesta leads visitors up the eighteenth-century staircase from the south transept and into the large antechamber above. His narration moves between past and present, remembering things as they were before the destruction of the 1930s, describing now-lost, often liturgical, elements. From the large, vaulted antechamber, Cuesta leads the reader down a pair of stairs and into a smaller antechamber, closer to the Cámara Santa itself. This is the Tower of San Miguel, discovered during the excavations undertaken following the explosion of 1934. From the tower, we descend another pair of steps and reach the Cámara Santa itself (see plan, Figure 1.1).38

Cuesta’s description of the Cámara Santa starts with the twelve apostles that line the north and south walls of the barrel-vaulted nave, and he highlights the recent restoration of these sculptures by the artist and antiquarian Víctor Hevia Granda, who also created the statue of Alfonso II. For Cuesta, the Cámara Santa is a sacred architectural reliquary, decorated with rich sculpture and filled with precious relics. While our canon-guide does not enter into debates surrounding the origins and functions of the Cámara Santa, he does refer to the excavations carried out in the 1940s, which were published in the Bulletin of the Institute of Asturian Studies between 1948 and 1951.39 Cuesta echoes the conclusions of these idiosyncratic excavations, particularly the notion that the Cámara Santa was a sort of palatine reliquary chapel, attached to an earlier royal palace via the Tower of San Miguel. As we shall see, the chronology and function of the Cámara Santa are dependent upon one another, as arguments about the former are used to sustain the latter, and vice versa. The interpretation of the Cámara Santa as private chapel

37 Ramallo Asensio, “Reactivación del culto.”

38 Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la Catedral, 90-93.

39 See the monograph re-edition of these studies, published as Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo. The articles that form this book are: “Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo: preliminares para un estudio sobre lo hallado en las excavaciones,” BIDEA 2, no. 4 (1948): 73-102; “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo: su primitiva construcción, su destrucción y su reconstrucción,” BIDEA 3, no. 6 (1949): 51-116; “Nueva fase de excavaciones del Oviedo antiguo,” BIDEA 4, no. 10 (1950): 119-159; and “Tercera fase de excavaciones del Oviedo antiguo,” BIDEA 5, no. 13 (1951): 113-128.

25 for the use of the king, specifically Alfonso II, has proved popular; it has been widely accepted in the scholarship, and it is the one that visitors to the site are presented with today.40

The Executive Committee of the Trust for the Reconstruction of the Cathedral, of which Cuesta was a member, facilitated the archaeological investigation of the area south of the cathedral, near the Episcopal Palace. Starting in 1946, the journalist and amateur archaeologist José Fernández Buelta (1894-1992), working together with the sculptor Víctor Hevia Granda, excavated several areas around the Passageway of Santa Barbara, between the Episcopal Palace and the southern aisle of the cathedral (see plan, Figure 1.1). The excavation soon expanded to include part of the nearby square to the south of the cloister. Fernández Buelta uncovered a series of foundations that he interpreted as pertaining to an early medieval palace, of which the Tower of San Miguel formed one of a pair of towers (Figure 1.17). He argued that this palace pre-dates the Cámara Santa itself, and even went so far as to suggest that Oviedo’s palace proves the city’s foundation as a Roman settlement.41

The Cámara Santa, in Fernández Buelta’s view, was initially built during the reign of Alfonso II in the eighth century and substantially adapted in the twelfth. The destruction of 1934 literally shed light on aspects of the construction process in the Cámara Santa, particularly the difference between the early medieval structure and later additions and modifications. According to Fernández Buelta, the wooden roof that originally existed was replaced with a stone barrel vault during the early twelfth century. The height of the ceiling was increased, and the exterior walls reinforced (Figure 1.18). Fernández Buelta points in particular to the quality of mortar used

40 Among the scholars who support the interpretation of the Cámara Santa as a palatine chapel are: Helmut Schlunk (“El arte asturiano en torno al 800,” although he omitted the Cámara Santa from a discussion of Asturian palatine chapels in Las iglesias palatinas, and did not refer to any palatine function is his largely formal analysis in “El arte asturiano en el reinado de Alfonso II”), Bango Torviso (“De la arquitectura visigoda,” “L’ ‘ordo gothorum’ et sa survivance,” and “El neovisigotismo artistico”), Fernández González (“Estructura y simbolismo”), Marín Valdés (“Oviedo. L’art àulic”), García Cuetos (“El culto a las reliquias en Asturias” and her catalogue entry, “Los reyes de Asturias. La Cámara Santa de la Catedral de Oviedo,” in Maravillas de la España medieval, vol. 1, 205-14), Arias Páramo (La Cámara Santa and his entry on the Cámara Santa in García Guinea, Pérez González, and Arias Páramo, eds., Enciclopedia del Prerrománico en Asturias, 241-58).

41 He develops these arguments in his conclusion to the first of the four articles in Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, “Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo,” 34-36.

26 during the distinct building phases, in addition to the differences visible in the masonry—larger, evenly cut blocks of white limestone in the twelfth century versus the irregular, smaller blocks of sandstone from the earlier period.42

While there is still scholarly consensus about the existence of two distinct phases of construction and decoration in the Cámara Santa, disputes continue about the precise chronology of these two phases. Debate revolves around whether to attribute the initial construction of the Cámara Santa to the period of Alfonso II (d. 842) or Alfonso III (d. 910). On the one hand, such scholars as Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, Helmut Schlunk, and Isidro Bango Torviso follow Fernández Buelta in attributing the Cámara Santa’s construction to the reign of Alfonso II, and, indeed, to his personal agency.43 On the other hand, a dating to the period of Alfonso III in the late ninth century is favored by Juan Uría Ríu, Francisco Javier Fernández Conde, César García de Castro, and Eduardo Carrero Santamaría.44

This chronological conundrum derives in large part from the problem that no building even vaguely identifiable as the Cámara Santa is referred to in the ninth-century chronicles written in or around Oviedo, namely, the Chronicle of Alfonso III, the Albeldensian Chronicle, and the Prophetic Chronicle.45 These key texts within medieval Iberian historiography have a great deal to say about numerous other royal building projects in early medieval Oviedo, so the omission of the Cámara Santa is noteworthy. The earliest chronicle to describe the Cámara Santa is the so-called Historia Silense, a problematic text likely dating to around 1100.46 The Silense tell us that Alfonso II constructed a basilica dedicated to St. Leocadia, above which was a second

42 See his description in the fourth part of Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, “La Cámara Santa. Su primitiva construcción, su destrucción y su reconstrucción,” 94-95, 102-103.

43 Sánchez Albornoz, “Construcciones del Rey Alfonso el Casto,” in Orígines de la nación española, vol. 2, 641-53; Schlunk, “El arte asturiano en torno al 800” and “El arte asturiano en el reinado de Alfonso II;” Bango Torviso, “De la arquitectura visigoda,” “L’ ‘ordo gothorum et sa survivance,’” and “El neovisigotismo artistico.”

44 Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas;” Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 114-15; García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 48-56; Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 45-48.

45 For all three chronicles, see the edition of Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, eds., Crónicas asturianas.

46 For a more in-depth discussion of this chronicle, with relevant bibliography, see chapter 2.

27 storey space where the Arca Santa was kept, and where pilgrims came to venerate the relics.47 Pelayo, bishop of Oviedo (d. 1153), offers a similar although more elaborate description of the construction of the Cámara Santa in his account of the main reliquary of the cathedral, the Arca Santa.

On the south side, in the farthest part of the church of the Holy Savior, where ascent is made by stairs, the king of blessed memory [Alfonso II] placed a church [dedicated to] St. Michael Archangel. There, on account of the security of the place, he transferred the most glorious ark, with many bars of iron having been brought, believing this deed to be for the fortification of his kingdom and for the salvation of the people. The faithful of Hispania assemble for the holy prayers of the saints, carrying offerings with devotion, and, with the blessing having been received from the priest presiding there, they return happy to their homeland. [….] Below the basilica of St. Michael written about above stands [a space] in honor of the holy virgin and martyr of Christ, Leocadia, vaulted with solid work of stones, which is considered venerable on account of the relics of the precious martyrs stored there.48

The attribution of the Cámara Santa to the patronage of Alfonso II was clearly established by the twelfth century. Nowhere, however, does Pelayo characterize the function of the Cámara Santa as a private royal chapel; this interpretation appears to have been produced by the combination of

47 “Fecit quoque sante Leocadie basilicam forniceo opere cumulatam, super quam fieret domus ubi celsiori loco arca santa a fidelibus adoraretur.” Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, Historia Silense, 138-39.

48 “A latere meridianali, in ultima parte ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris, ubi ascensio fit per gradus, Sancti Michaelis archangeli ecclesiam rex beate memorie posuit. Ibi ob securitatem loci, adhibitis tamen multiplicitate serarum ferri archam gloriosissimam transtulit, hoc factum credens esse ad firmitatem sui regni et ad totius salutem populi. Concurrunt ad pia sanctorum suffragia Hispaniae fideles uota cum deuocione ferentes, et accepta benedictione a pontifici inibi presidente, leta reuisant loca patrie. Iam dictus rex, ad augmentum et sui decorem regni, basilicam in honore sancti martiris Tirsi prope palatium condidit, cuius operis pulchritudo plus presentes possunt mirari quam scripto possit laudari. Infra basilicam Sancti Michaelis supra scriptam, in honore sancte uirginis et martiris Xriste Leocadie stat opere firmo lapidum arcuata que habetur uenerabilis multis ibi repositis preciosorum martirium reliquiis.” Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, ff. 1r-3r and in the Liber Cronicorum. A more extensive discussion of these texts can be found in chapters 2 and 3.

28 the general importance of the figure of Alfonso II with the discovery of the so-called palace during the 1940s.

The status of this putative palace, to which the Cámara Santa was supposedly attached, is thus of crucial importance. Those who endorse an earlier dating for the Cámara Santa and associate it with Alfonso II interpret the space as a palatine chapel, meant to house relics and other treasures of the church for the personal use of the monarch. When we examine the basis for this neat interpretation, it becomes problematic. It is notoriously difficult to reconstruct the precise geographical location of now-lost buildings on the basis of written descriptions in medieval documents. Nevertheless, the close studies by Uría Ríu and Carrero of documentation and surviving physical remains suggests that by the end of the ninth century, the ecclesiastical nucleus of Oviedo was formed around four churches: the Cathedral of San Salvador with its Cámara Santa, the monastery of San Vicente Antealtares, the funerary church of Santa María del Ray Casto, and the nunnery of San Pelayo (Figure 1.19).49 The location of the various royal residences within and outside the city is imperfectly understood, but there appear to have been several. The Chronicle of Alfonso III states that Alfonso II built multiple palaces, while the documents of Alfonso III refer to multiple palaces in and outside of the city walls.50

More detail is furnished by later medieval documents that describe the location of these palaces in relation to the cathedral complex. An 1161 donation from Urraca (d. 1164), daughter of Alfonso VII, describes the ecclesiastical complex of the cathedral and surrounding foundations of San Vicente and San Pelayo, as well as the palaces being donated.

49 Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas;” Carrero Santamaría, “La ‘Ciudad Santa’ de Oviedo.”

50 “Damus etiam atque concedimus hic in Ouetum nostrum castellum quod ad defensionem thesauri huius sancte ecclesie construximus, com nostris palaciis infra positis; foris etiam iuxta castellum palacium magnum quod ibi fabricauimus [ … ]. Concedimus eciam ecclesiam dominice Iuliane com nostris palaciis et balneis, tricliniis et cum suis totis adiacentis an integro.” Fourteenth-century notarial copy of document dated 5 September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 16. See also the royal donation dated 20 January 905, ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 6/7, two fourteenth century copies. Earliest copy appears in the Liber Testamentorum, ff. 19r-23r, edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 17. “Concedimus hic in Ouetum castellum quod a fundamento construximus et super portam ipsius castelli in uno lapide illam concessionem scribere in testimonio mandauimus sicut hic subtitulauimus. Et foris iusta illud castellum palacium ubi pausemus magnum fabriciuimus.”

29

Near the walls of that same church of San Salvador, [I donate] the royal palace together with its atrium next to the font of the baptistery known as the Paradisus, with the houses that have been built on either side of the palace, within the following boundaries around the church of San Salvador: through the arched gate known as Rutilans, I concede the houses built there in their entirety as far as the public street that descends from near the palace towards San Pelayo, and along the boundary of San Pelayo, and from the boundaries of San Pelayo returning by another street directly from the outside corner of Santa María, and leading through the wall and portal that is between the atrium of the palace and the church of the Holy Cross, and is connected with that wall that is attached to the baptistery of the Paradisus.51

The description of the urban morphology of medieval Oviedo in this document has been the subject of some disagreement. Uría Ríu, following the popular interpretation that the remains uncovered by Fernández Buelta on the south flank of the cathedral constitute the palace of Alfonso II, reads the document as describing a circuit starting in front of the cathedral and moving in a counter-clockwise direction, around the south flank of the cathedral towards San Vicente, San Pelayo, and back again to the cathedral.52 Carrero, on the other hand, reads the description as going in the opposite direction, thus effectively transferring the donated palaces,

51 “...dono igitur per cartam et testamento confirmo Deo et ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris mundi sanctis quorum reliquie ibi continentur et uobis domno Petro eiusdem sedis episcopo et suscesoribus uestris et canonicis Ouetensibus iuxta muros ipse ecclesie Saluatoris palacia regalia cum platea sua iuxta fontem babtisterii qui uocatur Paradisus, cum domibus que ex utraque parte iuxta palacia sunt edificati, per terminos subscriptos in circuitu ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris, per portam arcus que uocatur Rutilans, domos ipsas ibi edificatas concedo ab integro quomodo uadunt usque ad uiam publicam et quomodo ipsa uia publica descendit circa palatia uersus Sanctum Pelagium, et per terminum Sancti Pelagii reuertitur per aliam uiam in directum exterioris anguli ecclesie Sancte Marie et concluditur per portam et murum que est inter plateam palacii et domus Sancte Crucis, et coniungitur murus ipse et figitur in baptisteri Paradisi.” Royal donation dated 24 February 1161. ACO series B, folder 3, no. 8, notarial copy from the reign of Fernando IV (r. 1295-1312). Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 172, with my own edits.

52 Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas,” 318-19. Uría’s conclusions are echoed in the recent work of Álvarez Fernández, Oviedo a fines de la Edad Media, 71-83.

30 as well as the nearby baptistery, to the other side of the ecclesiastical complex.53 Support for this proposed location for the early medieval palaces also comes from a 1096 donation referring to a “palatio frantisco” given by Alfonso VI for use as a hospital.54 This has been identified with one of the palaces of Alfonso III, described as having an altar dedicated to John the Baptist.55 The church of San Juan, formerly a pilgrims’ hospital that was destroyed in the nineteenth century, was located on the modern-day Calle Schultz, and its remains are visible today.56

With several highly suggestive pieces of evidence pointing us away from this southern flank of the cathedral in our search for the palaces of early medieval Oviedo, why, then, did Fernández Buelta focus so much attention there? On a practical level, this area had been badly damaged during the war and was able to be excavated. Even more important is the testimony of the canon and archivist, Luis Alfonso de Carvallo (1571-1635), the first author to attempt to identify the architectural remains located to the south of the cathedral with one of the palaces spoken of in the late ninth-century Chronicle of Alfonso III.57 Fernández Buelta picked up on the

53 Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 27-29. This puts the placement of the Oviedo baptistery in line with what is known about the location of the early medieval baptisteries in Santiago de Compostela and Ourense. On Santiago de Compostela, see Guerra Campos, Exploraciones arqueológicas, 360-62. On Ourense, see Carrero Santamaría, “De la catedral medieval de Ourense.” Carrero is not the first to place the Oviedo bapitstery in this location; Selgas suggested as much in his Monumentos ovetenses, 47. See also Calleja Puerta, La formación de la red parroquial, 48 and 57-58.

54 “Ego Adefonsus, Dei gratia totius Hispaniae imperator…proposui facere, sicut et facio, cartulam testamenti de illo palatio frantisco quod est in Oueto, foras de illo nostro. De quo supradicto palatio…fiat in illo palatio domus eleemosinaria ad pauperes Christi hospitandos […] Do autem terminum ab ipsa albergaria: per illa uia quae discurrit ad fonte incalata usque ad illa calzada maiore, quae uadit pro ad Sancto Pelagio; et a dextro per illa ripa antique, quae est ante illa pasata de Ecta Cidiz, usque ad illa pasata de palatio, unde exeunt pro ad Sancta Maria; et intus per illa uia de ante illo palatio, et de illo porticu de illo palatio quomodo uadit in direct usque ad illo muro antiquo.” Royal donation dated 23 July 1096. Edited by Andrés Gambra, Alfonso VI, no. 137, 355-57.

55 “altare insuper beati Iohannis Babtiste infradictum palacium dedicatum” Royal donation dated 5 September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 16.

56 On the palace of Alfonso III, see the discussion in Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas,” 322-28. See also Casielles Menéndez, “El castillo fortaleza de Oviedo.”

57 Carvallo, Antigüedades y cosas memorables, 181.

31

Carvallo’s theory, and many subsequent historians have accepted the presence of an early medieval palace on the south flank of the cathedral. However, excavations carried out by García de Castro between 1998 and 1999 have drastically altered the image of the twin-towered palace evoked by Fernández Buelta and Hevia. García de Castro identifies the remains in the area around the Passageway of St. Barbara and the current Episcopal Palace, excavated in the 1940s, as part of the residential area for the cathedral clergy.58

On the basis of these excavations, García de Castro proposes an alternate interpretation of the origins and function of the Cámara Santa. He argues that the Cámara Santa was an episcopal, not a royal, chapel, and that the crypt of Santa Leocadia below was an episcopal burial place. He bases his argument in the presence of the episcopal residence nearby, as well as the presence of three tombs inside the crypt, in addition to ten tombs adjacent to the crypt on the north side of the cloister.59 He proposes that the late ninth-century bishop Hermenegildus buried two of his predecessors in the crypt of Santa Leocadia, and attributes the construction of the Cámara Santa to him.60 These predecessors, in García de Castro’s estimation, were deemed significant enough to merit burial within the crypt because they were involved in the translation of the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia from Córdoba to Oviedo in 884.61

This shift of the Cámara Santa’s identity from a royal to an episcopal space is useful because it underscores the protagonism of the bishops and cathedral clergy in the creation of the building, but this interpretation is not without problems. Carrero has pointed out that the burials in the crypt cannot be identified with those of ninth-century bishops, because it is not clear when these burials took place.62 He argues that the purpose of the crypt was primarily to house the

58 García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 48.

59 García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 56.

60 García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 42.

61 Historians have long connected the account of the voyage to Córdoba of a pair of bishops sent there by Alfonso III, recounted in the Chronicle of Sampiro and the Pelagian version incorporated into the Historia Silense, to the arrival of the relics in Oviedo. Risco, España Sagrada, vol. 37, 226. Sánchez Albornoz, “Dulcidio,” in Orígines de la nación española, vol. 3, 729-40. For the chronicle texts, see See Pérez de Urbel, Sampiro, 313-14.

62 Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 56-67.

32 relics of Eulogius and Lucretia, while the upper storey served as a treasury.63 Carrero points to a series of texts from the period of Alfonso III that explicitly refer to a treasury, protected by towers, which he identifies with the Cámara Santa.64 In his reading, the Cámara Santa becomes an important nexus of royal and episcopal power, mediated through sacred relics. I now turn to these two separate but complementary spaces and their functions as treasury and martyrs’ shrine.

The Early Medieval Cámara Santa: Between Thesaurum and Martyrium

As Pierre-Alain Mariaux writes, the word thesaurus always has a “metonymic gloss,” in which reliquaries stand in for relics, the treasury for the treasure, the present for the past.65 The treasury thus sustains the connection between the spiritual and earthly realms by means of the fluid relationship between past and present, container and contents. The treasury is not a static display of discrete relics; it is, as Cynthia Hahn characterizes it, an ever-changing and flexible assemblage of relics and reliquaries, the boundaries between which are blurred by the metonymic power of the treasury.66 Indeed, studies of church treasuries rarely make a clear distinction between the treasury as a meaningful collection of objects, versus the treasury as an architectural container for those objects.67

63 Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 67-72. Carrero expands upon a suggestion by Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 101, that the Cámara Santa was built as a treasury.

64 “Damus etiam atque concedimus hic in Ovetum illud nostrum castellum quod ad defensionem thesauri huius sancte ecclesie construximus.” Royal donation dated 5 September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 16. The next text is an inscription of ca. 872-873: “Adefonsus Princeps divae quidem memoriae Hordoni Regis filius, hanc aedificare sancsit / municcionem cum coniuge Scemena duobusque pignere natis, ad tuiccionem muniminis / tensauri aulae huius sanctae aecclesiae residendum indemnem, caventes quod / absit dum navali gentilitas pirato solent exercitu properare ne videatur / aliquid deperire.” Transcription and translation in Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 38. The third is a royal donation dated 10 August 908, “in tesauro super corpora sanctorum,” ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 19.

65 Mariaux, “Trésor et reliques,” 29.

66 Hahn, Strange Beauty, 161-65.

67 Classic catalogues of this material include Swarzenski, Monuments of Romanesque Art; Les trésors des églises de France; The Year 1200, ed. Hoffman and Deuchler; and Ornamenta ecclesiae, ed. Legner. Individual treasuries have also been published, including Le trésor de la Sainte Chapelle, Le trésor de Conques, Die Schatzkammer des Kölner

33

I wish to tease apart some of the important distinctions that are conflated in this metonymic interpretation of the treasury. Hahn refers to the ability of treasury objects quite literally to “objectify history,” to materialize the past and make it present in the memory of viewers.68 While the objects in the treasury may “objectify history,” the history they embody is far from objective. The placement of individual objects within a collection is in itself an act of interpretation; the different pieces work together to tell a single story about the privileged status of the church in order to ensure its continued survival.69 The treasury thus constitutes an expression of institutional identity, which must be separated from the individual histories of specific objects, and, indeed, of the architectural space of the treasury itself. Institutional identity is neither fixed nor constant, but is actively constructed within a specific historical context. The treasury is a place of memory, but that memory is malleable and selective.

In the case of Oviedo, the cathedral received a series of important royal donations from the early medieval monarchs of Asturias, the memory of which was zealously cultivated in order to continue attracting royal and noble largesse. As we have seen, in 808, Alfonso II donated the Cross of the Angels to the cathedral, while in 908, Alfonso III donated the Cross of Victory. In addition to these important gifts, these same documents attest to a wealth of books, vestments and objects for the mass that were donated by these early medieval monarchs. Once the center of royal power moved south to León in 910, royal donations to Oviedo decreased as the kings

Domes, Le trésor de Saint-Denis, The Treasury of San Marco, ed. Buckton. A recent treatment of numerous issues in the “making and meaning” of treasuries can be found in Hahn, Strange Beauty. Other studies can be found in the recent issue of Les Cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa 41 (2010), dedicated to Les trésors des églises à l’époque romane, as well as in Cordez Burkart, Mariaux, and Potin, eds., Le trésor au Moyen Âge, and Caillet and Bazin, eds., Les trésors des sanctuaires.

68 Cynthia Hahn, “The Meaning of Early Medieval Treasuries,” in Reliquiare im Mittelalter, ed. by Bruno Reudenbach and Gia Toussaint (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2005), pp. 1-20, p. 2.

69 On the importance of remembering the largesse of these “kings past,” see Amy Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past: Monastic Foundation Legends in Medieval Southern France (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995) and her “Legendary Treasure at Conques: Reliquaries and Imaginative Memory,” Speculum 71 (1996), pp. 884-906. The famous ‘A’ of Charlemagne was recently studied by Walter Cahn, “Observations on the ‘A of Charlemagne’ in the Treasure of the Abbey of Conques,” Gesta 45.2 (2006), pp. 95-107.

34 distributed their patronage among other religious foundations. The memory of those early medieval monarchs who endowed the Cathedral of San Salvador with great wealth was strategically employed throughout the site’s subsequent history, but this memory—and the objects and spaces that embodied it—was molded to shape changing circumstances. The royal gifts that had previously been placed in the Cámara Santa for safekeeping took on new meaning as relics of the largesse of kings past in the expanded field of the Cámara Santa. The early medieval past was appropriated to serve the growing ambitions of the Cathedral of Oviedo as a site of pilgrimage throughout the eleventh and, especially, the twelfth centuries. There was, therefore, a fundamental shift in function and meaning of the Cámara Santa and its contents between its tenth-century construction and late twelfth-century reformation.

The treasures assembled in the Cámara Santa are not ipso facto objects of pilgrimage; they must be actively transformed into objects of pilgrimage, and we must identify whose interests are served by such a transformation. Even if we entertain the possibility that the royal treasures housed in the upper-storey treasury were the object of pilgrimage during the early Middle Ages, it is not until the late eleventh and, especially, the twelfth centuries that pilgrims arrive in any great number to the Cámara Santa.70 One of the earliest indications of the presence of foreign pilgrims in Oviedo comes from Alfonso VI’s 1096 donation of a “palatio frantisco,” discussed previously. Uría Ríu suggests that the adjective used to describe this palace may indicate to the presence of foreigners in the city.71 In his recent edition of documents from the reign of Alfonso VI, Andrés Gambra points out that there are two distinct versions of this donation, one that is a seventeenth-century copy of a now-lost original, and another that is found in the twelfth-century Liber Testamentorum of Oviedo. Gambra observes that the twelfth-century cartulary makes significant changes to the wording of the original donation that have a bearing on how we interpret this document and its implications for the cult of the relics in Oviedo.

While the seventeenth-century copy of the now-lost original document states that the palace is to be used as a house for paupers, the amplified and interpolated version of the donation

70 Vázquez de Parga, Lacarra, and Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones a Santiago de Compostela, vol. 2, 457-62. Even Ignacio Ruiz de la Peña Solar acknowledges that it is only in the final years of the eleventh century that the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa begins to consolidate. See his Las Peregrinaciones a San Salvador de Oviedo, 36.

71 Vázquez de Parga, Lacarra, and Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones a Santiago de Compostela, vol. 2, 460, n. 5.

35 in Pelayo’s cartulary specifies that the palace is to be used to house and care for pilgrims.72 This specific reference to pilgrims thus comes not from the eleventh-century donation, but from the twelfth-century cartulary, produced under the aegis of one of the most assiduous promoters of the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa: Bishop Pelayo (d. 1153). The evidence of these texts suggests that if we wish to push the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa back in time to the early Middle Ages, we should do so with caution, mindful of the efforts of later clerics to promote the antiquity and importance of the pilgrimage to Oviedo.

To understand the Cámara Santa purely as a site of pilgrimage is to overlook alternative meanings of the site in the early Middle Ages. I would like to suggest that we not only disentangle the function of the Cámara Santa as a treasury from its function as a site of pilgrimage, but also that we distinguish between the two distinct parts of the building, its upper and lower storeys. In what follows, I argue that the early medieval structure consisted of a treasury atop of a martyr’s shrine, two functions which, while analogous, were distinct. Let me turn now to the lower storey of this complex.

André Grabar characterized the two-storey structure in Oviedo as a martyrium in his classic monograph dedicated to the subject, focusing on the function of the Cámara Santa in the context of then-current theories about the location of the royal palace.73 I would like to revisit Grabar’s characterization, focusing instead on the lower storey. I begin with the crypt’s dedication to St. Leocadia, which has unfortunately occasioned more comment than the crucial role this structure played in the early medieval cathedral complex. This neglect is perhaps is understandable given the almost complete destruction and imaginative reconstruction of this space in the twentieth century. I then explore the ways in which the cult of saints and the safeguarding of treasures interact in a series of sites that I offer as archaeological comparanda for the two-storey complex in Oviedo.

Several layers of confusion and obfuscation impede our ability to assess the function and significance of the crypt of Santa Leocadia. First, there is the issue of its dedication to Leocadia.

72 “Item concedo eidem sedi Oueto illud palatium quod fecit atauus meus rex Adefonsus cum coniuge Xemena tali tenore ut semper sit hospitalis domus peregrinorum...” Liber Testamentorum, fol. 75v. Edited by Andrés Gambra, Alfonso VI, no. 162, 421.

73 Grabar, Martyrium, 574-77.

36

A 908 royal donation by Alfonso III and Jimena refers to the donation of crosses and crowns “ad altare Sancte Leocadie.” Scholars have long observed the problematic nature of this document, which only survives in a thirteenth-century copy. Barrau Dihigo categorized this donation as of dubious authenticity, and Floriano provides yet more arguments in favor of the falsity of this document.74 While we cannot dismiss the possibility that this text was elaborated on the basis of an original document, it was clearly interpolated and adapted between the tenth century and the thirteenth. Other than this problematic document, the earliest references to the dedication of the crypt to Leocadia come from the Historia Silense and chronicles of Pelayo, both dating to the twelfth century.

The second major problem we encounter when we consider the crypt is the fact that there is no concrete evidence that Leocadia’s relics were ever, in fact, housed there. Leocadia was an early Christian confessor-saint whose cult was based in Toledo, the city of which she was patron.75 It is generally assumed that Leocadia’s relics were among those brought north from al- Andalus to Asturias, just like several other relics in the Cámara Santa. However, the multiple enumerations of the relics of the Cámara Santa make no mention of her, as Baudouin de Gaiffier has pointed out.76 Leocadia’s relics are now back in Toledo, where they were returned by Philip II in 1587 from the monastery of St. Gislenus in Flanders.77 How Leocadia’s relics got from Toledo to Flanders—via Oviedo or not—is unclear. During the eleventh century, the monks of Saint-Médard, Soissons, claimed to have them, while by the twelfth century, monks of St. Gislenus claimed her as their own.78 Clearly, St. Gislenus’s claims were strongest by the

74 Royal donation, 10 August 908. ACO, ser. B, folder 1, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 19. Barrau-Dihigo, “Étude sur les actes des rois asturiens,” 165. Floriano, Diplomatica española del periodo astur, vol. 2, 362-72.

75 García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 246-53.

76 Gaiffier, “Relations religieuses,” 17.

77 On the translation of the relics of Leocadia back to Toledo, see Forcione, Cervantes and the Humanist Vision, 317-23, and Grieve, The Eve of Spain, 150-57.

78 Gaiffier, “Relations religieuses,” 20.

37 sixteenth century, but contemporary authors did wonder how her relics had gotten to Flanders from Oviedo, and to Oviedo from Toledo.79

There is evidence that the relics of other, distinctly non-Toledan saints were revered in the crypt later dedicated to Leocadia. According to the tenth-century Chronicle of Sampiro, Alfonso III sent a pair of bishops, including one named Dulcidius, to Córdoba in the late ninth century.80 The cathedral commemorates the return on 9 January 884 of Dulcidius with the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia in liturgical celebrations to this day, as Sánchez Albornoz points out.81 These two saints were among the so-called martyrs of Córdoba, a group of Christians executed by the Muslim authorities in al-Andalus during the second half of the ninth century. Eulogius is also considered the author of the account of this famous mass martyrdom, and manuscripts containing his writings were brought to Oviedo along with his relics.82 If, as Carrero and others have argued, we can date the two-storey structure of the crypt and Cámara Santa to the reign of Alfonso III, the placement of these relics in the crypt in 884 would roughly coincide with the construction of the building and the establishment of its function as a shrine to these two contemporary martyrs. Despite the current dedication to the patron of Visigothic Toledo, Toledan saints were not chosen for the crypt. Thus, while the dedication of the crypt to Leocadia points to Visigothic Toledo, we should be cautious about how much meaning, and what kind of meaning, we attribute to this fact.

79 Royal chronicler Ambrosio de Morales (1513-1591) argues that her relics had been in Oviedo, and that they went north to Flanders at some unknown point: Morales, Crónica General, vol. 7, book 13, ch. 40, 191-92. Francisco de Pisa (1534-1616) says that there is debate as to whether or not her remains went to Oviedo, although he concludes by attributing the saint’s rescue to Pelayo in order to compare Philip II to this early medieval warrior-king: Pisa, Historia de la gloriosa virgen y mártir Santa Leocadia. Miguel Hernández, the Jesuit charged with bringing Leocadia’s relics back to Toledo from Flanders, echoes the general uncertainty, concluding that Leocadia must have gone north to Oviedo by the time of Alfonso II, but that it is unclear how she arrived in Flanders: Hernández, Vida, martyrio, y translación de la gloriosa virgen y mártyr Santa Leocadia, 63.

80 Pérez de Urbel, Sampiro, 313-14.

81 Sánchez Albornoz, “Dulcidio,” 730.

82 Wolf, Christian Martyrs in Muslim Spain, 36.

38

Many scholars have, however, attributed great significance to the dedication to Leocadia, claiming not only that her relics were housed in the crypt, but also that the very form and meaning of the building as a whole derives directly from lost Visigothic prototypes.83 These claims are largely based on the rhetoric of ninth-century chronicles from northern Spain, particularly the oft-quoted passage from the Albeldensian Chronicle, composed in or around the royal court at Oviedo in the ninth century. According to the text, Alfonso II “established in both the church and the palace the order of the Goths, as it had been in Toledo.”84 The nature of the “order of the Goths” referred to in this chronicle has been the subject of intense debate. Many have taken the text literally to mean that Oviedo was built in direct emulation of Toledo, and that the kings of Asturias attempted to re-establish the continuity of Christian rule in the Iberian peninsula.85 Such a literal reading of this passage does not attend to the rhetoric of the chronicle text, or to the complexities of its manuscript transmission throughout the Middle Ages, as I discuss in the next chapter.

The neogothic thesis, as it is known, has a long and checkered past, and some contemporary historians continue to subscribe to it despite its problematic political implications. As Giles Tremlett points out, it is far from “politically innocent” to posit the essential continuity and unity of Christian Spain, given the experience of National Catholicism during the twentieth century.86 The debate about the gothicism—or lack thereof—of the early Asturian kingdom points to the problem of the ideological baggage implicit in the terminology that we as historians use for different historical periods. This is particularly true in the case of the Visigothic period,

83 See in particular the work of Bango Torviso. In addition, Dodds, Architecture and Ideology, 27-46. Finally, Deswarte directly connects the dedication of the crypt in Oviedo to the lost Visigothic church of Santa Leocadia in Toledo: De la destruction à la restauration, 71-72.

84 “omnemque Gotorum ordinem, sicuti Toleto fuerat, tam in ecclesia quam palatio in Ovetao cuncta statuit.” Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, Crónicas asturianas, 174.

85 See in particular the work of the influential historians Vicens i Vives, Aproximación a la historia de España; Menéndez Pidal, “La historiografía sobre Alfonso II;” and Sánchez Albornoz, Orígines de la nación española. For more recent work in this vein, see Ruiz de la Peña, La monarquía asturiana; Besga Marroquín, Orígines hispano- godos, and Deswarte, De la destruction à la restauration.

86 Tremlett, “Foreward: ‘Welcome to Moorishland,’” xvi.

39 which carries around a heavy weight of meaning thanks to centuries of historiography that have shaped the story of medieval Iberia as one of loss and Reconquest.87 In looking for antecedents and comparanda for the Cámara Santa, I suggest we take a step back from these loaded terms and often circular arguments to consider the architectural commemoration of the saints and its relationship to the function of the treasury in early medieval Iberia.

If we accept Carrero’s characterization of the Cámara Santa as a treasury, we must then ask ourselves what, precisely, was understood by the word thesaurum, which appears so often in documents in reference to the space and its contents. One of the initial problems we encounter in trying to locate early medieval treasuries is that of the terminology used to describe these spaces. In his description concerning storage spaces within sacred buildings, Isidore of Seville describes three closely related spaces: sacrarium, donarium, and aerarium. He defines the sacrarium as “the place in a temple where holy things are put away,” the donarium as the place “where offerings are gathered,” and the aerarium as the place where precious metal objects or coins are stored.88 These spaces all have analogous though distinct functions, but the variety of terminology used in other early medieval sources complicates Isidore’s clear tripartite organization of these storage structures.

Among surviving liturgical texts, there is a discrepancy in the terminology used to describe these auxiliary spaces, which in turn complicates the task of distinguishing between these structures and their functions. I use here as my guide the work of Cristina Godoy Fernández, who has examined the evidence of both liturgical texts and archaeological remains in order to analyze the division of sacred space in early medieval Iberian churches. The mid-tenth- century León Antiphonary refers to the preparatorium and the thesaurum, while the eleventh-

87 Ríos Saloma, La Reconquista.

88 “Sacrarium proprie est locus templi in quo sacra reponuntur; sicut donarium est in quo conlocatuntur oblata; sicut lectisternia dicunter ubi homines sedere consueverunt. Ab inferendis igitur et deportandis sacris sacrarium nuncupatur. Donaria vero, eo quod ibi dona reponantur quae in templis offerre sonsueverunt. Aerarium vocatum quia prius aes signatum ibi recondebatur. Hoc enim olim in usu erat auro argentoque nondum signato: ex quorum metallis quamvis postea facta fuisset pecunia, nomen tamen aerarii permansit ab eo metallo unde pecunia [nomen] initium sumpsit.” The Latin text is from Isidore, Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 5, “De repositoriis.” English translation, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 310.

40 century Liber Ordinum refers to a sacrarium, thesaurum, and preparatorium.89 Godoy suggests that the thesaurum as it appears in these sources had a function analogous to Isidore’s sacrarium, while the term preparatorium represents a later eighth or ninth century innovation not attested to in earlier textual sources or material remains. The anachronistic nature of this term is underscored by its complete absence from earlier medieval Iberian sources.90

Godoy argues that the early medieval Iberian sacrarium and thesaurum are analogous but distinct structures. The sacrarium, similar though not identical to the later sacristy, housed the liturgical vessels, books, and garments necessary for the celebration of the mass. This space was necessary for the liturgical function of the church, and was typically located near the apse for ready access by the clergy. The thesaurum, on the other hand, was an “exceptional space,” testament to the “timeless and temporal power of the see.”91 The objects housed there were similar to those held in the sacrarium, but included especially prestigious treasures, such as relics. While many early churches have the remains of structures identifiable as sacraria, very few show signs of having possessed a treasury. As Godoy points out, their relative rarity is in keeping with the fact that these structures were not liturgically necessary.

The earliest textual reference to a treasury is found in a passage in the seventh-century Lives of the Holy Fathers of Mérida, which refers to a “tesaurum” in two churches in Mérida, including one in the martyrial basilica of Santa Eulalia where the saint’s tunic was kept.92 The basilica of Santa Eulalia was one of the most important cult sites in early medieval Iberia, built in the fifth century over the saint’s fourth-century martyrium (see plan, Figure 1.20). We must be

89 Brou and Vives, eds., Antifonario visigótico de la Catedral de León, 203, 267, 271-72, 280-81. Férotin, Le “Liber Ordinum,” cols. 56, 94, 191, 199-200, 208-11.

90 Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 101.

91 Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 98. “En cuanto al thesaurum [...] tenemos que concluir que se trata de un espacio excepcional de las iglesias y que su presencia en un iglesia no responde a una necesidad del culto, sino que es un atributo del poder temporal e intemporal de la sede.”

92 “Hec profanus tirannus audiens in furore uesanie uersus festinanter celeriterque ad Emeretensem urbem misit, qui ubique ipsam sanctam tunicam sollicite requirerent et tam in tesaurum eclesie sancte Eolalie quam etiam in tesaurum eclesie senioris, que uocatur sancta Iherusalem, sagaciter scrutantes eousque perquirerent, quousque reppertam ad eum deferrent.” Vitas Sanctorum Patrum Emeretensium, ed. by Maya Sánchez, 66.

41 cautious in our attempts to locate the treasury in the context of this church. The archaeologist who oversaw the excavation of the site, Pedro Mateos Cruz, suggests that the treasury alluded to in the seventh-century hagiographic text might have been located near the sacrarium, which he identifies with the structure attached to the northern apse (no. 1 on the plan). The southern apse, he argues, would have served as the preparatorium.93 Recalling Godoy’s observation that the preparatorium is not a space attested to in Iberian churches of this early date, I would like to suggest a revision of Mateos Cruz’s hypothesis about the location of the treasury at Santa Eulalia. Rather than being located next to the sacrarium in the northern apse, it seems more logical that the treasury would have been located opposite to this structure, in the southern apse (no. 2 on the plan).

Such is the argument made by Godoy for the early medieval remains at Es Cap des Port (Menorca) (Figure 1.21). On the south flank of the church are spaces which, Godoy argues, functioned together as a thesaurum atop a martyrium. To the southwest of the apse and alongside the nave of the church is a long rectangular structure (no. 2 on the plan). Remains of a set of stairs near the north wall indicates direct communication with a crypt located directly underneath it. Godoy suggests that this chamber was restricted for use by clerics who controlled the access of pilgrims to the martyrium below, which could be entered from outside the body of the church itself, to the south. Near the location of the stairs leading to the crypt are a series of niches carved in the north wall of this upper-storey structure. Godoy argues that this space was not the sacrarium, where liturgical vessels and garments were stored, because the remains of glassware and liturgical objects were discovered in a pair of chambers on the opposite, northern flank of the church (no. 1 on the plan). Godoy suggests that the structure labeled 2 on the plan functioned instead as a thesaurum, where the church’s most precious treasures—those associated with the saint—were kept.94 Thus, at Es Cap des Ports the sacrarium and thesaurum are distinct structures, located on either side of the main body of the church.

The treasury was closely connected to the martyrium of the unknown saint(s) venerated at Es Cap des Ports, while in Mérida, the treasury was located not atop the martyrium, but rather adjacent to it—be it to the south or to the north. This close contact between saint’s shrine and

93 Mateos Cruz, La Basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida, 165.

94 Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 170-71.

42 treasury recalls the disposition of space in Oviedo. While I certainly would not suggest a direct relationship of model/copy between the sites in Es Cap des Port and Oviedo, there does seem to be an important connection between the presence of a treasury and that of a cult site, focused around the relics of a saint. As Aude Morelle points out, treasuries have a “continuity of function” with crypts as the places where relics were kept.95 This continuity is quite literal in Es Cap des Ports and, I would argue, in Oviedo, where the treasury sits atop the crypt.

Unfortunately, the concrete, architectural connection between the space of the Cámara Santa and the crypt of Santa Leocadia is not clear. Archaeologists have been unable to determine whether or not the Cámara Santa originally communicated directly with the crypt of Santa Leocadia.96 It appears that access to the treasury was up a set of stairs located on the north side of the building and through an antechamber in the Torre de San Miguel, a small space adjacent to the Cámara Santa. This is the arrangement described by Pelayo in the twelfth century, and echoed by a later, fourteenth-century description of the Cámara Santa.97 The walled-up doorway visible in the smaller antechamber and in the south wall of the adjacent Chapel of Covadonga has been identified with this lost staircase, which disappeared following the completion of the south transept of the gothic cathedral in the fifteenth century (Figure 1.22).

As for access to the crypt, excavations have shown that before the twelfth century it was accessible from both its north and south flanks. Nowadays, the crypt opens to the cloister on the south flank and to the so-called Pilgrims’ Cemetery to the north. Although the latter doorway

95 Morelle, “Les salles de trésor,” 127.

96 García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 39-62.

97 Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 1r: “A latere meridianali, in ultima parte ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris, ubi ascensio fit per gradus, Sancti Michaelis archangeli ecclesiam rex beate memorie posuit.” 1343 notarial copy, ACO ser. B, folder 2, no. 2: “iam dicti archiui quandam capellam que sancti michaelis uocatur intra corpus ecclesie cathedralis ad manum dexteram altaris principalis ipsius ecclesie / per multos grados lapideos ad dictam cameram sancti michaelis in solio lapideo tabulato textudinoso constructam accederunt ad cuius cappelle dextrum angulum, circa altare Sancti Michaelis est quedam secreta camera, cum duabus dauibus ad / duas seras in portis eiusdem camere affixis , quorum duarum clauium alteram tenebat et custodiebat sugerium Martini et aliam sugerium Fernandi, porcionariis dicte ecclesie; qui clauarii, apertis seris et portis iamdictis, quodam archiuum / ad scripturarum ipsius ecclesie conseruationis deputatum, quod intus erat, patuit, numerosis cartis et libris plenum.” Sanz, “Estudio paleográfico,” 97-98.

43 was only opened during the restorations of the 1940s, post-war excavations revealed the existence of a portico some 12.45 meters long on the north side of the crypt, in the area that now abuts the exterior of the Chapel of Covadonga (Figure 1.23).98 The remains of this portico included the tomb of Bishop Froilán (d. 1076), whose inscribed tombstone was discovered during the reconstruction of the 1940s. Five tombs dated to the tenth and eleventh centuries were found around it. Carrero hypothesizes that this portal had a primarily funerary function and was used between the building’s construction in the early Middle Ages and the twelfth century, falling out of use following the shift in the structure’s function.99 After that time, access to the crypt was made only through the south entrance, the area that is now the cloister, built over the middle years of the twelfth century. From that time on, access to the crypt would have been restricted to the canons who lived and worked in the cathedral.

This transitional period saw changes not only in the physical setting of the cult of saints Eulogius and Lucretia, but perhaps also in the status of the relics themselves. An early twelfth- century description of the relics of the Cámara Santa lists the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia among those located around or outside of the Arca Santa, although it is unclear whether we should interpret this as indicating that the relics were upstairs in the Cámara Santa itself.100 The integration of these two martyrs of Córdoba into the larger, heterogeneous collection of relics in the Cámara Santa suggests that they were no longer the devotional focus of the independent space of the crypt, but rather were incorporated on some level into the cult of the relics upstairs. Other evidence suggests that the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia were still in the crypt of Santa Leocadia in the fourteenth century. An inscription on the fourteenth-century reliquary that contains the remains of these two saints tells us that on 9 January 1305, Bishop Fernando Álvarez (r. 1301-1321) transferred the relics from the crypt to the Cámara Santa above because the archdeacon Rodrigo Gutierrez had miraculously recovered his ability to speak thanks to the

98 Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 24-28.

99 Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 44-45.

100 Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 99, ff. 2v-3r. Edited by Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue.”

44 intervention of these saints.101 That a canon was the recipient of the saints’ miraculous intervention suggests that the limitation of access to the crypt via a single entrance from the cloister brought these saints into contact not with outside pilgrims, but rather the canons themselves.

* * *

The two-storey building in Oviedo changed in terms of both structure and function over the course of its long existence. It is only when we step away from ideologically inflected interpretations of the Cámara Santa as a royal chapel or site of pilgrimage that we can see these alternative interpretations for the building. I have argued that we must tease apart layers of meaning that have become conflated over time. I have distinguished between the different historical contexts in which the Cámara Santa was originally built in the tenth century, and the subsequent adaptations of the space and its meaning in the twelfth century. We must see the site as a combination of an upper-storey treasury and lower-storey martyr’s shrine, which was later transformed into a site of pilgrimage in the twelfth century, effectively collapsing the distinction between the two spaces. Moreover, the familiar image of the Cámara Santa—still sold to tourists today—as the private chapel of Alfonso II represents an understanding of the space that is deeply beholden to Francoist conceptions of sacred monarchy. These ideas come not from our early medieval sources, but owe more to subsequent—particularly twelfth-century—interpretations of the early medieval past. Let us, therefore, look more closely at this twelfth-century context, and at the historiographic lens we continue to view the monuments and meaning of early medieval Oviedo: the writings of Bishop Pelayo (d. 1153).

101 “Anno Dni. MCCC quinto, nonas Ianu. Dominus Fernandus Alvari Ovetensis episcopus transtulit [corpora sanctorum m(artyrum) Eulogi et Lucreci(a)e in hanc capsam argenteam.” Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, no. 28, 67. Morales refers to this event in his Viaje santo, 83.

45

Chapter 2 Forging the Past: Bishop Pelayo and Medieval Historiography

The writing of history took on a renewed importance during the twelfth century.102 The narratives that were developed during this period have had a lasting effect on national memory and identity, as the study of modern nationalism makes clear.103 This is certainly the case for Spain, where the Middle Ages, particularly the idea of the Reconquest, so shaped the nationalist narratives of the Franco years. According to this thesis, the drive to “reconquer” the Iberian peninsula from the Muslims was the motivating force behind all of Spanish medieval history.104 Al-Andalus and the centuries-long history of Muslims in the Iberian peninsula is thus dismissed as a brief interruption in the history of “Spain,” conceived of as unified and Christian. However, as historians Richard Fletcher, Jocelyn Hilgarth, and Peter Linehan remind us, this rhetoric emerges under specific circumstances during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, and was further adapted by later historians to produce a potent myth of national identity.105 This twelfth-century mediation of early medieval history is often forgotten or overlooked by historians eager to make grand ideological claims for continuity across the divide of the Muslim conquest, between the Visigothic kingdom and the Asturian Monarchy. Historical work that is focused on recovering the origins or essential identity of early medieval Asturias thus loses sight of the complex processes of adaptation and mediation that took place over the longue durée, and particularly during the twelfth century.

When we look at the ecclesiastical history of twelfth-century Iberia, we see conflict and competition for primacy and power, rather than any essential unity. A key difference between the map of Iberia before the Muslim conquest and after it is the shifting geography of ecclesiastical

102 For an overview, see Mauskopf Deliyannis, Historiography in the Middle Ages. A classic study on twelfth- century historiography is Spiegel, Romancing the Past. On the shift in documentary practice during the twelfth century, see Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record. On the twelfth century as a period of change in general, see the studies in Benson and Constables, eds, Renaissance and Renewal.

103 See the remarks of Geary, Myth of Nations, 7-14.

104 The classic studies are Barbero, Sobre los orígines sociales and Barbero and Vigil, La formación del feudalismo.

105 Fletcher, “Reconquest and Crusade in Spain;” Hilgarth, “Spanish History and Iberian Reality;” Linehan, History and the Historians. See also the important recent work by Rios Saloma, La Reconquista, which analyzes the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century development of the ideology of Reconquest.

46 power.106 While Toledo had been the center of the early medieval Iberian church, its conquest by the Muslims changed utterly its relationship with the other sees of the peninsula. Toledo’s conquest by Alfonso VI in 1085 represents, therefore, a watershed moment in Iberian ecclesiastical history. Following the revival of the see, the Cluniac monk Bernard was elected as the new bishop of Toledo. Bishop Bernard immediately set about seeking to restore Toledo’s primacy, and in 1088 Urban II granted his wish, restoring Toledo’s “antique majestatis” and primacy.107 The relationship between Toledo and numerous other sees of the north of the Iberian peninsula during the late eleventh and twelfth centuries is characterized by constant struggles for power and primacy, and it is in this light that we must read the historiographic texts produced in these centers, including Oviedo.

Let us turn to look more closely at the conflicts between Oviedo and Toledo during this period. In 1099, Oviedo was declared a suffragan of Toledo, which prompted concerted efforts on the part of the bishop, none other than Pelayo himself, to restore his diocese’s independent status. Pelayo accomplished this is 1105, when Oviedo was declared exempt from any authority other than that of Rome itself. Alas, Oviedo’s status was not secure, and in 1121 it was once again subjected to the authority of Toledo, not regaining its independence for over a generation. Oviedo’s exemption was finally confirmed in 1157 and again in 1161, and the matter seems to have settled.108 For the first half of the twelfth century, however, the issue of Oviedo’s independence was far from resolved, and Pelayo sought to affirm the authority and antiquity of his diocese by means of a range of spiritual and rhetorical weapons, including the cult of relics. Bishop Pelayo concentrated his considerable energies on the promotion of the relics contained in the Cámara Santa. The twelfth century was a time of intense competition for pilgrims, and the prestige of relics could bring in welcome patronage. The wealth of texts and works of art produced under the aegis of Bishop Diego de Gelmírez in Santiago de Compostela served to promote the relics of St. James, and we see a historiographic and artistic undertaking of similar

106 Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 1-30. Feige, “La primacia de Toledo,” 63-65.

107 Mansilla, La documentación pontifica, no. 26. “Fratrem autem Bernardum venerabilem eiusdem urbis presulem, tuis exhortationibus invitati, digne ac reverenter excepimus et ei palleum contradentes privilegium quoque Toletane ecclesie antique majestatis indulsimus; ipsum enim in totis Yspaniarum regnis primatem statuimus.”

108 Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 73-75.

47 scale in Oviedo under the aegis of Pelayo, although they are less well known than those of his Compostelan counterpart.109

Pelayo is famous for being, in Linehan’s words, “a giant among falsifiers in an age which provided him with keen competition and ample opportunity.”110 Pelayo’s legacy of creative history comes down to us in two manuscript traditions, which are interdependent in terms of both broad ideological intent and concrete points of textual connection. The only surviving manuscript from the period of Pelayo’s life in the early twelfth century is the Liber Testamentorum, a richly illuminated cartulary, consisting both of documentary and narrative texts. The more narrative texts are concentrated in the two opening quires of the manuscript, while the remainder of the manuscript contains transcriptions of documents. Among these narrative and diplomatic texts are several which also appear in Pelayo’s other major work, the Liber Cronicorum, a compilation of chronicles whose organization changed over the course of the its formation. While the Liber Testamentorum comes down to us in its early twelfth-century form, the Liber Cronicorum is known only via later copies. Taken together, these historiographic works illustrate the ways images and texts, both documentary and narrative, reinforce one another’s claims, producing a heterogeneous corpus with the primary purpose of asserting the antiquity and authority of the church of Oviedo.

Unlike previous scholarship on Pelayo’s textual production, which has sought to establish or recuperate his reputation as a notorious forger, I examine how truth and authority have been constructed in the Pelagian corpus in context of its production, transmission, and reception. Fundamentally, authority is antiquity; texts and images must not simply be old, they must look old. I will, therefore, pay attention to both the textual and visual production of authority and antiquity, arguing that these twin processes must be viewed in tandem in the context of both manuscripts and documents. I begin with the Pelagian chronicle tradition represented by the Liber Cronicorum, considering the production, transmission, and significance of both its texts and imagery. I establish textual and visual points of connection between the manuscripts of the

109 On Diego Gelmírez himself, see Fletcher, St. James’s Catapult. On the texts he produced, see the edition by Falque Rey, Historia Compostelana.

110 Linehan, History and the Historians, 78.

48

Liber Cronicorum and the Liber Testamentorum, going on to consider the function of the visual elements—miniatures, graphic devices, and layout on the page—in Pelayo’s cartulary.

The Pelagian corpus brings into sharp relief important questions about the nature of medieval historiography and how to understand the distinction so crucial to modern scholarship between truth and fiction in historical sources. I argue that the distinction between making and making it up—between facture and forgery—is not clear cut, and that this problematic duality is complicated even further by ongoing processes of transmission and reception. In order to rethink these divisions, I focus on the scribal practice of transcription itself and its implications for how we are to read, view, and engage with the manuscripts of the Pelagian corpus.

A Treasury of Texts: The Formation of the Liber Cronicorum

Like bishops before and after him, Pelayo sought to protect and promote his see. As we saw in the context of the disputes between Toledo and Oviedo in the early twelfth century, this was a time of high-stakes competition among Iberian bishoprics for both pilgrims and papal privileges. In order to acquire these privileges, sees sought to establish the historical grounds on which they could base their present claims to power. Pelayo faced a difficult task, for Oviedo did not begin its existence as an urban, much less ecclesiastical, center until the late eighth century, and so a considerable amount of creative history was required to establish its antiquity. The intense historiographic production of twelfth-century Oviedo speaks to ongoing difficulties in securing the see’s special status. Repeated attempts to produce a stable, convincing, and effective version of Oviedo’s history suggest a degree of anxiety about its many open questions and unresolvable ambiguities, anxieties that continue to trouble historians today.

There is a fundamental stumbling block for the study of Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum: the lack of a complete critical edition.111 The medieval methods of compilation and interpolation pose many problems for scholars attempting to extract a single accurate and original text from such a complex ensemble. Questions of authorship, transmission, and interpolation abound in the context of the Liber Cronicorum, no doubt contributing to its as-yet unedited state. In what follows, I attempt to negotiate these difficulties in order to discover what the transmission of individual sources can tell us about the purpose and function of the compilation as a whole. I will

111 Emiliano Fernández Vallina has been under contract for many years with the Corpus Christianorum, but no edition has been forthcoming.

49 first discuss the conclusions of Enrique Jérez, whose recent work on the formation of the Liber Cronicorum is of paramount importance. Then, I will look more closely at one of Pelayo’s most important and frequently studied sources, the late ninth-century Chronicle of Alfonso III. I argue that the history of the Chronicle of Alfonso III helps us to understand that of the Liber Cronicorum, given the overlap between these texts’ chains of transmission. By inserting Pelayo back into the chain of transmission and reception of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, we can come to a clearer understanding of his role as a historian, writer, and compiler.

The Liber Cronicorum comes down to us in a total of some twenty-four manuscripts, which have been loosely grouped into two categories: compilations A and B. Compilation A is preserved in a half dozen manuscripts.112 The most influential of these manuscripts, on which the others—to varying degrees—depend, is MS 1358 in the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, also known as the Alcalá Codex. According to Elena Rodríguez Díaz, this manuscript was made at the monastery of Corias in western Asturias sometime between 1160 and 1188. Not long after its production, the book travelled to Santiago de Compostela, where a series of local texts were appended and bound together with Pelayo’s chronicle (see Appendix 2.1).113

Compilation B is preserved in far more manuscripts than compilation A. The most important manuscript representative of compilation B is MS 1513 in the Biblioteca Nacional, the sole exemplar of this stage in the Liber Cronicorum’s development made before 1500. Also known as the Batres Codex, this manuscript contains the most elaborate version of Pelayo’s compilation. Though we do not know where the Batres Codex was made, it certainly circulated widely, and was the model for at least eleven other manuscripts, all of which are copies made in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries.114 Another branch of transmission for

112 The manuscripts are: Madrid, BN MS 1358 (12th century), MS 2805 (12th century), MS 1346 (16th century); Leiden, University Library, Voss. Lat. 91 (13th century); Madrid, RAH MS 9/5496 and MS 9/5497 (13th century and 18th century copy); Salamanca, Biblioteca Universitaria, lost MS (16th century).

113 Rodríguez Díaz, “Producción literaria.”

114 As Jérez discusses, MS 1513 is most likely the model for the following other manuscripts: Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional MSS 7602 (17th century), 7089 (16th century), 1334 (17th century), 1376 (16th century), 1346 (only ff. 117r, 118r-181v, and 186r-214r; 16th century); 8395 (18th century), 9549 (18th century), 6957 (16th-17th centuries); London, British Library Egerton 1875 (16th century); Segorbe, Biblioteca de la Catedral G-1 (16th century); Toledo, Biblioteca de la Catedral 27-26 (16th century).

50 compilation B is suggested by the sixteenth-century MS D100e in the Kungliga Biblioteket in Stockholm and by an early seventeenth-century edition by Fray Prudencio de Sandoval.115 We are thus confronted with two distinct branches of transmission for this compilation that, so Jérez argues, point back to a lost model. Concerning this lost model, Jérez proposes the manuscript known as Salamanticensis. The sixteenth-century MS 1975 in the cathedral library of Salamanca preserves some traces in its marginalia of the contents of this lost Salamanca codex. He argues that Salamanticensis was among the manuscripts removed from the cathedral library of Oviedo by Diego de Muros III in the 1520s, who founded the Colegio Mayor de San Salvador of Salamanca and endowed its library with many books taken from Oviedo.116

The contents of compilation B are more extensive and more organized than those of compilation A, leading Jérez to hypothesize that A was more of a “work in progress.”117 Given the difficulty of establishing the contents of the lost model for compilation B, the Salamanca Codex, it is more useful to lay out the contents of the Batres Codex, the later, more elaborate version of the Liber Cronicorum and sole medieval exemplar of this compilation (see Appendix 2.2). As Jérez notes, in addition to all the texts comprising compilation A, compilation B contains a more extensive and organized group of texts. The elaborate series of interpolations in the Chronicles of Sampiro and Alfonso III, as well as the addition of the papal privileges, the donation of Alfonso II, and the expansion of the narrative of the Arca Santa all point to the more specifically Pelagian character of the work. In light of the comparison he makes between these two compilations, Jérez proposes a hypothesis for the development of the Pelagian corpus that involves three basic phases.

The earliest phase in the development of the collection, dating from the period of Pelayo’s life, is described by Ambrosio de Morales (1513-1591) in the copy he had made in the late sixteenth century of four important historical manuscripts that he consulted, now MS 1346 in the Biblioteca Nacional. The evidence of Morales’ manuscript is invaluable, but difficult to decipher. Diego Catalán has gone a long way towards clarifying the morass of conflicting

115 See the discussion in Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 72-75.

116 Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 77. For a discussion of the life and library of this humanist bishop, see García Oro, Diego de Muros III.

117 Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 82.

51 scholarship around this famous book. According to Catalán, Morales’ copy consists of passages that he copied down—in no particular order except the order in which they struck him as significant—from two extant manuscripts, the Batres Codex (MS 1513) and the Alcalá Codex (MS 1358), and from two now-lost manuscripts, the liber vetustissimus ovetensis and another manuscript he borrowed from fellow-chronicler Florián de Ocampo.118

As this list suggests, Morales copied from manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum in varying stages of development, from which stems much of the confusion about his manuscript. Jérez argues that the liber vetustissimus ovetensis represents “a primitive state of the Pelagian corpus,” in which flagrantly Pelagian texts commingle with a miscellany of diplomatic, epistolary, and other types of texts (see Appendix 2.3). The liber vetustissimus shared many of the texts present in both compilations A and B, such as the chronicles of Isidore, Julian Pomerius, and Alfonso III, as well as the particularly Pelagian texts about the Arca Santa, the metropolitan status of Oviedo, and the eighth-century Council of Oviedo—all three of which, it should be noted, appear in the Liber Testamentorum’s opening folia. This early instantiation of the Liber Cronicorum differs from compilations A and B markedly in its inclusion of a series of Visigothic texts, such as the list of paleographic abbreviations, diplomatic formulas, and works associated with King Sisebut (d. 620/621). As Morales declared in his 1572 Viaje Santo, the Cathedral of Oviedo had “more gothic books than in all of the libraries remaining in the Kingdom of León, Galicia, and Asturias.”119 The loss of these “gothic books” has made it difficult for scholars to assess the range of sources available to Pelayo and his contemporaries, and it is surely worth emphasizing the important role these sources played in the formation of the Pelagian corpus. What is more noteworthy, perhaps, is the omission of these texts in later versions.120 Perhaps the omissions of these overtly royal Visigothic texts can be related to Pelayo’s political negotiations with the see of Toledo in the first part of the twelfth century.

118 Catalán, “Desenredando la maraña,” 67. See also Morales’ own description of the contents of MS 1346 on fol. 112r-112v.

119 “En la Libreria de la Iglesia de Oviedo hay mas libros Gothicos que en todo junto lo demas del Reyno de Leon, Galicia, y Asturias, y puedolo decir con la seguridad de haberlo visto todo, y todos los que yo aqui pusiere, son de letra Gothica, hasta que al cabo señale unos pocos que estan in letra comun.” Morales, Viaje Santo, 93.

120 Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 83.

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The second phase in the development of the Liber Cronicorum, represented by compilation A, was likely formed around the year 1132, after a major revision of the earliest compilation, represented by the vetustissimus ovetensis. As Jérez notes, material that was not explicitly historiographic in nature—namely, the Visigothic texts—was eliminated. The texts of the late ninth-century Albeldensian Chronicle and the mid-tenth-century Castilian Annals were added to the collection, reinforcing its historiographic character and expanding its scope beyond a strictly local context. The final stage in the elaboration of the Liber Cronicorum, according to Jérez, is represented by compilation B, whose formation he dates to the time around Pelayo’s death in 1153. While compilations B is “the most Pelagian of the three collections,” it is also likely that the preface, written in the voice of Pelayo, was redacted not long after his death when the compilation was finalized.121 It is important to underscore the multiple revisions the corpus underwent, both during the lifetime of Pelayo and soon afterwards. This speaks to the changes made to the collection by Pelayo as he adapted and refined his historiographic method, broadening his bibliography by incorporating new texts that helped him make his case for the ancient privileges of Oviedo. Pelayo is presented as the “maker” of the corpus, which encompasses the labors of compilation, interpolation, and organization, as the inscription “Pelagius episcopus me fecit” in the center of the illuminations on folios 3r and 3v of the Batres Codex makes clear (Figures 2.1 and 2.2).

Speaking in the voice of Pelayo himself, the preface of the Batres Codex is a useful place to examine more closely his historiographic method and relationship to his sources. Pelayo addresses his fellow clerics directly, teaching them about the chronicle they are about to read even as he performs his own role as a link in the living chain of sources.

Here begins the book of chronicles from the beginning of the world

Dearest brothers, if you should examine this Chronicle and read it with a clear mind, you will find how Isidore the Younger, bishop of the church of Badajoz, has written most expansively, just as he learned in the Old Testament and the New and through the Holy Spirit, thus from Adam unto Noah, and unto Abraham, Moses, and David, and unto the advent of our Savior, just as he inquired and heard from his elders and predecessors concerning the Judges or

121 Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 86.

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Emperors, and concerning the Vandals and Alans, or the Sueve kings of Spain. And the blessed Isidore, bishop of the Spanish church, in whom the church of León now rejoices, who wrote, so far as he was able, most comprehensively about the gothic kings from the first king of those same Goths, Athanaric, unto the Catholic Wamba, king of the Goths. And from the afore-mentioned King Wamba unto the Catholic Pelayo, king of the Goths, the Blessed Julian Pomerius, archbishop of the See of Toledo—who along with King Pelayo transferred the ark with the relics of the saints that the church of Oviedo now glories in—most fully wrote, as much as he was able. And from King Pelayo unto Alfonso the Chaste and Catholic king of the Goths, Sebastian, bishop of the church of Salamanca, most fully wrote, just as he inquired and heard from his predecessors concerning the Gothic kings. And from King Alfonso the Chaste unto King Bermudo, Sampiro, bishop of the church of Astorga most fully wrote, so far as he was able, just as he inquired and heard from his elders and predecessors concerning the Gothic kings. And from King Bermudo unto King Alfonso, son of Count Raymond and Queen Urraca, Pelayo, bishop of the church of Oviedo most fully wrote, so far as he was able, just as he inquired and heard from his elders and predecessors concerning the Gothic and Aragonese kings.122

122 “Incipit liber Cronicorum ab exordio mundi. Carissimi fratres, si Cronicam hanc quam aspicitis bonoque animo eam legeritis, inuenietis quomodo Junior Isidorus Pacensis Ecclesiae Epicopus, sicut in ueteri testamento & nouo & per Spiritum Sanctum intellexit, ita ab Adam usque ad Noe, & usque ad Abraham, Moysem, & Dauid, & usque ad aduentum nostri Redemptoris, & de Judicibus siue Imperatoribus, & de Euandalis, & Alanis, siue & Sueuis Hispaniae Regibus, sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit, & audiuit, plenissime scripsit. Et Beatus Isidorus Ispalensis Ecclesiae Episcopus, de quo nunc Legionensis gaudet Ecclesia, de Regibus Gotorum à primo Atanarico Rege ipsorum usque ad Catholicum Bambanum Regem Gotorum prout potuit plenissime exposuit, & à praedicto Rege Bambano usque ad Catholicum Pelagium Regem Gothorum Julianus Pomerius Toletanae Sedis Archiepiscopus, qui arcam cum sanctorum pignoribus quae nunc Ouetensis Ecclesia gloriatur cum Rege Pelagio secum in Asturiis transtulit, & sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit de Regibus Gothorum, & audiuit, prout potuit, plenissime scripsit, & à Pelagio Rege usque ad Adephonsum Casti & Catholici Regis Gothorum, Sebastianus Salmanticensis Ecclesiae Episcopus sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit de Gotis Regibus, & audiuit, plenissime scripsit. Et ab Adephonso Rege Casto, usque ad Veremundum Regem Podagrogum Sampirus Astoricensis Ecclesiae Episcopus, sicut à majoribus, & praedecessoribus inquisiuit, & audiuit, de Gotis

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The repetition of the phrase “sicut a majoribus et praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit [...] et audiuit, plenissime scripsit” weaves together a garland of authors, forming a chain of authority that reaches down to Pelayo himself. I wish now to take a closer look at Pelayo’s chain of sources as he presents them in this prefatory text, comparing the prologue’s representation of the contents with the actual contents of the manuscript. In particular, I consider the textual and visual strategies used to forge the links in this chain of sources in MS 1513, the Batres Codex.

This preface attracted the attention of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century erudites such as Nicolás Antonio, Enrique Flórez, and Manuel Risco, all of whom were aware of the multiple problems posed both by this text in particular and the Pelagian corpus as a whole. The importance of these figures from the Golden Age of Spanish historiography cannot be overestimated. Like Ambrosio de Morales before them, these early modern historians shaped the canon of texts that historians today continue to use. The first author Pelayo mentions, “Iunior Isidorus Pacensis Ecclesiae Episcopus,” is a conflation of Isidore of Badajoz and Isidore of Seville, as Manuel Risco noted already in the eighteenth century.123 Next, he mentions the famous Isidore of Seville, whose histories of the Goths, Vandals, and Sueves had a wide diffusion throughout the Middle Ages, albeit in two different versions.124 Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum, as it is presented in MS 1513, transmits a somewhat modified redaction of the so- called “long version” of Isidore’s history.125 The Isidoran text ends early at chapter 64, on folio 38r. On folio 38v begins a text that can be identified as Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of

Regibus prout potuit, plenissime scripsit: & à Veremundo Podagrigo Rege usque ad Adephonsum Regem filium Raymundi Comitis & Urracae Reginae Pelagius Ouetensis Ecclesiae Episcopus, sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit, & audiuit de Gotis & Aragonensis Regibus, prout potuit, plenissime scripsit.” BN MS 1513, fol. 6r. Text published in España Sagrada, vol. 38, appendix 40, 370-71.

123 See his remarks in España Sagrada, vol. 38, 129. “Iunior” was a common epithet given to Isidore of Seville, as Codoñer discusses in “Isidorus Iunior.”

124 Isidore, Las Historias de los Godos, ed. Rodríguez Alonso, 26-31.

125 For a detailed description, see Mommsen, MGH, Auctors Antiquissimi, Chronica Minora II, Isidori Iunioris episcopi Hispalensis historia, 262-63. See also Rodríguez Alonso’s recapitulation in Las Historias de los Godos, 133.

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Alfonso III (Figure 2.3).126 The first chapter is visually presented as a part of the Isidoran history, separated from the second chapter by a miniature depicting a prelate and king, labeled respectively as “Julianus Pomerius” and “Wamba Rex.” The so-called Julian Pomerius, like Isidore of Badajoz, is a composite creation, the conflation of the fifth-century Julian Pomerius and the seventh-century archbishop of Toledo, Julian (d. 690). Thus, we have the Pelagian version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III presented visually as part of both the history of Isidore and of Julian Pomerius. The ninth-century text and its twelfth-century adaptations have become imbricated; the process of interpolation operates on both textual and visual levels. This notion of visual or pictorial interpolation is a useful description of the far from neutral ways in which images and graphic devices organize and structure readers’ experience of a text, and is particularly important in the context of the Pelagian corpus, both the Liber Testamentorum and the Liber Cronicorum.127

Returning to Pelayo’s preface, after Julian Pomerius, he then lists Sebastian, Bishop of Salamanca (Figure 2.4). Sebastian was long considered the author of the Chronicle of Alfonso III by virtue of a letter addressed to him by the king that appears as a prefatory text in numerous manuscript copies of the chronicle.128 Often dismissed as a later interpolation thanks to its survival only in post-medieval manuscripts, this letter bears closer examination, particularly as it concerns concepts of authorship and historical method. It is highly suggestive that Pelayo in his preface refers to Sebastian by name, identifying this perhaps imaginary prelate with the chronicle text; there may thus have been a medieval precedent for the inclusion of this letter as part of the chronicle. Although the text of the letter does not survive in any medieval manuscripts, it is found on folio 11v in Ambrosio de Morales’ copy ex liber vetustissimus ovetensis which, as we

126 See the edition of Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 69-180.

127 The classic discussion of the particularly visual reorganization of texts during the thirteenth century is Rouse and Rouse, “Statim invenire.”

128 Namely, in the following manuscripts: Toledo, Biblioteca de la Catedral, MS 27-26 (16th century); London, British Library, Egerton 1873 (16th century); Madrid, BN MS 1346 (16th century), MS 1376 (16th century), MS 51 (17th century), MS 7602 (17th century); MS 8395 (17th century), MS 1237 (17th century), MS 9880 (18th century). See the entry on “epistola ad Sebastianum” in Díaz y Díaz, Index scriptorum latinorum medii aevi hispanorum, vol. 1, 132.

56 have seen, was likely the earliest state of the Pelagian corpus.129 The language of the letter to Sebastian in general echoes that of Pelayo’s preface, specifically in the reference to the importance of hearing the story directly “a praedecesoribus nostris.” The placement of an epistolatory paratext before the main chronicle text is not unusual, but the ways the two letters echo each other and frame their respective texts is suggestive. Moreover, the presence of the letter to Sebastian in the vetustissimus implies a medieval—and specifically Pelagian—context for this problematic text.

The letter begins “Adefonsus Rex Castus Sebastiano nostro Salmanticensi episcopo salutem.” Curiously, the reference here is to Alfonso the Chaste—Alfonso II (d. 842)—rather than the more usual Alfonso III (d. 910), with whom the chronicle was most commonly associated. While Morales does not comment on this conflation of kings in his marginalia, he does, however, try to resolve some of the text’s problems. He argues that it is doubtful that the king would have written to the bishop, arguing instead that the bishop must have written to the king. The speaker in the letter states that a certain priest Dulcidius was the source for the material of the chronicle that Sebastian wrote down, but Morales argues that Dulcidius and Bishop Sebastian are one in the same person. It is curious that, of all the issues Morales seeks to resolve in his marginalia, he does not comment on the conflation of the two Alfonsos. This suggests the extent to which these two particularly distinguished Alfonsos had become intertwined in the historiography of the Asturian monarchy.

The history of the Asturian monarchy is enshrined in the Chronicle of Alfonso III, the next link in Pelayo’s long chain of authority. One of the most important narrative sources from the period after the Muslim conquest, together with the Albeldensian and Prophetic Chronicles, the Chronicle of Alfonso III marks the rebirth of Christian historiography on the Iberian peninsula in the latter half of the ninth century. The chronicle begins with the death of Recceswinth (d. 672) and the ascension to the throne of Wamba, thereby continuing Isidore’s gothic histories. It describes the defeat of the Visigoths at the hands of invading Muslim armies,

129 “Adefonsus Rex Castus Sebastiano nostro Salmanticensi episcopo salutem. Notum tibi sit de Historia Gotorum pro qua nobis per Dulcidium presbiterem notuisti pigritiaeque veterorum scribere noluerunt sed silentio occultaverunt. Et quia Gotorum Cronica usque a tempore gloriosi Vuambani regis Isidorus Hispalense sedis episcopus plenissime edocuit et nos quidem ex eo tempore sicut ab antiquis et a praedecesoribus nostris audivimus et vera esse cognovimus tibi breviter intimavimus.” BN 1346, fol. 11v.

57 and establishes a link between the fallen Visigothic kingdom of Toledo and the nascent Christian kingdom of Asturias in the north. The chronicle presents a pantheon of the early medieval kings of Asturias—Pelayo, Fafila, Alfonso I, Fruela, Aurelio, Silo, Mauregato, Bermudo, Alfonso II, Ramiro I, Ordoño I, and Alfonso III—that continues to shape both popular and scholarly perceptions of this period in Iberian history.130

Some thirty-six manuscripts containing the Chronicle of Alfonso III are still extant, most of which date to the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries. The manuscript transmission of the chronicle is complex, but, unlike the Liber Cronicorum, has been the subject of intense scholarly interest. Since the early twentieth century, scholars have maintained that there are two major redactions of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, known as the Rotense and ad Sebastianum or Ovetense versions, both of which have been dated to the late ninth or early tenth centuries. Among the seven extant medieval manuscripts are five books that contain telltale Pelagian interpolations, and thus must be placed in the context of the Pelagian corpus. Despite this, Juan Gil’s influential 1985 edition of the Chronicle of Alfonso III makes no mention of the twelfth- and thirteenth-century Pelagian manuscripts that contain the chronicle, or of the many early modern copies of the Pelagian text—nor does he explain this omission.131 This suggests that he views this redaction of the early medieval chronicle to be hopelessly interpolated, no longer recognizably the Chronicle of Alfonso III. Pelayo’s acts of interpolation have, for Gil, irrevocably undone the textual coherence of the chronicle, transforming it into another text altogether. Pelayo’s status thus approaches that of an inventor of his own texts rather than faithful transcriber of the texts of others.

Yet despite this dismissal of the value of any early medieval text that has passed through Pelayo’s hands, until relatively recently most scholars held that the version of the chronicle used by Pelayo was the older, more authentic text. 132 In 1921, Zacarías García Villada, the first modern editor of the chronicle, argued that, for the Liber Cronicorum, Pelayo used the

130 For an introduction to the historiographic context of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, see Wolf’s discussion in Conquerors and Chroniclers, 43-56.

131 Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, Crónicas asturianas.

132 Gil Fernández, “La transmisión manuscrita,” in Crónicas asturianas, 45-80, 60-65.

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“primitive,” ad Sebastianum version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III.133 While García Villada points out that Pelayo interpolated various texts into the body of the chronicle, such as the so- called Division of Wamba and an account of the peregrinations of the Arca Santa, he advocates the essential chronological priority of the base text used by the twelfth-century prelate.134

Underpinning these scholarly debates about textual priority and authenticity is the assumption that there, in fact, existed a single, stable text against which all variants and corruptions can be read. This necessitates, particularly in the case of Gil’s edition, the production—if not invention—of just such a text, for no such version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III exists. Both the historiographic traditions out of which these ninth-century Asturian texts arose and their subsequent manuscript transmission reveal how variable medieval conceptions of authorship and textual production were, and how different they are from more modern editorial principles. What may at first appear to be superficial editorial decisions have a profound effect on the interpretation of sources, particularly in the case of the Chronicle of Alfonso III. In this case, editorial choices have hidden from view the crucial role played by Pelayo in the reception and transmission of the Chronicle of Alfonso III.

The important role played by the Chronicle of Alfonso III in Pelayo’s historical compilation is underscored by its presence in all three stages of the Liber Cronicorum’s development. Pelayo’s adaptations of this chronicle are likewise present from the early stages of the compilation. As we have seen, the vetustissimus ovetensis preserves the problematic letter from Alfonso III to Bishop Sebastian, which may have twelfth-century origins. In the next stage of the Liber Cronicorum’s development, compilation A, the Chronicle of Alfonso III contains many of Pelayo’s most infamous interpolations. As Morales’ marginal notes in MS 1358—the Alcalá Codex—point out, the chronicle begins in the middle, with the death of Mauregato (d. 789). More importantly, however, this passage immediately prefaces the second part of the story of the Arca Santa, Pelayo’s most notorious addition to the Chronicle of Alfonso III. The Pelagian context could not be clearer. Jérez, however, identifies the text of the chronicle in compilation A as merely the ad Sebastianum version, thereby obscuring Pelayo’s “authorship” of this particular version.

133 García Villada, “Notas sobre la ‘Crónica de Alfonso III,’” 269.

134 García Villada, Crónica de Alfonso III.

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Inserting Pelayo back into the chain of transmission for the Chronicle of Alfonso III focuses attention on the subsequent mediation of this early medieval text. Pelayo’s act of compilation in putting together the Liber Cronicorum is far from neutral. By tracing a narrative arc from the creation of the world to the events of his own day, Pelayo makes an implicit argument for continuity and coherence in his historical scheme. Encapsulating the entirety of this history in one manuscript volume, such as the Batres Codex, further unifies and universalizes Pelayo’s interpretation of the past. We have already seen how the Batres Codex visually presents the first chapter of the Chronicle of Alfonso III as part of Isidore’s histories, as the miniature depicting Bishop Sebastian appears after the start of the text of the chronicle. This complex weaving together of texts continues on the same folio (38v), when the second chapter of Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III is interrupted by the insertion of the so-called Division of Wamba, which continues until folio 42r. This interpolation is not visually distinguished from the text into which it is seamlessly integrated.

The Division of Wamba is a highly problematic text. It purports to be a Visigothic-era description of the main episcopal sees of the Iberian peninsula, along with their respective dependent sees. While such lists of sees are known from the period before the Muslim conquest, none of them can be identified as the Division of Wamba.135 Given its notable absence during the eleventh century, this text, it seems, was the product of early twelfth-century disputes over ecclesiastical authority.136 In the case of the Division of Wamba, it is clear that the notion of a pre-conquest, Visigothic order was deployed by later medieval authors—like Pelayo—to ground their contemporary claims to authority.

The next link in Pelayo’s chain of sources is the Chronicle of Sampiro (Figure 2.5). Sampiro was a notary and courtier who served as bishop of Astorga from 1034-36. Sampiro’s chronicle has long vexed editors and historians, as the transmission of this text is inextricably entwined with that of Pelayo’s chronicle and the so-called Historia Silense.137 The origins of the

135 Vásquez de Parga, La División de Wamba, 14.

136 Vásquez de Parga, La División de Wamba, 43.

137 See, for example, the problematic edition of Pérez de Urbel, Sampiro. See also, Ruiz Asension, “La inclusión del ‘Chronicon’ de Sampiro,” and Fernández Vallina, “Sampiro y el llamado Silense.” The most modern edition of the Historia Silense is that of Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense. No modern edition of

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Historia Silense remains the subject of debate, making it difficult to establish the relationship between the texts of Pelayo, Sampiro, and the anonymous monk of the “domus seminis.”138 Pérez de Urbel maintained that Pelayo and the author of the Silense are “two historians who were contemporaries, lived near each other, wrote the same things, and, nevertheless, did not know each other.”139 According to Pérez de Urbel, the Silense was written during the first two decades of the twelfth century at the Castilian monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos by a monk close to the court of Alfonso VI (1047-1109) and his sister, the infanta Urraca (1038-1101). The Silos origin of the text has been widely dismissed in recent scholarship; Fletcher and Barton have argued that the author of the chronicle was based in the city of León, while Linehan and Henriet have suggested Sahagún.140 As for the chronicle’s chronology, the scholarly consensus now is that it was composed around the year 1115, during the reign of Queen Urraca.

Sampiro is first identified as an author by Pelayo himself, in his prologue to the Liber Cronicorum, while Sampiro’s Chronicle was anonymously incorporated into the Historia Silense.141 MS 1513 presents a distinctly Pelagian version of the short Chronicle of Sampiro, with substantial additions to the text as it appears in the Historia Silense that focus above all on the reign of Alfonso III.142 The first difference with the Silense text is a description of the construction of numerous monuments by the king, most notably the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, “that most beautiful [work], built with squared limestone and marble stones and

either the Chronicle of Sampiro or the Chronicon Silense exists, although Juan Estévez Sola is preparing an edition of the Silense for the Corpus Christianorum.

138 This vexed relationship has recently been the focus of work by Alonso, “La obra histórica.” See also Huete Fudio, La historiografía latina medieval, 28-30 and 56-59.

139 Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 61. A partial modern translation and study of the Historia Silense can be found in Barton and Fletcher, The World of El Cid, 9-64.

140 Barton and Fletcher, The World of El Cid, 14-16; Linehan, History and the Historians, 223; Henriet, “L’Historia Silensis.”

141 Pérez de Urbel, “Pelayo y Sampiro,” 389.

142 See the discussion in Pérez de Urbel, ed., Sampiro, 223-33.

61 columns.”143 Pelayo also includes copies of the letters sent by Pope John to Alfonso III via the messengers Siderius and Severus, which then segue into a description of the so-called Council of Oviedo and the consecration of the Cathedral of Santiago by Alfonso III. The papal letters and description of the council in Oviedo are of crucial importance in the context of Pelayo’s historiographic project, for versions appear in the Liber Testamentorum as well as in later copies.144 The papal envoys even receive their own miniature in the cartulary (see Figure 2.9). There is one crucial difference, however. In Liber Testamentorum, as well as in the later thirteenth and fourteenth-century documents, both the legatine mission and the council occur during the reign of Alfonso II. This shift in timeframe is not an example of shoddy work on the part of Pelayo or a lack of understanding of chronology, but rather points to an interesting and potentially useful conflation of Alfonsos, creating a kind of royal typology in which various important kings are conflated into a single, ideal model of kingship.

We see this logic at work in the final link in Pelayo’s chain of sources, his own account of the reigns of Bermudo II, Alfonso V, Bermudo III, Fernando I, Sancho II, and Alfonso VI (Figure 2.6). The final chapter of Sampiro’s chronicle, concerning the reign of Bermudo II (d. 999), is replaced with Pelayo’s alternative interpretation of the king’s reign, and the segue from Sampiro’s to Pelayo’s chronicle is visually signaled by the presence of a miniature depicting a king, labeled “Veremudus rex,” and a prelate, identified by a later marginal hand as Pelayo. Just as Alfonso III was the focus of Pelayo’s version of the Sampiro’s chronicle, the importance of Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) is highlighted in Pelayo’s version of recent events. The adoption of the Roman rite by Alfonso VI is given particular prominence, and the Batres Codex illustrates this episode with a miniature depicting the enthroned king sending two envoys to Pope Gregory VII in Rome (Figure 2.7). The representation of the king and envoys echoes a similar image on folio 79v of the Liber Testamentorum depicting Pope Urban II with two envoys (Figure 2.8). This visual parallel becomes even more striking when we observe that the text of Pelayo’s chronicle does not specify the number of envoys to Rome. Moreover, Alfonso VI’s actions recall those of his predecessor Alfonso II/III who sent a pair of envoys, Siderius and Severus, to Pope

143 “ex calce quadratisque lapidibus marmoreisque columpnis, siue basis construxit eam ualde pulcherrima.” BN 1513, fol. 53r.

144 Specifically, fol. 3v-6r of the Liber Testamentorum; ACO, series B, folder 1, nos 2 and 3 (thirteenth-century copies). See the analysis of Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37.

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John in Rome—an episode to which a miniature in the Liber Testamentorum is dedicated, as mentioned previously (Figure 2.9). Pelayo thus creates a politically useful historical confusion, stitching together texts and images to create a continuous narrative in which Alfonso II, III, and VI are highlighted as the most important royal patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, enjoying a close relationship with Rome.

After the conclusion of Pelayo’s chronicle, bringing the historical narrative up to the present day, there are a series of papal privileges confirming the metropolitan status and possessions of the Cathedral of Oviedo. These three texts, although transcribed in the two- column format of the Batres Codex, are represented as documents, with the validating signs of the rota and bene valete used by the papal chancery (Figure 2.10). The first two privileges, bestowed by Urban II (d. 1099) and Paschal II (d. 1118), likewise appear in the Liber Testamentorum with the full complement of validating signs (Figures 2.8 and 2.11).145 The privileges of Urban II and Paschal II are among the few documents in the Liber Testamentorum whose authenticity has not been doubted. In addition to the copies in the Liber Cronicorum and Liber Testamentorum, the cathedral archive conserves the original papal documents.146 Unfortunately, the privilege of Paschal II has been mutilated, and only the top portion survives, but the privilege of Urban II preserves its rota and bene valete (Figures 2.12 and 2.13). The scribe of the Batres Codex has carefully mimicked the form of the bene valete from the document, but the rota contains the name not of Urban, but of Paschal. The same form of the bene valete for this document also appears in the Liber Testamentorum. In contrast to this careful copying of graphic devices, there seems to have been some confusion about these papal documents, for the third privilege purports to be of Paschal II, but the rota contains the name of

145 Liber Testamentorum, fol. 79v-80r (Urban II) and fol. 83r-83v (Paschal II). See the analysis of Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 330-33 and Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 307-08.

146 ACO series B, folder 2, no.17 (original) and series A, folder 2, no. 4 (later, partial copy) correspond with the text of the privilege of Urban II in the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 79v-80r and Liber Cronicorum, MS 1513, fol. 69v-70v. ACO series A, folder 2, no. 7 (original, but mutilated) corresponds with the text of Paschal II in the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 83r-83v and Liber Cronicorum, fol. 70v-71v.

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Calixtus II (d. 1124).147 Each of the bene valete signs is unique, which speaks to a desire on the part of the scribe to lend an air of documentary fidelity to his copies, despite the different rotae. Preserved in multiple copies, these papal confirmations of the privileges of the Cathedral of Oviedo seem to vindicate all of Pelayo’s careful historiographic labor. They function as a sort of documentary appendix to the Liber Cronicorum, reiterating important elements of the chronicle texts that precede them, particularly the councils held in Oviedo and the largesse of the early medieval Asturian kings’ patronage of the cathedral.

With these documents, the portion of MS 1513 known as the Liber cronicorum ab exordio mundi concludes, and a new chronicle of the Franks begins.148 The transition from one chronicle to another is underscored by the rubricated display script, for the incipit of the Origo gentis francorum has the same visual weight on the page as the incipit on folio 4r for the Liber Cronicorum. A series of narrative and documentary texts follow the chronicle of the Franks of Pseudo-Fredegar. While they do not seem to have the same chronological coherence as the texts that make up the Liber Cronicorum, they do offer many points of comparison with both the textual and visual contents of the Liber Testamentorum.

Three of the documentary texts—the testament of Alfonso II and the decrees of Alfonso V and Elvira as well as Fernando I and Sancha—appear in the Liber Testamentorum. Miniatures are dedicated to all of these royal figures in the cartulary, though the miniature depicting Fernando and Sancha has been lost. In the Batres Codex of the Liber Cronicorum, the decrees of Alfonso V and Elvira and Fernando I and Sancha are prefaced by miniatures occupying the top third of the column height (Figures 2.14 and 2.15). The king and queen, each labeled, are depicted seated, turned towards each other and gesturing with their hands. These royal couples are a variation on the pairings of prelate-authors and kings that occur earlier in the Batres Codex,

147 Liber Cronicorum, MS 1513, fol. 71v-72v. The reference to Calixtus II in the context of the Liber Cronicorum recalls the appearance of this pope in the so-called Codex Calixtinus made in Santiago de Compostela in the mid- twelfth century.

148 Raquel Alonso points out that this text corresponds to that of the Pseudo-Fredegar, and is not De origo gentis Francorum of Gregory of Tours, as the rubrication in the manuscript states. Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo,” 341.

64 as Galván Freile points out.149 These seated figures in discursive poses, often accompanied by emblems of power such as staffs and swords, recall the iconography of the Tumbo A, the twelfth- century cartulary of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, more than the dynamic, full-page compositions of the Liber Testamentorum.150 Despite their stylistic and iconographic differences, the Liber Testamentorum must be viewed in tandem with the illuminations of later medieval copies of the Liber Cronicorum, such as the Batres Codex. The traditional tools of iconography and style must be combined with a consideration of how the images function within the Pelagian corpus.

From Chronicle to Cartulary: Representing the Treasury in the Pelagian Corpus

While the textual transmission and sources of Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum remain imperfectly understood, fundamental questions about the transmission of the imagery of the Liber Cronicorum and its relationship to the transmission of the text have yet even to be asked. As Raquel Alonso Álvarez and Fernando Galván Freile have argued, an illuminated version of the Liber Cronicorum likely existed during the lifetime of Pelayo as a complement to the Liber Testamentorum.151 As we have seen, a number of suggestive compositional similarities exist between specific miniatures in the Liber Testamentorum and Batres Codex. While this is the most richly illuminated of the six medieval copies of the Liber Cronicorum, it is not the sole illuminated copy of Pelayo’s chronicle. In what follows, I will look more closely at the imagery of the extant copies of the Liber Cronicorum in order to argue that the imagery of these manuscripts works together to represent visually and validate the historical claims made by Pelayo for his diocese, such as Oviedo’s metropolitan status, its importance as a site of pilgrimage, and its prestige as a recipient of royal patronage. Pelayo’s focus is on the space and contents of the Cámara Santa as the embodiment and fullest expression of Oviedo’s privileged status. I argue that the imagery of the Pelagian corpus constitutes an alternative visual form of the cathedral treasury, representing in word and image the most valuable treasures of Cámara Santa.

149 Galván Freile, “El MS. 1513,” 493.

150 The most recent edition is edited by Díaz y Díaz, López Alsina, and Sánchez Ameijeiras, Tumbo A. See also the important essays contained in Díaz y Díaz, López Alsina, and Moralejo Álvarez, Los tumbos de Compostela.

151 Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo;” Galván Freile, “El MS. 1513.”

65

There are three distinct groups of illuminated copies of the Liber Cronicorum, which seem to correspond with Jérez’s organization of the formation of the Pelagian corpus in three phases. Jérez’s first phase, exemplified by the vetustissimus, comes down to us in Morales’ MS 1346. While the textual contents of this problematic manuscript have been subject to minute analysis, its imagery has received little attention. Morales’ primary interest was in the textual contents of the vetustissimus, but his scribe nevertheless copied some of its visual and graphic contents. The manuscript opens with the ink drawing of a jeweled cross from whose arms hang an alpha and omega (fol. 1v). Morales’ notes along the top of the page state that “the very old codex of Oviedo has this effigy of the cross made by the hands of angels,” a clear reference to the Cross of the Angels (Figure 2.16).152

An even-armed, jeweled cross, the Cross of the Angels is one of the most treasured relics of the Cámara Santa. According to the inscription along the arms of the cross, it was donated by Alfonso II in the year 808.153 It has traditionally been thought that the cross was donated specifically to the Cathedral of Oviedo, although no contemporary sources can confirm this. The story of this cross’s miraculous manufacture by angels first appears in the twelfth-century Historia Silense, which, as discussed earlier, is a problematic text whose origins remain unclear. According to the Silense, Alfonso II was seeking goldsmiths to make a cross for the main altar of the cathedral when a pair of angels disguised as pilgrims appeared, claiming to be goldsmiths. The king handed over the gold and jewels to make the cross, but then, doubting the trustworthiness of these mysterious strangers, decided to send ministers over to check on their progress. When they looked into the room in which the goldsmiths had been working, they saw only the finished cross, surrounded by a bright light. Seeing this, they realized that the mysterious strangers must have been angels, for the cross could not have been made by human

152 “Vetustissimus codex ovetensis initio habet hanc effigiem crucis angelicis manibus fabrefacte.” BN MS 1356, fol. 1v.

153 The inscription reads: “†SVSCEPTVM PLACIDE MANEAT HOC IN HONORE DI / ADEFONSVS HVMILIS SERVVS XRI / QVISQVIS AVFERRE PRESVMSERIT MIHI / FVLMINE DIVINO INTEREAT IPSE / NISI LIBENS VBI VOLVNTAS DEDERIT MEA / HOC OPUS PERFECTUM EST IN ERA DCCCXLVI / HOC SIGNO TVETVR PIVS / HOC SIGNO VINCITVR INIMICVS.” See Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 55-58. The classic study is that of Schlunk, “The Crosses of Oviedo.” His collected work on early medieval Asturian metalwork was recently published as Estudios sobre la orfebrería.

66 hands. They told Alfonso II about the miracle, and he placed the cross on the main altar of the cathedral.154

While the Silense contains the most detailed account of the Cross of the Angels’ origins, references in the Liber Cronicorum and Liber Testamentorum to “crux […] opere angelico fabricata” suggest that Pelayo was aware of the story.155 Pérez de Urbel has remarked on the curious fact that it is in the Silense and not in the works of Pelayo that the legend of the Cross of the Angels appears.156 Despite the notable absence of detailed descriptions of the Cross of the Angels within surviving Pelagian texts, the cross is visually present in the opening folio of the vetustissimus, a fact which has not been remarked on.

In the illuminations of the Liber Cronicorum we see a similar reference to the second major cross-relic in the Cámara Santa, the Cross of Victory, donated by Alfonso III and Jimena to the Cathedral of Oviedo in 908. The name refers to the popular legend that Alfonso III encased in gold and precious stones the wooden cross carried by Pelayo at the battle of

154 The complete text reads, “Porro, si ornamenta istius domus enumerare singilatim pergerem, prolixior tractatus traheret me ab incepto longius deuium. Verum, pro magnitudine miraculi, angelica crux in medium proferatur. Dum enim quadam die supradictus Adefonsus, castus et pius rex, casu haberet in manu pondus splendissimi auri et quosdam lapides preciosos, cepit cogitare ad opus Dominici altaris quomodo inde crux fieri possent. In eadem itaque santa deuocione existente, post participationem corporis et sanguinis Christi, more solito ad regiam curiam, manu aurum tenete, prandendi causa iam pergebat, cum ecce due angeli in figura peregrinorum, fingentes se artifices esse, ei aparuerunt, qui illico tradidit eis aurum et lapides, designata mansione, in qua sine hominum inpedimento operari possent. Ceterum res mira videtur et post apostolos nostri inusitata temporibus. Siquidem, in ipsa eadem morula prandii, rex ad se reuersus, quibus personis aurum dederit inquirit, ac statim vnum post alium legatum, ut perciperent quid ignoti artifices agerent, missitare cepit. Iam ministri domui fabrice apropinquabant, cum subito tanta lux totam domum interius circumfulgebat, quod vt ita licam non domus manufacta, sed solis ortus pre nimia claritate videretur. Introspicientibus autem per fenestram qui missi fuerant, ablatis angelicis magistris, sola crux, ad effectum ducta, in medio posita, domum illam ut sol irradiabat; vnde aperte constat intelligi, eam diuino non humano studio factam fuisse. Quod audiens deuotissimus rex, relictis ferculis, cum perpeti gradu cucurrit, atque pro tanto beneficio, ut decebat, cum laudibus et hympnis Deo gratias agens, eamdem venerabilem crucem super altare sancti Saluatoris reuerenter posuit.” Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 139-40.

155 Alonso Álvarez, “Patria vallata asperitate moncium,” 23. The passage in the Liber Testamentorum is located on fol. 3r, edited by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 464. The Pelagian interpolation in the Chronicle of Alfonso III is edited by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 98.

156 Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 62.

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Covadonga.157 Although the earliest versions of this history of the Cross of Victory appear in the sixteenth century, the historiated initials of a group of medieval manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum point to a earlier context for the development of the legend of the cross.158 These manuscripts, dating to the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, correspond with Jérez’s redaction A of the Liber Cronicorum, sharing as much iconographic as textual contents. As we have seen, MS 1358 in the Biblioteca Nacional is the earliest among this group of manuscripts, while MS 2805 from the same library and MS 9/5496 from the Real Academia de la Historia both appear to be copies of this book. Despite their status as textually derivative copies, manuscripts 2805 and 9/5496 are more elaborately illuminated than their parent manuscript, containing three large historiated initials as well as many decorated initials.159

Manuscripts 2805 and 9/5496 contain an historiated initial depicting Pelayo at the battle of Covadonga, described in the accompanying text of the Chronicle of Alfonso III (Figures 2.17 and 2.18). Pelayo, crowned and wearing a regal red cloak, points with his right hand towards the cross he carries in his other hand.160 As Alonso Álvarez has observed, it is clear that that cross that Pelayo carries is not wooden, but rather has the distinctive lobed form of the Cross of Victory. The evidence of this miniature suggests, therefore, that the legend associating the tenth- century jeweled Cross of Victory held in the Cámara Santa with Pelayo and the battle of Covadonga was already circulating in the twelfth century, even if it does not appear in any texts.

As we have seen, the Arca Santa is arguably the dominant focus of Pelayo’s historiographic interventions and inventions, as much in the Liber Cronicorum as in the Liber Testamentorum. The visual references that I argue we see in the two earlier redactions of the Liber Cronicorum to the crosses kept in the Cámara Santa are relatively subtle, offering

157 Cid Priego gathers these legends in his article, “Las narraciones,” 61-66.

158 BN MS 2805 (12th century), MS 1358 (12th century); RAH MS 9/5496 (13th century).

159 The historiated initials are located in the following three locations in the text: “[P]rimum in gotis” (BN MS 1358, fol. 14v, BN MS 2805, fol. 18r and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 13r), “[P]rimum in Asturias” (BN MS 1358, fol. 18r, BN MS 2805, fol. 23r, and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 16v) and “[R]egiamque” (BN MS 1358, fol. 22r, BN MS 2805, fol. 28r, and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 20r).

160 Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo,” 334. A similar though much simplified version of this initial occurs on fol. 18r of BN MS 1358.

68 suggestive rather than conclusive evidence for the visual construction of the treasury of the cathedral within the Corpus Pelagianum. Less subtle is the opening miniature of the Liber Testamentorum that depicts Alfonso II, flanked by the Virgin Mary and the Archangel Michael, kneeling in prayer before a vision of the Maiestas Domini surrounded by the twelve apostles (Figure 2.19). It has been pointed out that the composition of the upper register of this miniature echoes that of the front of the Arca Santa, but this astute observation has not, to my knowledge, been developed any further.161 I believe that we must read this opening miniature of the Liber Testamentorum in light of the representations of the treasury assembled both in text and image in various manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum.

Like Pelayo at the Battle of Covadonga present in the manuscripts from compilation A of the Liber Cronicorum, the miniature of Alfonso II in the Liber Testamentorum presents the viewer with a concrete object from the Cámara Santa in a historical, narrative setting. Furthermore, the miniature of the Liber Testamentorum underscores the physical, architectural context in which the narrative takes place: namely, the Cámara Santa itself. Alfonso II is flanked by the Virgin Mary, in whose honor he built a church alongside the cathedral, and the Archangel Michael, to whom the Cámara Santa is dedicated. These figures thus function not only as representations of the spiritual figures to whom the spaces were dedicated, but also as architectural metaphors, standing in for the buildings erected by Alfonso II around the cathedral. This complex representation fuses past and present as the early medieval king kneels in the Cámara Santa like so many pilgrims after him at the Arca Santa, presented as a timeless celestial vision.

From Treasury to Archive: Cartularies and the Creation of Memory

These layers of meaning all accumulate within the space of the Cámara Santa itself, for the Liber Testamentorum was likely kept there throughout the Middle Ages as yet another of the cathedral’s treasures. A fourteenth-century notarial copy of the eleventh-century document founding the monastery of Corias includes a description of the Liber Testamentorum and its location within the Cámara Santa. The notary describes how, on the orders of the pope, the bishop of Oviedo together with members of the chapter went to the “cartophilacium” where the cartulary and other documents were kept in order to examine and make a copy of the foundation

161 See the catalogue entry for the Liber Testamentorum by Williams in The Art of Medieval Spain, no. 149, 295-96.

69 document of Corias. He describes the Cámara Santa as an archive, “dedicated to the conservation of the writings of that church,” among whose contents is the Liber Testamentorum, whose incipit and explicit he provides.162 The cartulary’s location is fundamental for our understanding of this manuscript and the interpretation of its imagery.

The Liber Testamentorum’s presence in the Cámara Santa is not surprising, considering the rarity and preciousness of the illuminated manuscript itself, as well as the conceptual links among writing, memory, and treasuries.163 Right now, I want to focus on the function of the Liber Testamentorum as a part of this rich memorial complex, in particular its status as a cartulary. We have already seen in a more strictly narrative context how Pelayo in his preface to the Liber Cronicorum represents his relationship to his sources as a living chain of authorities. A similar dynamic, I argue, is at work in the sphere of documentary culture in the process of making this cartulary. The act of copying documents into a manuscript cartulary—“the art of transcribing,” in Robert Maxwell’s words—is “an exercise of historical performance, fashioning the historical record.”164 The Liber Testamentorum, therefore, does not just passively reproduce its documentary sources. It actively constructs a historical narrative that is validated by means of the very process of transcription. The production of copies of documents—in other words,

162 “in quondam libro scripto de quondam antiquissima littera toletana uocata , qui quidem liber ut dixit erat cum aliis multis scripturis repositus / in archiuo publico deputato ad reponenda et conprenda plura alia testamenta regum principum et baronum qui eadem dotauerant ecclesiam. [...] quandam capellam que sancti michaelis uocatur intra corpus ecclesie cathedralis ad manum dexteram altaris principalis ipsius ecclesie / per multos grados lapideos ad dictam cameram sancti michaelis in solio lapideo tabulato textudinoso constructam accederunt ad cuius cappelle dextrum angulum, circa altare Sancti Michaelis est quedam secreta camera, cum duabus clauibus ad / duas seras in portis eiusdem camere affixis , quorum duarum clauium alteram tenebat et custodiebat sugerium Martini et aliam sugerium Fernandi, porcionariis dicte ecclesie; qui clauarii, apertis seris et portis iamdictis, quodam archiuum / ad scripturarum ipsius ecclesie conseruationis deputatum, quod intus erat, patuit, numerosis cartis et libris plenum. Inter quas scripturas erat quidem liber magnus, ligneis tabulis coopertus, qui in quolibet principio uel qualibet rubrica noui sermo / nis et intitulabatur testamentum talis rege uel comitis uel alterius principis; cuius liber sic incipit primum folium in rubrica—Hac scriptura; et ultimum folium sic incipit—Hec sunt nomina; et finit—Sancta Eulalie.” ACO, series B, folder 2, no. 2. Sanz, “Estudio paleográfico,” 97-98.

163 See the classic study of Carruthers, The Book of Memory. On books as treasures and in treasuries, see Palazzo, “Le livre dans les trésors.”

164 Maxwell, “Sealing Signs,” 576.

70 scribal practice itself—materializes the chain of authority, rendering those links visible and physical. The presence of numerous full-page miniatures intensifies this materialization, for they act as validating visual reenactments of the actions commemorated in the accompanying documents.

The issue of transcription is of paramount importance for the creation of a cartulary like the Liber Testamentorum, a manuscript containing copies of documents from the cathedral’s archives that confirm the possessions and privileges of the see of Oviedo. The idea of making copies of documents and placing them in a codex is not a simple extension of archival practice in the Middle Ages. What Pierre Chastang terms the cartularization of memory is an active process involving the selection, organization, and modification of texts, producing a codex that is no mere copy of the contents of the archive but rather an archive reimagined and reconfigured.165

As Patrick Geary has discussed, the period around the year 1000 saw tremendous changes in archival practices and the relationship to the early medieval past. The single most notable feature of this transformation was the production of copies of earlier documents in the form of manuscript cartularies. Importantly, the transition to a new form and physical frame for archival memory also opened the possibility of including other kinds of memorial material, such as chronicles or narrative histories. We see this in the case of the Liber Testamentorum, whose opening quire contains a hodgepodge of texts largely narrative rather than documentary in nature. The cartulary form is thus a locus for the development of new kinds of history-writing.166

Despite the important changes wrought on archival practice by the introduction of cartularies, this type of manuscript has only recently been the subject of critical scrutiny.167 Traditionally, historians have preferred to view cartularies as passive collections of documents, using them as “transparent windows into the original archives of an institution.”168 Just as modern editorial criteria have distorted our perception of narrative histories like the Chronicle of Alfonso III, so, too, have they drastically distorted our understanding of medieval archival

165 Chastang, “Cartulaires, cartularisation et scripturalité médiévale.”

166 Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 81-84.

167 See in particular the collected studies in Kosto and Winroth, eds., Charters, Cartularies and Archives, and Guyotjeannin, Morelle, and Parisse, eds., Les cartulaires.

168 Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 83.

71 practice. For example, Santos García Larragueta’s 1962 edition of the medieval documents— including those from the Liber Testamentorum—held in the cathedral archive of Oviedo organizes the documents purely chronologically, while the most recent edition of the contents of the Liber Testamentorum likewise completely reconfigures its contents, ordering them chronologically.169 The organizational logic of the manuscript cartulary is thus ignored, when it may, in fact, help us to understand broader issues of memorial and archival practice.

Editors of documents have also primarily been focused on determining the authenticity or falsity of documents, which can distort the interpretation of the context in which they were produced.170 In order to evaluate the authenticity and general trustworthiness of medieval documents, diplomatists consider everything from linguistic style and the use of formulae to the nature of the parchment support, scribal hand(s), and the graphic devices such as signatures and seals intended to validate the document’s contents. While historians have reassessed the meanings of the terms “original” and “copy” and the underlying assumptions they reveal, the painstaking work of separating authentic elements from interpolated or otherwise anachronistic elements remains fundamental to the study of documents. This likewise remains one of the enduring problems for the study of the Liber Testamentorum, for which we preserve only a few originals for the documents copied or otherwise composed in its pages.

Recent work on cartularies suggests that these manuscripts occupy an intermediary status between original and copy. Despite the frequency with which copies of various kinds, including cartularies, were made throughout the central and late Middle Ages, and the high rates of destruction of documents even during the Middle Ages, it is unclear what the status of these copies was with respect to the originals from which they were derived. While institutions increasingly relied on copies, original documents still had to be brought out for legal disputes. As far as we know, the Liber Testamentorum was never actively employed in legal disputes, but instead resided in the cathedral’s archive as one of the many reference works frequently consulted by members of the chapter. Later marginalia confirms this hypothesis, as readers’

169 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos; Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis.

170 See, for example, the classic manual for the Spanish context: Muñoz y Rivero, Manual de Paleografía. A more thorough discussion can be found in Guoyjeannin, Pycke, and Tock, Diplomatique médiévale, 367-95.

72 interest was focused on specific place-names, identifying the earlier medieval names used in the cartulary with current usage.171

How are we, then, to understand the meaning and purpose of the act of copying so many documents? Brigitte Bedos-Rezak offers a useful formulation:

In asking how medieval copies derived the means and meanings of their functions, and what these functions were, I would like to suggest […] the possibility that, by eschewing precise replications while making “copies,” medieval scribes and their literate superiors demonstrated that their goal was less to reproduce artifacts of the acts themselves than to maintain a process of textualization which would assure these acts’ ongoing canonization as discursive objects.172

Bedos-Rezak’s emphasis on the “process of textualization” and the production of “discursive objects” compels us to reconceive the notion of copying. This in turn draws attention to the visual, physical nature of the copy, putting the emphasis on the “object” in Bedos-Rezak’s formulation. This process of textualization is thus one of representation, carried out visually on the parchment page.

Memory, Transcription and Representation in the Liber Testamentorum

Documents themselves can reveal some of the mechanisms and metaphors for their creation. It has become a commonplace to think of documentary reproduction and validation in the terms of seals and sealing. The addition of seals to the already vast repertoire of graphic signs found on documents changed the process of validation on both practical and symbolic levels. The dominant metaphor for the reproduction of documents became that of the print or impression, infinitely replicable and always identical. Before the widespread use of seals, however, alternative means of validation—including the use of signatures and other graphic devices—produced alternative metaphors. The products and process of transcription is more linear and graphic, intimately connected to the movements of the scribal hand itself. We see such a logic at work in the Liber Testamentorum, produced soon before the period in which seals were

171 See the remarks of Rodríguez Díez, “Estudio codicológico,” 72-76.

172 Bedos-Rezak, “Towards an Archaeology,” 60.

73 in widespread use on the Iberian peninsula, dated by Fletcher to the reign of Alfonso VII (r. 1126-1157).173

In what follows, I explore the Liber Testamentorum as a product of the act of transcription, the open-ended, discursive scribal practice of making and remaking texts. I focus on the script, graphic signs, and illuminations of the codex in the wider context of the preservation and transformation of archival memory. To do this, I first discuss the codicology, paleography, and contents of the Liber Testamentorum, revisiting debates about the dating and localization of the manuscript. I then move on to a consideration of the more visual aspects of the book, concluding with an analysis of the role of the manuscript’s many full-page miniatures.

One of the most striking aspects of the volume of studies accompanying the facsimile edition of the Liber Testamentorum—to date the most thorough and authoritative examination of this manuscript—is the lack of consensus expressed about such fundamental issues as dating and provenance. The codicologist, paleographer, and art historian all differ profoundly in their conclusions. While I cannot conclusively resolve all of these authors’ differences and come to a single, definitive hypothesis about the formation of the Liber Testamentorum, the process of clearly laying out the various arguments reveals not only some of the persistent problems with the scholarship, but also opens up new ways of thinking about this manuscript. I will argue that the manuscript dates to the reign of Queen Urraca (r. 1109-1126) on the basis of the memorial function of its images, and the larger context of Urraca’s artistic patronage and dynastic politics.

There is considerable debate surrounding both the dating and origins of the Liber Testamentorum. Rodríguez Díaz has argued that the cathedral of Oviedo had a scriptorium in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries capable of producing the cartulary, and other works of the Pelagian corpus.174 The lack of other illuminated manuscripts of similar quality either still surviving in Oviedo or known to have been made there makes it difficult to prove conclusively the existence of a scriptorium. But neither should the possibility be ruled out. As Alonso Álvarez has argued, there is a tendency in scholarship to repeat hypotheses until they become truisms, as is the case for the scriptorium at the monastery of Saints Facundus and Primitivus in Sahagún. In his catalogue entry on the Liber Testamentorum, John Williams suggests that the manuscript may

173 Fletcher, “Diplomatic and the Cid revisited.”

174 Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico.”

74 have been made at this royal monastery, later home to the body of Alfonso VI.175 Later scholarship has endorsed this hypothesis, and the scriptorium at Sahagún has come to take on a legendary status, becoming referred to as the place of production for many luxurious illuminated manuscripts from the twelfth century for which we do not have a secure provenance.176 Given the vast resources mobilized by Pelayo during the formation of the Pelagian corpus, I do not think it impossible that an active scriptorium existed in Oviedo during the early twelfth century.

The evidence of the manuscript’s codicology is not conclusive for resolving questions of dating. It is largely composed of regular quaternions, with a handful of senions, ternions, and bifolia which were the result of particular exigencies of production. The most structurally complex parts of the manuscript are the first and last quires. The first quire originally consisted of a pair of bifolia, though all that now remains of the second bifolium is a single folio. The regular pattern of hair/flesh sides of the parchment is interrupted between folios II and III, suggesting the loss of half of the bifolium. Rodríguez Díaz argues that folio II and the now- missing other half of that bifolium formed the original nucleus of the first quire, and that the bifolium I/III was added later, perhaps in the mid-twelfth century. She concludes this on the basis of the text that appears on folio IIIv, clearly added in a different, later twelfth-century hand, which describes the transfer of the see of Lucus Asturum to Oviedo, discussed in chapter one.

In addition, folios IIv and IIIr shows traces of the miniature of Alfonso II that now begins the second quire of the manuscript. Rodríguez Díaz suggests that the miniature was removed from its original location at some point in the manuscript’s history, perhaps when it was rebound in the sixteenth century, and placed in this opening quire. The dramatic and much-studied miniature of Alfonso II now opens the second quire of the manuscript (see Figure 2.19). Having previously been cut out and moved to the first quire, the miniature is now a paste-down on a separate folio that was added to the opening of the second quire, because it had long ago lost its opening folio.177 The mobility of this miniature within the manuscript suggests that the image of Alfonso II had acquired a particular status as frontispiece or visual précis of the cartulary’s

175 The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 147, 295-96.

176 Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo,” 5-7.

177 Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 22-25.

75 contents. This underscores the importance of Alfonso II’s afterlife as main patron of the cathedral, model for all future kings and donors in their behavior towards the see.

The presence of the miniature of Alfonso II at the start of the second quire establishes a pattern in which the verso side of the opening folio of each quire contains a full-page miniature (see manuscript description, Appendix 2.4). Thus the reader is presented with a pantheon of kings, queens, and bishops: Ordoño I and Mummadonna (third quire, fol. 8v—Figure 2.20), Alfonso III and Jimena (fourth quire, fol. 18v—Figure 2.21), Ordoño II and Jimena (sixth quire, fol. 26v—Figure 2.22), Fruela II and Jimena (seventh quire, fol. 32v—Figure 2.23), and Bermudo II and Elvira (tenth quire, fol. 49v—Figure 2.24). The exceptions to this pattern are the now-missing miniatures of Ramiro I and of Fernando I and Sancha, the former evidently lost before the rebinding and foliation of the book in the sixteenth century, and the latter afterwards. In addition, the miniature of Alfonso V and his mother Elvira does not occupy a full page, and is located within the tenth quire, along with the documents relating to Bermudo II (Figure 2.25). Finally, the miniature of Alfonso VI from the fourteenth quire also went missing sometime after the sixteenth century, although the codicology of this quire is complex.

Alfonso VI ends the sequence of kings and queens, while on the fifteenth quire begin donations from the aristocracy. The miniatures that follow are not the full-page royal portraits we see in the first part of the manuscript, but rather smaller-scale depictions of bishops and popes. On folio 74v immediately following the missing miniature of Alfonso VI is an image of Bishop Martin of Oviedo (Figure 2.26), and a few folios later, on folio 78v we see a depiction of Bishop Pelayo and two canons (Figure 2.27). On folios 79v and 83r are representations of Popes Urban II (Figure 2.8) and Paschal II (Figure 2.11), respectively. All of these remaining miniatures occur within the fifteenth quire, which contains documents from the reign of Alfonso VI. Given the density of the imagery in this quire, it is unfortunate that the miniature of Alfonso VI himself does not survive.178

A final codicological problem has important bearing on the imagery and dating of the manuscript. The final two quires, numbers seventeen and eighteen, contain aristocratic donations

178 Suggestive traces of the missing miniature survive on the facing folio 74r. Javier Fernández Conde and Raquel Alonso Álvarez are working with the cathedral chapter and Patrimonio Nacional in Madrid to study the Liber more closely, to see what can be ascertained about the nature of this missing miniature.

76 from the reign of Queen Urraca (r. 1109-1126). Rodríguez Díaz argues the bifolium in the middle of quire eighteen that contains documents explicitly from Queen Urraca was added after the initial confection of the cartulary, inserted into the middle of a regular quaternion containing aristocratic donations, making the senion present today. She thus suggests that there was no miniature of Urraca planned for the Liber Testamentorum, something which had previously been sustained.179 On this basis, she proposes a dating for the manuscript towards the end of Alfonso VI’s lifetime, sometime before his death in 1109, rather than during the reign of Queen Urraca.180

Paleographer Josefa Sanz comes to slightly different conclusions about the dating of the codex.181 She divides the production of the book into three distinct phases. The first phase saw the creation of the complex first quire, while the second phase corresponds to the quires containing royal donations. She argues that these quires were all executed by the same scribe, “hand A.”182 This second phase constitutes the core of the manuscript’s argument for Oviedo’s primacy, and concludes with two papal bulls of Urban II and Paschal II confirming the independence and possessions of the church of Oviedo. These two bulls, it should be remembered, also conclude the Liber Cronicorum in the Batres Codex.

Finally, Sanz’s third phase of the Liber Testamentorum corresponds to the final four quires, fifteen through eighteen, of the manuscript. These quires contain aristocratic donations and lack illuminations. Sanz argues that a different scribe, “hand B,” carried out these quires, and also added material to the many blank spaces left by the first scribe in the initial fourteen quires. Moreover, she identifies this scribe as the “Pelagius” who copied a document dated to 1122 still in the cathedral archive in Oviedo. Although Sanz does not mention it, it is important to observe that this document is a thirteenth-century copy.183 This document contains the signatures of the scribe Pelayo and of Bishop Pelayo, whose signature consists of an outstretched arm grasping a

179 Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 33-39.

180 Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 84.

181 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico.”

182 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 135-36.

183 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 138. For the document, see ACO series B, folder 3, no. 3. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 376-80.

77 cross-like symbol. In addition to the document that Sanz highlights, other documents also contain the signatures of these two Pelayos (Figure 2.28).184 Finally, folio 99v of the Liber Testamentorum contains the characteristic signatures of both the scribe Pelagius and Bishop Pelayo, just as they are rendered in these documents (Figure 2.29).185

Sanz dates the first two phases of the production of the manuscript not to the episcopacy of Pelayo, but rather to that of his predecessor, Martin I (1094-1101).186 Despite this, she maintains that the future bishop Pelayo acted as a notary who wrote several documents in the late eleventh century, and suggests that he may well be the “scribe A” of the Liber Testamentorum.187 She therefore dates the execution of the third phase of the manuscript’s production to the period between 1098 and the 1130, that is, between the time of Pelayo’s elevation to the rank of bishop and his exile following the Council of Coyanza.188 Finally, she argues that the addition to the first quire—the text about Lucus Asturum—can be dated to the mid-twelfth century, or the period when we have documents attesting to Pelayo’s presence once again in Oviedo, from 1142 until his death in 1153.189

Throughout her analysis, Sanz displays a keen interest in establishing concrete, biographical links between Pelayo’s life and the production of the Liber Testamentorum. She wishes to see the bishop’s hand in the creation of this manuscript. Such a desire is understandable and, I would argue, encouraged by the rhetoric of transcription employed throughout the book. The hand of Pelayo seems to appear before the reader in the remarkable signature with the bishop’s arm, hand outstretched and holding a cross (see Figures 2.28 and 2.29). The cathedral archive preserves some half-dozen documents containing this characteristic

184 ACO series A, folder 2, no. 14 and an unnumbered document, discovered recently: see García Leal, “Addenda a la colección de documents.”

185 Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 346-48. Unfortunately, the archive does not preserve the original document copied in the cartulary.

186 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 139.

187 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 140. Fernández Conde dismissed this possibility in El Libro de los Testamentos, 37, note 9.

188 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 142.

189 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 143.

78 signature.190 His signature stands out and seems to assert the bishop’s individual agency and physical presence in the production of the manuscript. The signature has become the arm, emphasizing the performative display of the acts of donation, witness, writing, and blessing.191 As we read in the beginning of the manuscript, “Bishop Pelayo ordered this work to be made,” and here we see, quite literally, his hand at work.192 And yet, despite the reference to unmediated action, Pelayo’s hands in both the Liber Testamentorum and the documents have been transcribed from their original context. Their status as copies is crucial, for mediation is at the heart of the Liber Testamentorum. The bishop’s arm thus comes to stand in not only for the original actions that prompted the production of the document commemorating them, but also for the act of transcription itself, the textual reproduction of those actions.193

On folio 78v appears a small miniature of a bishop, labeled “Pelagius Ovetensis Ep[iscopus]” flanked by two prelates, labeled “ministri eius,” like ecclesiastical figures that appear together with bishops depicted elsewhere in the manuscript (Figure 2.27). This miniature accompanies a donation by Alfonso VI and Isabel to the Cathedral of Oviedo which addresses Pelayo directly as a recipient of the donation.194 Pelayo stands in the center of the composition, holding his baculus and making a gesture of blessing, while the figure to his left holds an object that looks like the myriad testamenta depicted in the royal miniatures. This textual object has been labeled, but the inscription is illegible. Sanz suggests that the figure on the left of the bishop should be identified as the scribe Pelagius whose notarial signature appears on folio 99v, and, moreover, that the text he holds is none other than the Liber Testamentorum itself.195

190 ACO series A, folder 2, nos. 14, 15, and 17; series A, folder 3, nos. 1 and 6; series B, folder 3, no. 3.

191 On the bishop’s arm, see Hahn, Strange Beauty, 140.

192 ACO MS 1, fol. IIIv. The heading to the text about the origins of the see of Lucus Austurum reads, “PELAGIVS EPISCOPVS HOC OPVS FIERI IVSSIT.”

193 Similarly, Cynthia Hahn argues that the so-called body part reliquaries of the twelfth century cannot be understood simply as representations of their contents, but rather act symbolically, often within specific liturgical contexts. Hahn, “Voices of the Saints.”

194 See the transcription of this document by Sanz in Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis, 601-02.

195 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 143.

79

Closer examination of the miniature complicates this reading somewhat. First, it is unclear that the object is a codex rather than a document. Throughout the rest of the manuscript, individual documents are presented a long rectangles, often labeled as “testamentum.” Codices, on the other hand, on all but one occasion are represented as open books, in order to distinguish them visually from documents. On folio 32v, the miniature depicting Fruela II and Jimena contains a cleric holding what appears to be a book, but the object is not labeled, as it is in the miniature of Pelayo (Figure 2.23). The second noteworthy aspect of the miniature is that while both of the clerics that accompany Pelayo have their hands covered, the figure to the left places his hand directly on the object. We see such covered hands elsewhere in the manuscript in scenes depicting liturgical ceremonies, as on folio 26r (Figure 2.22). In addition, the priests Siderius and Severus cover their hands in order to receive the privilege from Pope John in the miniature on folio 5v (Figure 2.9). Throughout the rest of the manuscript, all of the various testamenta are depicted quite clearly in the bare hands of their donors and recipients. The miniature of Pelayo thus presents us visually with an interesting conflation of the act of donation, hands placed directly on an object that looks like a document, with a liturgical act of some kind, requiring the covering of hands. Sanz’s reading of the image simplifies the complex, perhaps paraliturgical status of the act of donation.

Pelayo appears here not in the self-aggrandizing pose of the maker of the manuscript, as Joaquín Yarza has suggested, but rather as another in a long line of bishops who receive royal largesse.196 This is the visual expression, I would argue, of the literary depiction of Pelayo in the prologue of the Liber Cronicorum as the most recent link in the chain of sources that he presents in his chronicle. This miniature, like the more elaborate images of kings and queens in the rest of the manuscript, serves to recall and reenact the original donation, as well as to represent Pelayo himself within this complex network of exchange and commemoration. This reflexivity is part of the very process of transcription elaborated throughout the manuscript.

The visual rhetoric of transcription appears not only in the miniatures, validating signs and signatures discussed above, but also in the script itself. The attenuated, difficult to decipher script—apparently unique to the Liber Testamentorum—has long attracted comment. Early modern erudites often had difficulties simply deciphering the manuscript, and modern-day

196 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 229-30.

80 paleographers continue to debate how to classify this hybrid of, in Ambrosio de Morales words, “gothic” and “common” scripts. Morales is referring to the fundamental paleographic distinction between manuscripts written in a characteristically Iberian Visigothic script and a Caroline script like that used in much of western Europe. To modern, paleographically-trained eyes, his simple distinction seems at best partial and naïve, creating an absolute division between forms of writing, between an illegible past and a legible present. Such an overstated distinction has, however, persisted. Scholars continue to debate the so-called purity of the script of the Liber Testamentorum, searching for telltale signs of transpyrnenean influence in its letter forms and ligatures, despite increasingly nuanced classifications of these two scripts that emphasize continuities between them during the long period of scribal transformation in the twelfth century. By the early twelfth century, Iberian scribes were confronted with multiple options; a single script, if such a thing could ever be said to have existed on the Iberian peninsula, certainly did not exist by that point.

However, on a semiotic level, Morales’ distinction remains useful. Despite the persistence of Visigothic script throughout the twelfth century and its coexistence with new forms of writing, the change in writing systems had the effect of gradually impeding access to earlier documents.197 Episcopal sees took advantage of this confusion in order to make claims about their antiquity and authority on the basis of documentation largely mediated by cartularies produced throughout the twelfth century. In fact, much of what we know of early medieval documents has been filtered through the lens of these later cartularies.198 However, unlike other twelfth and thirteenth-century Iberian cartularies, which transcribed documents in Caroline script, the documents of Oviedo’s Liber Testamentorum perform antiquity by means of their use of Visigothic script. The decision on the part of the scribes of the Liber Testamentorum to use a recognizably Visigothic script must be seen as a deliberate strategy to legitimize the authenticity and antiquity of the documents transcribed within. Ambrosio de Morales, for one, was attuned to the suggestion of venerable age implicit in the designation of a manuscript as “gothic,” and his

197 Rucquoi, “La invención de una memoria.”

198 See the comments of Rucquoi a propos of the documentation of Santiago de Compostela, “La invención de una memoria,” 71, as well as those of Alfonso in “Judicial Rhetoric and Political Legitimation,” 53.

81 classification of the Liber Testamentorum among these ancient books suggests that the manuscript’s performance of antiquity was convincing.

The strange script of the Liber Testamentorum contributes to the chronological confusion surrounding the manuscript, as exemplified by continued debates about the date of its production. Just as this script was chosen for its archaic aspect, the miniatures likewise strive for an air of antiquity. This deliberate manipulation of chronology has made it difficult for art historians to date these miniatures, or, indeed, to match the time of their manufacture with that of the rest of the manuscript. For example, despite her dating of the initial core of the manuscript— the first fourteen quires—to the period between 1094 and 1101, Sanz prefers to date the miniatures to the 1120s, around the time of the third phase of the manuscript’s production.199 In his art historical analysis, Yarza concurs with this later dating for the miniatures, arguing on stylistic grounds that to date them, along with the texts that they accompany, to circa 1100 is simply impossible. In the absence of compelling manuscript comparanda, he cites as fundamental the comparison between the opening miniature of Alfonso II in the manuscript and the fresco depicting Fernando I and Sancha kneeling before the Crucifixion in the famous Pantheon of San Isidoro in León (Figure 2.30).200

Like many of the royal portraits in the Liber Testamentorum, Fernando I and Sancha appear at San Isidoro accompanied by an arms bearer and maidservant.201 As Therese Martin observes, their position beneath the Crucifixion recalls the location of the inscription recording their names on the famous ivory Cross of Fernando and Sancha, donated to San Isidoro by the royal couple.202 As Martin makes clear, this fresco is of particular importance within the complex iconography of the space’s decoration. If the viewer stands where the royal couple is depicted, she sees the Apocalyptic scenes painted in the vaults above, oriented towards her viewing perspective. Immediately above the Crucifixion is a depiction of seven candelabra, identified by

199 Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 142.

200 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 170 and 217.

201 Williams established the identity of these kneeling donor figures in his “San Isidoro in León.”

202 Martin, Queen as King, 143.

82 an inscription from the Book of Revelation.203 These candelabra engage with the imagery of the Crucifixion and its kneeling donors, standing in pictorially for the candles that would have been used in the space. By contrast, the famous Christ in Majesty in the central vault is oriented to be seen by viewers entering from the west, from the direction of the royal apartments. The figures of the king and queen both in actual and pictorial form thus help orient and direct the viewer’s experience of the space.204

It is clear that the importance of Fernando and Sancha as patrons of the space was underscored early in the twelfth century, when the frescoes were painted. The matter of precisely when in the twelfth century these frescoes were painted, however, has been the subject of heated debate. Martin dates them to the first part of Queen Urraca’s reign, around 1109, on the basis of the unusual appearance of St. George. George was the patron saint of Aragón, the home of her second husband, Alfonso el Batallador. As is well known, their marriage fell apart very quickly, and by 1113 they were locked in a bitter struggle that would last for years.205 Martin also points to the presence of Eligius of Noyon, goldsmith to the Merovingian kings, holding a chalice that recalls the one donated by Urraca herself to San Isidoro. Rose Walker likewise interprets the space as a memorial for Fernando and Sancha, but she identifies the patron as the Infanta Urraca (sister of Alfonso VI and daughter of Fernando and Sancha), rather than Queen Urraca (daughter of Alfonso VI).206

Returning to the question of the chronological relationship between the illuminations of the Liber Testamentorum and the frescoes of the Pantheon, Yarza argues that the artist of the manuscript must have seen the frescoes, which leads him to conclude that the Oviedo cartulary cannot be earlier than approximately 1110.207 Yarza assumes that manuscript painting follows

203 Revelation I, 13. The inscription reads, “[ET IN MEDIO SEPTEM CANDE]LABRORUM [AUREORUM SIMILEM] FILIVM OMINIS [VESTITUM PODERE ET] PRE[CINCTUM] AD MAM[ILL]A [Z]ONA AVREA,” “And in the midst of the seven laps, one like to a son of man, clothed with a garment to the ankles and about the chest with a golden girdle.” Martin, Queen as King, 142.

204 Martin, Queen as King, 142-43.

205 Martin, Queen as King, 147.

206 Walker, “The Wall Paintings.”

207 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 170.

83 monumental painting, despite numerous examples of artistic transmission moving from the miniature to the monumental.208 In fact, the Pantheon itself provides an example of just such a relationship between manuscripts and wall painting. The central image of Christ in a mandorla contains several tituli taken not from the Book of Revelation itself, but rather from the Commentary of Beatus on the Apocalypse. As Williams observed, the texts of these tituli are taken directly from the Beatus manuscript commissioned by Fernando and Sancha.209 Thus, the twelfth-century artist of the Pantheon must have seen those specific folios from the Beatus manuscript.

My purpose here is not to prove conclusively that the Liber Testamentorum’s illuminations follow the Pantheon, or the Pantheon the Liber. I wish instead to point to some of the methodological problems in our attempts to date this manuscript. The miniatures are in something of a chronological quandary in the paleographic and codicological context of the manuscript, as well as in relation to the admittedly scarce comparanda. As has been discussed, Rodríguez Díaz dates the manuscript to the period immediately before the death of Alfonso VI in 1109, while Sanz divides the production of the manuscript into two distinct moments, the first fourteen quires sometime between 1094 and 1101, and the last quires between 1100 and 1130. To this second campaign Sanz adds the production of the miniatures, with which judgment Yarza seems to agree, preferring to date them to the early 1120s. I agree with Rodríguez that the final two quires are of fundamental importance for dating this manuscript and, indeed, for understanding the purpose and function of the book as a whole. The partially incorporated nature of the documents from the reign of Queen Urraca may point either to a date for the completion of the manuscript at the start of the reign of Urraca, or at the end of the reign of Alfonso VI.210 Frustratingly, neither the miniature depicting Fernando and Sancha nor that of Alfonso VI survive. These miniatures would have been among the most important in the entire manuscript, for they depict the immediate ancestors of Urraca herself. If we are to view the paintings of the

208 The classic study is the relationship between the miniatures of the Cotton Genesis and the mosaics of San Marco in Venice. Weitzmann and Kessler, The Cotton Genesis.

209 See his “León: Iconography of a Capital.”

210 Lucy Pick dates the manuscript to the reign of Queen Urraca: Pick, “Sacred Queens and Warrior Kings,” 54.

84

Pantheon as, among other things, a dynastic memorial, perhaps the Liber Testamentorum shares some of this memorial function.

The task of remembering the dead was an integral part of sacred liturgy and secular practice. Moreover, as Geary writes, “memory was often gender specific, with women traditionally assigned a primary responsibility for the preservation of memory.”211 As he points out, this tradition was increasingly contested by priests and monks from the eleventh century onwards, but the specifically female model of remembrance persisted. In the Liber Testamentorum, queens accompany kings in all of the royal portraits, seeming to enjoy, as Yarza has pointed out, a notable protagonism.212 I suggest we link their prominent visual presence to their memorial function. Just as the miniatures themselves re-enact and recollect the actions described in the accompanying documents, so, too, do these queens invite the reader to remember the individuals who performed these pious acts of donation. The imagery is thus commemorative on multiple levels.

Nowhere is this more explicit than in the depictions of Queens Mummadonna and Elvira. Mummadonna is depicted on folio 8v, seated in the lower register of the composition, in the precise center (Figure 2.20). Above her on either side are her husband, Ordoño I (ca. 821-866), and Archbishop Seranus of Oviedo, who holds a document labeled “Testamentum Ordonii Regis.” Mummadonna is framed by curtains that have been drawn back to reveal the queen seated on a Solomonic throne, holding a book open on her lap. The beginning of Psalm 50 is clearly legible: “Miserere mei Deus secundum magnum.” This is one of the penitential psalms, used frequently in both the old Spanish and Roman rites, particularly for the office of the dead. As Yarza points out, the presence of this book points to the personal devotion of the queen, and perhaps her possession of a book of psalms like that owned by Queen Sancha. It also points to a specific liturgical context of the remembrance of the dead.213

Later in the manuscript, on folio 49v, we see another particularly striking image of a queen (Figure 2.24). Like Mummadonna, Queen Elvira is depicted with an open book. This time,

211 Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 21. See also van Houts, Memory and Gender, 65-92.

212 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 193.

213 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 176-83.

85 the text corresponds to another of the penitential psalms, number 142: “D(omi)ne exaudi oratione(m).” As in the miniature of Mummadonna discussed above, Elvira is enthroned in the lower register of the composition, framed by open curtains. A maidservant kneels before here, an open book in her hands. The queen gestures towards the book with one hand, holding the other hand up. Yarza again points to the context of female private devotion and the possession of psalters, but I suggest that this image belongs less to the realm of private devotion than to that of public performance.214 Relegating women’s participation to the private domestic sphere does not do justice to the complex reality of their engagement in medieval society, nor does it adequately explain the imagery we see in the manuscript.215

Building on Yarza’s reading, I argue that these miniatures represent a complex interaction of action and remembrance, distributed among the three protagonists of the image: bishop, queen, and king. The triangular composition formed by these three figures reinforces the role that each plays in this economy of exchange, perpetually renewed in the viewer’s memory by the fact of representation itself. This act of exchange is reinforced by the visual presence of texts in the form of books and documents, objects that are shown very clearly changing hands. In the miniature of Bermudo II and Elvira, for example, the bishop holds an object labeled “Testamentum,” which the king reaches out to offer him, his hand still touching it. The interaction of gestures and texts help to activate the image, keeping the memory of the deeds depicted alive.

Memorial practice does not preclude the possibility of invention. In fact, as we have seen, memory and invention work together in the pages of the Liber Testamentorum. This is particularly clear in the case of Mummadonna, who, as I have argued, plays a crucial role in the miniature, helping to memorialize the actions depicted within. As Fernández Conde has pointed out in his analysis of the donation accompanying this miniature, Mummadonna’s name does not appear in any documents from the reign of Ordoño I, and her presence is not attested to by any contemporary sources. She does, however, show up in Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, but her name is not mentioned in either the Rotense or ad Sebastian versions of the

214 Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 193.

215 On the sacred and political role of the queens depicted in the Liber Testamentorum, see Pick, “Sacred Queens and Warrior Kings.”

86 chronicle.216 Mummadonna’s presence in this document and accompanying miniature may therefore be as much of a product of Pelagian invention as the other diplomatic anachronisms pointed out by Fernández Conde.217 But why should Pelayo feel the need to invent—or at the very least rediscover—this queen? Her presence in the miniature continues the pattern of royal pairings we have seen thus far, but in addition to this more practical explanation, her presence also speaks to the role she plays in the preservation of memory. Her participation in the scene is crucial, for she forms part of the circuit of exchange and commemoration that we see in the miniature.

As this example shows, analysis of this manuscript requires us to move beyond tired debates about Pelayo’s status as a forger. We must instead critically examine the function and context of each of his controversial interventions in this historical record. It is in this context that I wish to return to some of the most infamous inventions in the Liber Testamentorum, the documents relating to the metropolitan status of Oviedo and to the ecumenical councils supposedly held there in the early Middle Ages. These documents occur at the very beginning of the manuscript, in the second quire. On folios 5v-6r appear two letters from Pope John VIII to the Asturian king Alfonso II, one of which confirms Oviedo’s metropolitan status (Figure 2.9).218 This papal privilege constituted one of the weightiest testimonies in the Liber Testamentorum for Oviedo’s exemption from the control of other Iberian dioceses. Its strategic placement early in the manuscript as well as the multiple graphic and pictorial devices used to authenticate it underscore its fundamental importance in Pelayo’s historiographic project. This early pope serves as a model for the twelfth-century popes Urban II and Paschal II, whose letters granting

216 Prelog, ed., Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 103. See BN MS 1513, fol. 51v.

217 Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 146.

218 The first letter concludes, “Ideoque quia uestre notitie fama per hos fratres limina apostolorum lustrantes, per Seuerum presbiterum et Siderium necne presbiterum, nobis miro odore bonitatis est reuelata, paterna uos adhortatione commoneo inceptis bonis operibus, gratia Dei duce, perseuerare, quatenus copiosa uos beati Petri protectoris uestri et nostra protegat benedictio et quotienscumque, filii karissimi, ad nos uenire quilibet uestrum aut transmittere uoluerit, tota cordis exultatione et animi gaudio de ultimis Galletie finibus, cui uos Dominus preter me rectores restituit, tamquam iure filios nostros uos colligemus et ecclesie Ouetensi quam uestro consensu et assidua petitione metropolitanam constituimus, omnes uos subditos esse mandamus.” ACO MS 1, fol. 5v-6r. The transcription is from Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 471.

87

Oviedo exemption from control by other dioceses conclude the Liber Cronicorum. Their actions are constructed to seem as though they are echoing that of their predecessor, and the papal documents thus neatly frame Pelayo’s attempt to shore up Oviedo’s autonomy and power.

We see this framing action at work in the miniatures of the Liber Testamentorum. Images of popes and bishops appear in both the second and fifteenth quires, the latter being, as has been argued on codicological and paleographic grounds, originally conceived as the final quire of the manuscript before the addition of aristocratic donations. The second miniature in the manuscript is a depiction of a cleric, labeled “Archbishop Adulfus,” on folio 3v (Figure 2.31). Next comes a miniature depicting John VIII flanked by the priests Siderius and Severus, which prefaces the first papal letter (see Figure 2.9). A large seal depicting St. Peter holding a key hangs from the document, clearly labeled “privilegium,” that the pope places into the covered hands of Severus. The letter concludes with the papal rota and monogram, as was common practice in the papal chancery. These pictorial and graphic devices, clearly intended to enhance the authenticity of the papal letters, are the very elements that to modern eyes appear most flagrantly anachronistic.

The rota and monogram do not appear in papal documents until the mid-eleventh century pontificate of Leo IX, while the motto inscribed in the circular frame of the rota—“verbo Domini coeli firmati sunt”—is that of the early twelfth-century Paschal II. The iconography of the seal is deliberately archaizing, for its imagery resembles that found on earlier eleventh-century seals rather than the paired busts of Peter and Paul familiar from the pontificate of Paschal II onwards.219 These contradictory authenticating devices work together to validate the foundational privilege of the Cathedral of Oviedo. The papal letter’s authenticity is validated as much by the archaic iconography of the seal as by the up-to-date rota and monogram.

Another equally problematic document asserting Oviedo’s metropolitan status from this second quire is an account of the so-called first Council of Oviedo, which immediately precedes the papal letters just discussed (Figure 2.31). At this putative council, the bishops of Coimbra, Braga, Tuy, Iria, Lugo, Astorga, León, Palencia, and Oca assembled in order to elect Oviedo as

219 This is discussed by Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio Paleográfico,” 131. See also Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 125-29.

88 their metropolitan see.220 This vision of early medieval episcopal convivencia contrasts sharply with the heated territorial disputes between Oviedo and many of the above-listed dioceses during the twelfth century, prompting early modern and contemporary scholars from Mariana and Flórez to Fernández Conde and Fletcher to identify the fabulating hand of Pelayo in its creation.221

Significantly, this is the first text in the manuscript to employ an extensive list of names and signatures, giving it an appearance characteristic of most of the documents of the Liber Testamentorum. There are signatures for each of the bishops in attendance, as well as King Alfonso II and Archbishop Adulfus of Oviedo, depicted in a previous miniature. Even though all of these bishops seem to be twelfth-century inventions, their signatures—signs of their physical presence—nonetheless appear rendered with the detail characteristic of all the signatures in the Liber Testamentorum.222 These signatures give the document the appearance of authenticity, for they are closely modeled on the early medieval signatures preserved in extant documents. These putative bishops are not attested to in any other documentation, but the signatures from a donation made by Alfonso III in 875 preserved in the archives of the Cathedral of León offer some suggestive analogs (Figure 2.32).

The signature at the head of the list of signatories of the fabricated first Council of Oviedo is that of Alfonso II, while Alfonso III’s signature appears first on his donation. The similarity between these two Alfonsine signatures is immediately apparent. In fact, the signatures

220 The opening paragraph makes this clear: “Summi dispositoris prouidentia permittente, plerisque Hispaniensium a gentilibus subuersis urbibus, mole peccaminum exigente, gloriossimi regis Adefonsi Casti et Adulfi Ouetensis episcopi sollerti consideratione, nec non piissimi Francorum principis Karoli consilio, quem equidem missa legatione, super hoc conuenimus negotio nos hic subscripti pontifices, Teodemirus Colimbriensis, Argimundus Bragarensis, Didacus Tudensis, Theodesindus Iriensis, Uuimaredus Lucensis, Gomellus Astoricensis, Uincencius Legionensis, Habundantius Palentinus et Iohannes Occensis, rege presente et uniuersali Hispaniensium concilio nobis fauente, Ouetensem urbem metropolitanam eligimus sedem.” ACO MS 1, fol. 3v. Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 465.

221 Flórez refers to the views of Mariana and other scholars in his characterization of the “apocryphal acts of an Ovetense Council,” España Sagrada, vol. 4, 210. For more modern views, see Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37, and Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 73.

222 Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37.

89 for kings Alfonso II, III, V, and VI all share this characteristic form. The signature beneath Alfonso III’s is that of Ordoño II, his son, and kings Ordoño I and III likewise share the same form. Also similar is the signature of Fruela II, which we see beneath that of his brother Ordoño II.223 The final royal signature on the Leonese donation is that of Ramiro II, son of Ordoño II. As this plethora of royal signatures suggests, this document was successively confirmed by subsequent kings in order, as Floriano points out, “to renew its juridical validity.”224

The signatures’ similarities graphically convey the reliance of each king on his predecessor to establish his legitimacy. Likewise, in the context of the Liber Testamentorum, legitimacy is established by the faithful transcription of documents. It is as if there are many hands present: those who donate, confirm, witness, and transcribe. These documents thus stage not only the juridical performance of confirming, swearing and testifying, but also the scribal performance of transcription.

Even though there were some contexts in which literate, educated individuals might make their own signatures, we must also read signatures as graphic transcriptions of gestures, particularly the touching of documents in order to swear to their truth and authenticity.225 The authenticity of a signature did not derive from its status as an autograph production—the conception with which we are familiar today—but rather from its participation in the complex intersection of actions and words, spoken, written, and witnessed. The successive royal hands that appear on the Leonese document repeatedly validate its contents, just as the scribal hands of the Liber Testamentorum renew the power and efficacy of their documentary sources by transcribing them. In so doing, the scribes of the Liber Testamentorum re-enact these validating gestures, re-authenticating them in manuscript copies.

The miniatures of the Liber Testamentorum represent pictorially this process of validation. We see royal donors, their testaments, the bishops who receive them, and the individuals who witness these transactions. On folio 18v, Alfonso III sits enthroned in the center of the composition, flanked to his right and left by Queen Jimena and Bishop Gomelus of Oviedo

223 Floriano Cumbreño, Curso general de paleografía, 404-405.

224 Floriano, Diplomática española del periodo astur, 105.

225 Ostolaza, “La validación en los documentos,” 459. For a broader discussion, see Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record.

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(Figure 2.21). The king and queen hold a document labeled “testamentum,” which they hand to the bishop, who makes a gesture of blessing. A tonsured figure identified as his minister holds an open codex labeled “textum,” and beneath him stands another tonsured figure with a closed book who gestures upwards towards the scene of royal donation. Importantly, each of these figures is labeled, as is the composition as a whole. The inscription beneath the miniature employs the same display capitals that signal the beginning of each of the testamenta, underscoring the documentary status of the image. The various forms of texts we see here—framed and unframed inscriptions, documents and books both open and closed—form an open circuit, suggesting that the movement between charter and cartulary—document and codex—is not linear, but rather circular. The manuscript cartulary is a supplement to, not a substitute for, other documentary forms.

This is no static royal portrait. The kings and queens of the Asturian past actively witness the documents copied into the cartulary, attesting to their truth by re-enacting their donations in the miniatures. Their hands gesture towards texts, touching, blessing, and acclaiming them as they pass from donor to recipient. Text and action are intertwined, and the pictorial re-enactment of the act of donation reinforces the doubling of original and copy we see in the process of transcription, even as the scribal performance of transcription re-animates the performance of donation in the miniatures. It is in this reciprocal interaction of original and copy, performance and text, that truth and authority reside in the Liber Testamentorum.

* * *

In this chapter, I have shown how the works of Pelayo engage with and construct the Asturian past in both text and image. The locus for this engagement is the space of the treasury itself, which would have contained manuscripts, documents, and the memory of monarchs and bishops past. Indeed, I would argue that the act of historiographic compilation is akin to the act of pious collection of relics in the treasury itself. Both processes have a similar cumulative logic, and following the conversation created between and among texts and objects is more important than isolating these fragments and studying them each on their own. Modern editorial practices turn away from the complex interconnections and interpolations of medieval texts, preferring to break the compilation down into its constituent parts. I have argued that such a method is not productive in the case of the Pelagian corpus, showing how the texts and images of both chronicle and cartulary work together to visualize the treasury and its most precious possessions,

91 the two crosses and the Arca Santa. I now turn to look more closely at these reliquaries, particularly the Arca Santa, so clearly a cornerstone of Pelayo’s historiographic project.

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Chapter 3 Framing the Past: Relics and Reliquaries in the Cámara Santa

The physical, historical, and spiritual reality of the Arca Santa shapes not only the Pelagian corpus, but also the space of the Cámara Santa itself. As I argued in the first chapter, the space of the Cámara Santa became the focus of pilgrimage beginning in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Pilgrims came to the Cámara Santa to see its precious collection of relics, many of which were contained in the Arca Santa. In this chapter, I focus on the Arca Santa as the centerpiece of the reliquary complex of the Cámara Santa.

Sealed in a glass case and locked behind a metal grille, the Arca Santa is perhaps even more impenetrable and inaccessible today than it was to medieval pilgrims. The Arca now has the status of art historical relic, and more attention is given to its decorated silver revetment than to the relics that were housed within and around it before its violent destruction in 1934. This focus on the Arca’s visible surfaces is not merely a contemporary rereading of the medieval reliquary, but rather speaks to a dynamic tension between concealment and display that characterizes the cult of the Arca Santa throughout the medieval and early modern periods. Medieval accounts of the reliquary represent efforts to “open” the Arca to readers and viewers— to divulge its sacred contents and at the same time maintain the integrity and inviolability of the reliquary.

The narrative elaboration and divulgation of the Arca’s contents contrasts sharply to the physical impermeability and opacity of the box itself. As Gia Toussaint has argued, there was an important shift during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries towards increased visibility of relics within their reliquary containers.226 Toussaint’s argument ambitiously plots major points of change within a Europe-wide context, and I argue that we must locate the production of the silver-revetted reliquary that we know now as the Arca Santa during the transitional period of the late eleventh century, when the sealed and opaque container began to open up and reveal its contents to viewers. The later medieval liturgical and devotional practices associated with the Arca and its sacred contents can thus be interpreted within the general context of increased awareness and anxiety around the issues of visibility and sacrality.

226 Toussaint, “Die Sichtbarkeit.”

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Heretofore, the issue of the dating of the Arca Santa—and the status of Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) as its patron—has dominated discussions of the reliquary. The Arca has traditionally been dated to the year 1075, when Alfonso VI and his court opened the reliquary and inventoried its sacred contents. As Julie Harris has pointed out, this date was interpolated by Manuel Gómez Moreno in his transcription of the inscription on the lid of the Arca Santa; in other words, the inscription does not include the date of 1075, for that section is too badly damaged to read, and has been damaged since at least the sixteenth century.227 I revisit the contentious debates surrounding the origins and chronology of the Arca not in order to resolve them, but rather to think about what the persistent temporal instability of the Arca Santa and the indeterminacy of its contents accomplish in the context of the Cámara Santa. As tempting as it is to see the Arca Santa as a Pelagian forgery of the twelfth century, as Harris characterizes it, I argue that the silver reliquary container and the emergence of the cult surrounding it date to the late eleventh century. I wish to recover an understanding of the Arca Santa as a cult object and site of multiple temporalities, activated by a series of textual, material, and performative frames that surround it.

In what follows, I will consider a series of textual attempts to “open” the Arca Santa, pointing to the many problems these texts pose for the dating and interpretation of the reliquary. I begin with the Arca itself, its inscriptions and iconography, and then turn to the documents recounting the famous opening of the Arca Santa by Alfonso VI. It is, of course, Bishop Pelayo who provides us with the greatest detail about the origins of the Arca. I argue that the text long considered the oldest textual witness to the cult of the relics of the Arca Santa—a description of the origins and contents of the Arca that was inserted in an illuminated Apocalypse manuscript of the ninth century—dates to the early twelfth century, and shows a clear debt to Bishop Pelayo’s description of the Arca.228 Following the dissemination of these Pelagian accounts of the Arca Santa, there is textual evidence that the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa had begun to attract substantial numbers of pilgrims by the late twelfth century. The last text I consider, a richly detailed account of pilgrimage to the Cámara Santa dated to the last quarter of the twelfth

227 Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 87.

228 Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v-3r. Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue.”

94 century, returns us to the metonymic power of the Arca Santa as a cult object, at once both reliquary and relic.229

In addition to this collection of texts, I also consider a group of reliquaries surrounding the Arca Santa that were either removed from the larger collection inside the Arca itself, or associated with it in the context of the Cámara Santa. Moving chronologically from the eleventh century, I trace a pattern of gradual dispersal and multiplication of the relics within the Arca as individual relics were removed from the collection and given their own shrines. By the fourteenth century, an inventory of the reliquaries inside the Cámara Santa reads like the twelfth- century lists of the Arca’s contents. I underscore the importance of episcopal agency in the production of many of these shrines, such as the casket of Arias, the reliquary diptych of Gundisalvus, and the casket of St. Eulalia. Finally, I consider the vexed question of the use of objects of Islamic manufacture in Christian church treasuries, stepping away from overly ideological interpretations of these objects and focusing instead on their liturgical use.

Unfortunately, the liturgical use of the space of the Cámara Santa during the Middle Ages is poorly understood. I revisit the vexed historiographic fortunes of the eleventh-century liturgical reform in the Iberian peninsula, placing the Arca Santa and the relics of the Cámara Santa within the complex and highly political world of reform. It is not until the fourteenth century that we get any specific descriptions of the liturgical use of the Cámara Santa itself. The Feast of the Relics, instituted by Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), established the annual commemoration of the invention of the relics by Alfonso VI, and included an anniversary mass for the soul of the king.230 A more elaborate version of the liturgy can be found in the earliest printed breviary for Oviedo use, dated to 1556.231 This text expands upon the symbolism implicit in earlier medieval descriptions of the royal patrons of the Cámara Santa and its relics as Solomonic, with the Arca as a new Ark of the Covenant. This Counter-Reformation context also provides us with the earliest visual depiction of the foundational moment in the history of the

229 Bibliothèque de Cambrai MS 800, fol. 68r-73v and formerly Cheltenham, Library of Thomas Phillipps MS 299, fol. 1r-16r. Edited by Kohler, “Translation de reliques.”

230 ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol. 11v-12r; Libro Becerro, fol. 42r-45v; Kalendas III, fol. 17v. Edited by Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.

231 Biblioteca Central de la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 36r-39r.

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Cámara Santa: a set of carved and painted wooden doors depicting the opening of the Arca Santa by Alfonso VI in the presence of the site’s early medieval patron, Alfonso II. In conclusion, I explore how this sixteenth-century representation resonates with the wide range of texts and objects considered over the course of this chapter.

A Collection of Texts: Inventorying the Arca Santa

Oviedo’s holy ark takes the form of a large box made of black oak measuring some 1.19 meters in length, 0.93 meters in width, and 0.73 meters in height (Figure 3.1). It is covered on all four sides and on its lid by gilded silver panels. The lid presents incised decoration highlighted with niello, while the four sides have been decorated using the repoussé technique, literally “pushing out” the imagery from behind the surface of the metal. The Arca is covered with narrative figural imagery on all but its back, which has a decorative pattern stamped into the metal. The box contains a veritable compendium of relics of Christ, the Virgin, and numerous saints, prophets, and apostles, whose presence is represented epigraphically by the long inscription on the lid, also rendered in repoussé (Figure 3.2).

Let the whole assembly of the Catholic people deserving of God know what revered relics are contained within the most precious sides of this present ark; that is, of the large piece of the most precious wood, or of the cross of the Lord; of his garment, that was bestowed by lot; of the delectable bread, which was used at the supper; of the sepulcher of the Lord; and of his shroud; and of his most holy blood; of the holy ground, on which he trod with his holy footsteps; of the garments of the Virgin Mary, his mother; of her milk, which is most wondrous. And together with these are certain excellent relics of saints, whose names, so far as we were able, we write below; that is: of St. Peter, of St. Thomas, of St. Bartholomew, of the bones of the prophets, and of all of the apostles, and of many other saints, whose names are known only to the wisdom of God. For all of these relics, the eminent King Alfonso, blessed with humble devotion, made this receptacle distinguished inside by the illustrious relics of the saints, adorned outside with not worthless works of art, through which, after his life, may he be worthy of the company of those saints in the heavens; at least let him be aided by the prayers of this same company. Indeed, the entire province learned of

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these salvation-bringing and worthy gifts, in the era, without doubt, 1113 [1075],232 by the hand and industry of the clerics and bishops, for which we meet with the above-mentioned prince Alfonso, together with his most joyous sister, the said Urraca by name, to whom may the Redeemer of all concede indulgence and pardon for their sins through these most holy relics of the apostles and martyrs; that is, of saints Justus and Pastor, of Adrian and Natalia, of Cosmos and Damian, of Julia, of Verisimo and Maximo, of Germanus, of Baudilio, of Pantaleon, of Cyprian and Eulalia, of Sebastian, of Cucufatus, of Felix, of Sulpicius.233

The inscription occupies four lines on the edges of each of the four sides of the lid, beginning in the innermost line of text on the front of the Arca, and moving to the right side, and so on, around the reliquary. To read the inscription in its entirety, the viewer must move around the Arca four times. As Francesca Español points out, the practice known as “going in circles around the saint” (dar vueltas al santo) is widely attested to throughout the Middle Ages, in Iberia and elsewhere. Pilgrims would literally walk around the saint’s shrine repeatedly.234 The arrangement of the Arca Santa’s inscription seems to encourage this circular movement of viewers, suggesting that at least some devotees were permitted to approach the reliquary.

The Arca’s inscription is literally punctuated on its four corners by rounded pieces of rock crystal, only two of which remain. This punctuation seems to serve no clear textual purpose, suggesting that its significance is largely visual. During the Middle Ages, rock crystal possessed a rich symbolic set of meanings, revolving around water, light, and clarity. Hahn has argued that the presence of rock crystal, much of which is of Islamic manufacture, on reliquaries was a way to focus the eye and the mind on the reliquary, a means by which to meditate more deeply on its

232 The double date refers to first the Spanish era, and then the Christian era. On the Iberian peninsula, the date of Christ’s birth was calculated to have taken place in 38 BC, and so we must add 38 to any date given to get the Christian era. See Roth, “Calendar,” Medieval Iberia, 190.

233 Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 61, and Gómez Moreno, “El Arca Santa de Oviedo,” 129- 30. For the full Latin text, see Appendix 3.1.

234 Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 258-64. See also Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and Interactivity,” 27- 28.

97 spiritual meaning.235 Within an Islamic context, Avinoam Shalem has argued that rock crystal was particularly associated with water and light, and traces the elaboration of these ideas in a small group of rock crystal lamps, in which these meanings come together.236 The presence of these rock crystal punctuation marks on the inscribed lid of the Arca Santa combines these rich meanings, functioning as symbolic points of light as they help focus the mind of the viewer on the reliquary and its inscription.

Deciphering the inscription is far from easy because it has been badly damaged since at least the sixteenth century, when Ambrosio de Morales made the first transcription of the text. Perfect legibility, however, is not necessary in order to create meaning. The Arca uses multiple visual strategies to create and convey meaning to viewers. In addition to the repoussé inscription, the lid is heavily decorated, consisting of five silver panels incised and decorated with niello. The distinction between the techniques used on the sides and on the lid, in particular the notable flatness of the lid’s surface, suggests that the lid may have been created with the liturgical use of the object in mind.237 We will return to the vexed question of the liturgical use of the space of the Cámara Santa, and of the Arca Santa in particular.

The large central panel on the lid depicts the Crucifixion, Christ flanked by Longinus and the Virgin on the right, and the Stephaton and John the Evangelist on the left (Figure 3.3). Above the arms of the cross are personifications of the sun and the moon mourning the death of Christ, framed within decorative roundels rather like clipei. Each of these figures has been labeled with small, incised inscriptions, paleographically very similar to the repoussé inscription. The figure of Christ is labeled on the vertical arm of the cross above his head as “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”238 This central silver panel has been attached to the wooden lid around the edges with a series of small silver nails. In a striking literal gesture, the figure of Christ has been literally nailed to the Cross, as real nails affix his hands and feet to the Cross as they affix the silver panel to the wooden box. These nails are consistent with the rest of the nails used to affix the silver

235 Hahn, Strange Beauty, 216-17 and 233.

236 Shalem, ”Fountains of Light.”

237 Rose Walker makes a similar suggestion. Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 398-99.

238 For the complete transcription of these inscriptions, see Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 63.

98 panels of the revetment to the wooden box, and appear in photographs both before and after the reconstruction of the Arca following the explosion of 1934, suggesting that they are contemporaneous with the manufacture of the reliquary revetment. Moreover, blood is clearly shown flowing from the wounds in Christ’s right hand, located precisely where the nails affix the panel to the box. This detail materializes the metaphor of the representation, recalling the miracle of transubstantiation that makes literal the blood and body of Christ on the altar.

Flanking the central panel with the Crucifixion are smaller depictions of the crucifixion of the two thieves, Dismas and Gestas. Atop these scenes are another pair of silver panels depicting angels holding censers. To Christ’s right is Dismas, the good thief, who is tortured by two club-wielding figures (Figure 3.4). Above, two angels are there to collect his soul (Figure 3.5). A similar composition is repeated for the bad thief, Gestas, to Christ’s left, except that, instead of angels, a pair of devils await his soul (Figure 3.6). In another telling detail, the crosses of the two thieves have been rooted in the ground, while the base of Christ’s cross extends beyond the frame of the panel, as though rooted in the Arca itself. Given the nature of the Arca’s contents, many of which relate to the Crucifixion and Holy Land, this visual detail transforms the Arca into the holy ground of Golgotha itself, where the actual Crucifixion as well as its ritual recollection takes place.

Around three sides of the Arca run a series of figural panels in repoussé, some of which have clear narrative content. On the front is a large Maiestas Domini, consisting of Christ enthroned in a mandorla, supported by four angels (Figure 3.7). Christ is flanked by the twelve apostles, in two rows of three columns. To Christ’s right, on the top row moving left to right, are Paul, Peter, and John. On the bottom row, left to right, are Simon, Thaddeus, and Thomas. On Christ’s left, the top row depicts James the Greater, Andrew, and James the Lesser. On the bottom row are Philip, Bartholomew, and Matthew. The apostles are labeled by small repoussé inscriptions around the heads of each figure. Each apostle is framed by columns and semi- circular arches, creating a two-storey arcade across the front of the Arca that is interrupted by the central Maiestas Domini. This imagery visually confirms the apostolic origins of the Arca Santa, as well as its contents, which include relics of the apostles.

As discussed in chapter two, the imagery of the front of the Arca appears in the opening miniature of Pelayo’s Liber Testamentorum. The composition of the upper register—a Maiestas Domini surrounded by the twelve apostles—is very similar to that of the front of the reliquary

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(see Figure 2.19). To my mind, the miniature in the cartulary is making a deliberate reference to the Arca Santa in its architectural setting, as the image also contains depictions of Mary and St. Michael, as we saw in the second chapter. The spatial and implicitly architectural aspect of this miniature, and the front of the Arca Santa itself, is underscored by the resonance between the composition of the Maiestas Domini surrounded by apostles enclosed under arches in Oviedo and in some of the early carved lintels of early Romanesque Cataluña, such as Sant Genís de Fontanes and Sant Andreu de Sureda.239 The spatial and architectural references in the miniature must thus be interpreted as visual representations of the actual space of the Cámara Santa and its contents, as well as to the institution as a whole. The Arca Santa was not elaborated on the basis of the miniature, but rather the reverse. The prominence given to the representation of the reliquary within the manuscript suggests the desire on the part of Pelayo to enhance the cult of its relics and encourage pilgrimage and pious donations, and we shall look in more depth at the central role played by the narrative of the Arca within the Pelagian corpus as a whole.

We see the apostles again on the right side of the Arca (Figure 3.8). The upper register contains a depiction of the Ascension of Christ, who stands in a mandorla and is flanked by two angels, followed by St. Michael fighting the dragon. Beneath these scenes are eight of the apostles: John, Peter, James, Andrew, Philip, Matthew, Bartholomew, and Thomas. The left side of the Arca contains two registers of Infancy narratives (Figure 3.9). Starting on the upper register at the right and moving counterclockwise, we see the Annunciation, followed by the Annunciation to the Shepherds and the Visitation. Below these three scenes are the Nativity on the left, and the Flight into Egypt on the right. As Harris pointed out, the scenes of the Annunciation and the Flight into Egypt contain a mysterious additional female figure, labeled “ANNA,” whom she interpreted as Anne, the mother of the Virgin.240 Walker has recently identified this figure as Hannah, mother of Samuel, and connected her presence to the Annunciation because of the typological relationship between Hannah, childless until the miraculous birth of her son, and the Virgin Mary herself.241 In addition to providing a persuasive

239 The comparison is even more apt is we take into account Watson’s argument that the floral border around both lintels was meant to evoke kufic script. Watson, “The Kufic Inscription,” 23.

240 Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 91.

241 Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 400-01.

100 iconographical rationale for the presence of this figure in the scene of the Flight into Egypt, Walker’s identification casts doubt on Harris’s argument to re-date the Arca Santa to the early twelfth century on the basis of the chronology of the cult of St. Anne on the Iberian Peninsula.

Walker pushes her argument further, claiming that the narrative panels on the Arca Santa speak to the biography of King Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) himself, putative patron of the reliquary. For her, the Arca was a personal gift of the king to the Cathedral of Oviedo “in thanksgiving for his reclaimed kingdom” after a period of exile in Muslim-controlled Toledo.242 This biographical and iconographical interpretation does not, I think, ultimately account for the relationship between the iconography and contents of the Arca Santa. Missing in Walker’s analysis is a consideration of the reliquary function of the Arca, and she focuses exclusively on the narrative iconography of its silver revetment. While I would argue that much of the imagery on the Arca speaks directly to its voluminous contents, the correspondence is not exact. Like the inscriptions, the imagery serves an authenticating function, recalling the biblical places, people, and events whose relics are inside the Arca. This understanding of the relationship between the exterior iconography and the interior contents emphasizes the metaphorical nature of the reliquary, its ability to resonate with its sacred contents, but never represent them entirely.243

The very form of the Arca Santa, a large sealed box, evokes the both an altar and a tomb, appropriate given the use of relics in the consecration of altars, and the nature of reliquaries themselves as a sort of tomb for the saints. Indeed, given the inscription’s reference to items from Christ’s tomb (part of his shroud and sepulcher), the Arca also evokes the tomb of Christ, represented in the later twelfth-century sculpture of the Cámara Santa as a an empty rectangular box, elevated on four short columns (see Figure 4.10). In this context, the presence of the rock crystal in the four corners of the Arca resonates with the literal and metaphorical light that was understood to emanate from reliquaries, emanating from the jeweled and reflective surface of the object itself, as well as from the holy bones within it, referred to in the fourth century by Paulinus of Nola.244 Moreover, the Maiestas Domini iconography of the front of the Arca,

242 Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 409.

243 This is similar to Hahn’s argument about the metaphorical meaning of shaped reliquaries. See Hahn, Strange Beauty, 109-10 and 136.

244 Discussed by Hahn, Strange Beauty, 9-10.

101 which frequently adorns altar frontals, also alludes to the status of the Arca as a sort of reliquary altar, even if it is unclear that it ever explicitly functioned as such.

The question of legibility of both imagery and inscriptions is particularly vexed in the case of the bands of what appear to be kufic writing around the edges of each side of the front of the box (see Figure 3.7). Gómez Moreno claimed that the inscription contained “common Arabic praises,” including “the blessing of God.”245 Since Gómez Moreno, scholars have been more hesitant to claim that the kufic inscription on the Arca is, in fact, legible Arabic. The inscription is most often characterized as “pseudo-kufic,” a problematic epigraphic category in which Arabic script is to be “read” purely as a decorative device, without semantic meaning.246 Writing does not need to be legible, however, in order to transmit meaning.247 Writing can have both semantic and aesthetic meaning, and the two are far from mutually exclusive.248 In the case of the Arca Santa, the kufic inscription is analogous to the Latin inscription on the lid in both location and function. The Arabic script makes an implicit reference to the origins and journey of the Arca from the Holy Land through North Africa and southern Spain. The inscriptions thus authenticate this narrative, acting as visual proof and standing in as a sort of epigraphic shorthand for the complete account of the reliquary’s journey to Oviedo.

The location and appearance of the kufic script on the Arca fits within what is known about the production of inscribed metalwork in Islamic Spain during the tenth and eleventh centuries. Sheila Blair points out that silver caskets were “usually inscribed with blessings to an unspecified owner,” as we see on the Arca.249 The presence of the kufic inscription in this case does not seem to carry with it a particular valence of cultural appropriation, but rather speaks to the origins of the Arca in the distant past and in the East. This polyvalent significance is

245 Gómez Moreno, El arte románico español, 30.

246 Pseudo-kufic has generated a small but growing amount of literature. Aanavi, “Islamic Pseudoinscriptions;” Cahn, The Romanesque Wooden Doors; Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece;” Walker, “Meaningful Mingling;” Watson, “The Kufic Inscription.”

247 Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 11.

248 See the discussion in chapter two of Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament.

249 Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 118.

102 analogous to interpretations of the role played by spolia in works of medieval art.250 Looking closely at the inscription, several aspects stand out. The entirety of the inscription is divided into six metal panels, one panel on each of the shorter sides, and two on the longer sides. With the exception of one panel on the left side, the inscription follows contemporary late eleventh or early twelfth-century Arabic convention in reading “on the inside,” to use James Allan’s term.251 That is, the inscription is legible in a counter-clockwise direction, with the main elements of the letters on the interior of the circular inscription, and the upright portion of the letters projecting outwards. The letter forms are not overly abstracted and grouped into decorative units, as we see, for example, in southern France.252 It would be a mistake to read the Arabic inscription of the Arca Santa as purely decorative and illegible, although its words may be stylized or abbreviated. After all, as Richard Ettinghausen and Sheila Blair have pointed out, illegible, marginally legible, and abbreviated pseudo-inscriptions were popular within Islamic lands, appearing in textiles, ceramics, ivory, and metalwork.253 Abstraction, abbreviation, and relative illegibility are not, then, to be understood purely as responses of an alien culture looking at and attempting to adapt the visual culture of Islam. Ettinghausen suggested an apotropaic function for this kind of inscription, in which the component parts may be recognizable, although the coherence of the complete inscription is in doubt.254 Indeed, the words of blessing that Gómez Moreno claimed to read in the inscription suggest that we can attribute a more generic blessing or protective function to the presence of the kufic letters on the front of the Arca Santa.

Its legendary origins notwithstanding, the Arca Santa appears on the historical scene in the late eleventh century. A pair of documents, thirteenth-century copies of a lost original,

250 This argument runs counter to that offered by Shalem, Islam Christianized, 78-87. The literature on spolia is vast. Some of the most significant studies of the use of spolia in the context of portable objects include: Beech, “The Eleanor of Aquitaine Vase;” Brenk, “Spolia from Constantine to Charlemagne;” Buc, “The Conversion of Objects;” Culter, “Reuse or Use?” Forsyth, “Art with History;” Kinney, “Rape or Restitution;” Shalem, Islam Christianized.

251 Allan, “‘My Father is a Sun,’” 38. It is worth noting, however, that the vertical panel on the left does not observe this rule, instead appearing to read “on the outside,” as it were.

252 Watson, “The Kufic Inscription.”

253 Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece;” Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 166-67.

254 Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece,” 43.

103 recount how Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) and his court, including his sister Urraca, visited Oviedo in order to view the relics of the cathedral. On 14 March 1075, the Arca was opened in the presence of the royal court:

Thus, the afore-mentioned emperor [Alfonso VI], joining himself to God and entrusting himself with total devotion to Him, ordered that he [the king], along with the above-mentioned priests and others who are honored at the court of the royal hall, together with all of the rest of the people, mortify their bodies with fasting more than was customary even during the season of Lent. And he ordered the Toledan clerics also dwelling there to be sedulous in their sacrifices and prayers, and he urged all the others who followed the Roman rite, to entreat the Lord with supplications, so that he who once wished to descend from heaven and make himself palpable to men, might deign because of the great love he felt for us to make manifest to them those things which were contained inside the afore- mentioned ark, which had for so long been unknown to men. And so it came to pass, by the Lord’s mercy, who because he wishes that all men be saved and achieve the knowledge of truth, just as he himself chose [to do]. In the middle of Lent, on the third ides of March, on the sixth feria, around the hour of terce, having celebrated the solemnities of masses, the bishops and priests, with a choir of clergy singing psalms, arrived at to the designated place, where such a great treasure was hidden. And, and as thuribles were swung from here to there, exuding smoky, fiery incense, opening [it] with gentle movement and great fear they revealed out in the open that for which they had asked from God, that is, an incredible treasure.255

255 ACO series B, folder 2, num. 9 (A). “Anno ab incarnatione Domini nostri Ihesu Christi M LXX V, apicem regni tenente Adefonso filio Fredenandi magni quondam regis filio apud Ouetensem Sancti Saluatoris episcopalem sedem predicto imperatore Quadragesime tempus sollempniter in diuina religione celebrante cum sua nobilissima germana nomine Urraca atque cum episcopo Bernardo sedis Palentine et Simeone Auzensis ecclesie pontifice et Alani qui in predicta ecclesia presulatus officium fungebatur contineret quoddam diuina miseracione reuelationis donum per ipsius regis studium siquidem thesaurum magno honore uenerandum quod magna antiquitate in eadem ecclesia manebat occultum Christo suo fidelissimo principi ad laudem et gloriam nominis sui uoluit manifestare. Nam priscis temporibus cum Deus omnipotente propter culpam christianorum subiugasset totam pene Yspaniam populo

104

ismahelitanum omnes sanctorum reliquias patrum quique fideles ex diuersis locis subripere potuerunt apud Tholetanam [sic] urbem congregantes et in quadam archa studiose condientes penes se aliquanto tempore tenuerent. Cum uero cernerent tam in manissimam stragem fieri fidelium populorum non habentes spem alteram ad alterum confugium faciendi prouidendi diuina clemencia que locum suo nomini edificatum exaltare disponebat salubre consilium inuenerunt ut ad ipsum quem nouerant tuicionem locum iamdictam arcam dirigerent ut ibi seruosque Domino comendarent. Cum igitur ita omnia acta fuissent sicut disposuerant mansit illo in loco longo post tempore incognitum que in ea detinebatur absconditum quosque ad illud tempus uentum est quo quidam magne uirtutis uir Poncius nomine suscepit pontificatus honorem. Suis itaque temporibus cum cognouisset a quibusdam fidelibus magna illic quedam detineri uoluit sicut audierat probare. Aperire autem gestiens tectum arche cum aliquibus ex suis abbatibus ac clericis tanta lux emicuit ab illa ut pre ipso splendore oculi non possent aspicere que habebantur intra claustra arce ubi detinebantur cara sanctorum Dei pignora seneque cuncti terre consternerentur pre timoris magnitudinem. Occulto itaque Dei iudicio fuscati quadam cecitate ita intacta relinquerunt sicut hactenus fuerant quidam uero ex ipsis in eadem quam acceperant cecitate usque ad finem sue uite permanserunt. Interea surrexit serenissimus Dei cultor Adefonsus rex iam prenominatus in cuius temporibus rex pacis et rex omnium seculorum Deus palam cunctis patefecit quod dudum uoluerat esse occultum. Memoratus ergo imperator Deo aderens seque illi tota deuocione comitens monuit se cum presbyteros prefatos ac cederos qui intra curiam aule regie uenerantur ac totum reliquum uulgus ieiunio plus solito quadragesimali tempore corpora affligi et sacrificiis et oracionibus intentos clericos tholetanos illic habitantibus esse precepit et reliquos romanum ritum tenentibus ortatur Dominum precibus flagitare ut ille qui olim de celo descendere et hominibus se palpabilem prebere uoluit ipse eis dignaretur manifestare propter nimiam suam caritatem quam nos dilexit ea que tam diucius hominibus ignota intra predictam archam detinebantur. Domini autem misericordia ita actum est quia omnes homines uult saluos fieri et ad agnicionem ueritatis uenire sicut ipse obtauerat. Nam mediante Quadragesima IIIo idus marcii, VIa feria, circa horam terciam, episcopi et presbiteri missarum solempniis celebratis cum concentu psallencium clericorum ad locum usque perueniunt destinatum ubi reconditum habebatur munus tam copiosum. Leui autem motu cum magno timore aperientes turibulis hinc atque illic timiamatha fumiuoma [sic] flagrancia reddentibus repererunt hoc in propatulo quod a Deo poposcerant scilicet incredibile thesaurum. Id est, de Ligno Domini, de Cruore Domini, de pane Domini, id est, de Cena ipsius, de sepulchro Domini, de terra sancta ubi Dominus stetit, de uestimento Sancte Marie et de lacte ipsius uirginis ac genitricis Domini, de uestimento Domini forte partito et de sudario eius, reliquias de Sancto Petro apostolo, Sancti Thome, Bartholomei apostoli, de ossibus prophetarum, sancti Iusti et Pastoris, Adriani et Natalie, Mame, Iulie, Uerissimi et Maximi, Iermani, Bauduli, Pantaleonis, Cypriani, Eulalie, Sabastiani, Cucufati, de pallio Sancti Sulpicii, Sancte Agathe, Emetherii et Celedoni, Sancti Iohannis Babtiste, Sancti Romani, Sancti Stephani prothomartiris, Sancti Frustuosi, Augurii et Eulogii, Sancti Uictoris, Sancte Laurencii, Sancte Iuste et Rufine, Sancti Seruandi et Germani, Sancti Liberi, Sancte Maximi et Iulie, Sancti Cosme et Damiani, Sergii et Bachi, Sancti Iacobi fratris Domini, Sancti Stephani pape, Sancti Christofori, Sancti Iohannis apostoli uestimentum, Sancti Tyrsi, Sancti Iuliani, Sancti Felicis, Sancti Andree, Sancti Petri exorciste, Sancte Eugenie, Sancti Martini,

105

This remarkable account of royal piety and participation in the ceremony to open the Arca tells us as much about contemporary liturgy as it does about the events of March 1075. In discussions of this document, however, the richness of scene’s liturgical setting is often overlooked, and attention has instead been focused on the issue of the king’s possible patronage of the Arca and its silver revetment, with its implications for the dating of the object. The inscription on the lid of the Arca is problematic and badly damaged, and it was Manuel Gómez Moreno who first decided to insert the date from this particular document into his transcription of the text. Despite—or because of—the fact that Gómez Moreno interpolated the date of 1075 into this inscription, the question of the chronology of the Arca Santa has dominated the scholarly discussion. Harris’ 1995 study revolves around the matter of its dating, and she is concerned in particular to question the authenticity of Gómez Moreno’s interpolated date of 1075 as well as the document from which he derived this date.256 Let us look more closely, then, at this document and the debates surrounding its dating and authenticity.

It should first be mentioned that, rather than one document, we are actually dealing with two. Until recently, only one copy of this document was thought to exist. About six or seven years ago, the local García Trelles family donated another copy to the cathedral. Apparently, when attempting to sell it at auction, someone noticed the stamp of the cathedral archive, and so the decision was made to return it to the cathedral. Relatively little notice has been given to the appearance of this second document (B) (Figure 3.10). The text has not been edited or compared thoroughly to that transcribed by García Larragueta (A) in his edition of the cathedral’s documents (Figure 3.11). Document B presents a few minor textual variants, but the most striking difference between the two is their respective visual appearance. The newly discovered document is considerably larger, written not in the cramped book hand of document A but rather

Sancti Facundi et Primitiui, Sancti Uicenti leuite, Sancti Fausti, Sancti Iohannis, Sancti Pauli apostoli, Sancte Agne, Sancti Felicis, Simplicii, Sancti Faustini et Beatricis, Sancte Petronille, Sancte Eulalie Barcinonensis, de cineribus sanctorum Emiliani diachoni et Iheremie martirum, Sancti Rogelli, Sancti Serui Dei martiris, Sancte Pompose, Sanctorum Ananie, Azarie et Misaelis, Sancti Sportelii et Sancte Iuliane, et aliorum quam plurimorum quorum numerum sola Dei sciencia colligit.” Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. 72 and Gambra, Alfonso VI, vol. 2, 60-65.

256 Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa.”

106 in a larger and clearer documentary hand. Fernández Conde argues that the two documents are roughly contemporaneous, but that the newly discovered one (B) may be somewhat older.257 In addition, while document A contains only the monogram of Urraca (Figure 3.12), document B has the monograms of Urraca, Alfonso VI, and bishops Pelayo of León, Gundisalvo of Dumio, and Arias of Oviedo (Figure 3.13). It is, above all, these visual aspects which suggest that document B may have been made for the purpose of display in the context of the Cámara Santa. We know that documents were displayed on the altar during this period, and, while the precise context in which our document might have been displayed remains unclear, it may have been visible to pilgrims inside the Cámara Santa.258 It is suggestive to think of clerical interlocutors explaining the space and its sacred contents, using the document as a sort of prop in their pseudo- liturgical performance of divulging—verbally if not visually—the contents of the Arca Santa. Ambrosio de Morales describes a scenario like this in the sixteenth century: “The eldest canon tells the pilgrims about all of the relics by means of a written text that is there for this purpose, which the canon learns by heart, and it is all very well organized.”259

The form of the eleventh-century document itself suggests that it is a composite creation, for after the narrative of the opening of the Arca, it transforms into a royal donation of land to the cathedral. This donation of lands around Langreo (near Oviedo) is referred to in one of the documents of the Liber Testamentorum, where it is incorporated into a confirmation of the donation of various territories to the dioceses.260 Daniel Rico has suggested that this text recalls other eleventh- and twelfth-century acts of consecration, which consists of a narrative prologue, list of relics, and donation.261 This might indicate that our thirteenth-century documents are

257 Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía,” 73, note 15.

258 There are Catalan examples of placing books and documents on the altar, as discussed by Zimmerman, “La consécration des églises,” 75. I would like to thank Daniel Rico Camps for this reference.

259 Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “El Canonigo mas antiguo va relatando a los Peregrinos todas las Reliquias, por escrito que hay para esto, el qual el aprende de coro, y es harto bien ordenado.”

260 ACO MS 1, fol. 74r-78r. See the text in the edition by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 585- 93. Discussed by Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía.”

261 I would like to thank Daniel Rico for generously sharing his thoughts on this document with me.

107 based on an earlier, now-lost exemplar, but one which was not necessarily made as early as 1075.

Other copies of this document survive from the fourteenth century, for it was copied into the Libro de los Testamentos and subsequently into the Regla Colorada. These books were made under the aegis of Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), who oversaw a sort of late- medieval update to the historiographic work of Pelayo.262 In her study of the Regla Colorada, Rodríguez Díaz argues that the scribe of the manuscript was working not from the thirteenth- century copies discussed above, but rather from an older document in Visigothic script, pointing to a series of common scribal misinterpretations of Visigothic letter forms.263 The reliance on a possibly Visigothic, eleventh-century original is rendered problematic by the contents of the document, replete with anachronistic language. According to Fernández Conde, the way that the document is dated—“anno ab incarnatione Domini”—is not commonly used in documents from León-Castilla until the late twelfth century.264 Andrés Gambra, whose edition of the documents of Alfonso VI is the most recent, has noted several other such anachronisms.

If, in fact, we can hypothesize the existence of an original document in Visigothic hand, what are we to make of these telltale anachronisms? The combination of antique script and contemporary contents recalls the Liber Testamentorum itself, in which new texts were mixed with old, and all were written in the same archaizing Visigothic script. This 1075 document does not, however, appear in the Liber Testamentorum, nor does Pelayo make any reference to these events in any of his historiographic writings. Given that he was not one to miss any opportunity to aggrandize his see or embroider the tale of the Arca Santa, this omission is striking. Perhaps, just as the frontispiece of the Liber Testamentorum has a documentary function, acting to authenticate the Arca Santa, so, too, might the putative 1075 document represent an attempt quite literally to document the reliquary, extending the terse narrative of the inscription on the lid. Both manuscript and document, then, were likely been made after the Arca itself, responding to it and engaging with it. This suggests that the Arca is not, as Harris argues, a Pelagian forgery of

262 Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo.

263 Rodríguez Díaz, El Libro de la “Regla Colorada,” 192-94.

264 Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía,” 73-74, note 16.

108 the early twelfth century, but rather that it is an object whose meaning and significance had to be constructed and amplified following its creation in the late eleventh century.265

Although the Arca comes onto the historical scene in the late eleventh century, it is not until the early twelfth-century writings of Bishop Pelayo that the cult of the relics gains devotional momentum. As we have seen, the Arca Santa, its apostolic origins and perilous journey to Asturias, forms the cornerstone of Pelayo’s historiographic project. His account of the Arca Santa appears in the opening folia in the Liber Testamentorum, where the text is framed as the transcription of an inscription or document. The rubricated title, written in formal capitals, tells the reader that “This text [scriptura] shows how the Ark, with many relics of the saints, was translated to Oviedo from Jerusalem.”266 Significantly, the previous entry in the manuscript, a transcription of a no longer extant inscription on the main altar of the cathedral, uses the same term—scriptura—to describe the text that follows (Figure 3.14). This visual and textual strategy places the account of the Arca Santa in the context of the cartulary as yet another transcription, grounded in the documentary and epigraphic record.

Pelayo’s framing of this account as a transcription constitutes an attempt to validate and authenticate the story of the Arca Santa. The account that appears in the Liber Testamentorum is identical to that of the Liber Cronicorum, although the text was split in two and inserted into two separate chronicles. In the midst of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, we find the beginning of Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa (see Figure 2.4). The story of the Arca Santa was deliberately placed in the part of the chronicle dealing with the reign of King Pelayo in the early eighth century. The story breaks off suddenly after the Arca’s arrival in Asturias, and the reader has to wait to learn of the fate of the reliquary until later in the manuscript, when Alfonso II enters the historical stage. With a rather abrupt segue, which is not signaled by rubrication or a decorated initial, we read “now let us return to the ark,” and the story of the Arca Santa is taken up and completed (see Figure 2.5). Despite his numerous anachronisms, Pelayo was concerned to

265 Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 92.

266 “HEC SCRIPTVRA DOCET QVALITER ARCHA CVM MVLTORVM PIGNORIBVS SANCTORVM OVETO AB IHERVSALEM SIT TRANSLATA.” ACO MS 1, fol. 1vA.

109 establish the historicity of his account, to literally insert it into pre-existing historical narratives.267

As one might expect, Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa is replete with entertaining anachronisms and an impressive cast of historical characters. First made in Jerusalem by disciples of the Apostles, the Arca is initially transferred by the otherwise unknown priest Philip of Jerusalem to Africa following the conquest of the city in 614 by the Persian king Chosroes II. When the military threat extends into Africa, Bishop Fulgentius of Ruspe (ca. 465-527/533) sends the Arca on to Toledo, where Ildephonsus is bishop (d. 667). Pelayo then provides his moralized explanation of the conquest of Toledo by the Muslims, the Goths “believing in themselves that this destruction of their people was done not by the sword of destruction but rather by the Lord’s rod of correction.”268 Pelayo’s text suggests a degree of ambivalence about the status of the fallen kingdom of the Visigoths. While royal Visigothic blood might be of use in constructing royal genealogies, the Visigoths, particularly their capital in Toledo, were not untainted by sin.

Upon arrival in Toledo, a relic of particularly local significance is added to the collection: part of the mantle of the Virgin which she bestowed upon Ildephonsus, a relic which is still the subject of dispute between the sees of Toledo and Oviedo. The contents of the reliquary box subsequently transferred north to Asturias are thus different from and continuous with the original Arca Santa. By virtue of the Virgin’s place in sacred history, the Marian relic partakes of the same antiquity of the other relics, but, significantly, these new additions are marked by the historical moment—however ambiguously defined it may be—at which they enter the collection. The antiquity of the Arca Santa becomes plural, encompassing not merely the first decades after the life of Christ, but also the more immediate past of the spiritual and political hegemony of Visigothic Toledo and its catastrophic loss. The incorporation of this important Toledan relic

267 Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 111-18.

268 ACO MS 1, fol. 2rB. “Isti exitium hoc sue gentis non gladio destructionis sed uirga a Domino pocius in se credentes factum correctionis, quatinus in hoc eis propitiaretur summa diuinitas, a Iuliano pontifice qui tunc temporis erat cum Toletanis secum a Toleto archam supradictam in ipsas Asturias transferunt.” Edited by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 461-62.

110 becomes another way for Bishop Pelayo to appropriate for his see the spiritual authority of the pre-conquest see of Toledo.

After the fall of Toledo, Bishop Julian of Toledo (642-690) sends the Arca to Asturias, “because that land, fortified by the harshness of mountains, permits easy access to none of the enemy.”269 The Arca remains in temporary housing on the mountain of Monsacro, outside of Oviedo, until the reign of Alfonso II (d. 842), who, after a decisive victory against the Muslims, decides to build a permanent home for the reliquary in Oviedo. The Arca’s perilous journey to Asturias, with important stops along the way to add more relics, becomes a sort of reconquest in reverse, setting the stage for the retracing of the Arca’s travels in a series of victorious conquests.

Regardless of the specific historical contexts invoked to explain the origin and translation of the reliquary and its contents, these narratives reveal a persistent concern with the historicity of the Arca Santa. The relics themselves, material mementos of the events of sacred history and its holy protagonists, are the most literal embodiments of the antiquity of the Arca Santa. The reliquary box is of a commensurate antiquity, having been made of “incorruptible wood” by disciples of the Apostles, not long after the events of the life of Christ commemorated by the relics themselves.270

The Arca Santa’s wanderings cease when it reaches Oviedo. Upon its arrival, Pelayo tells us how Alfonso II constructs a sort of sacred treasury to house the Arca Santa, as well as numerous other precious reliquaries and royal treasures. This structure—none other than the Cámara Santa—was dedicated to St. Michael and acted as an architectural reliquary for its sacred contents. The long passage in Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa describing the building works of Alfonso II and the golden age of Asturian royal patronage in Oviedo recalls similar passages

269 ACO MS 1, fol. 2rB. “Hunc locum sibi et sanctorum elegerunt maxime suffragiis, quia patria ipsa uallata asperitate moncium facile nulli hostium promittebat accessum.” Edited by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 462.

270 “Dilectissimi fratres in christo, qui deum in celis atque in terra omnia quecumque uult posse non dubitatis, manifesta uobis relatione et signature ueritate intimamus, que uos audientes hortamur ut fide uera credatis, quod deus mirabili potentia et secreto suo consilio arcam, de lignis imputribilibus a discipulis apostolorum factam, innumeris dei magnaliis plenam, ab urbe iherosolima transtulit in affricam, ab affrica in chartaginem, a chartagine in toletum, a toleto in asturias in ecclesia sancti saluatoris, loco qui dicitur ouetum.” Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 93.

111 in the late ninth-century Chronicle of Alfonso III, with one crucial difference—nowhere in the early medieval chronicle itself is a structure identifiable as the Cámara Santa mentioned. As discussed in chapter one, the earliest textual references to this space come from the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries: from the writings of Pelayo himself. Pelayo embroiders the image of the early Asturian builder-kings familiar from the ninth-century Chronicle of Alfonso III, presenting Alfonso II as a Solomonic builder and implicitly drawing a parallel between the Arca Santa and the Ark of the Covenant.

While Pelayo’s account of the origins and travels of the Arca Santa is by far the most extensive, until recently it was not thought to be the oldest. In 1927, the Bollandist Donatien de Bruyne edited a text added to a ninth-century illuminated manuscript of the Apocalypse now in the Municipal Library of Valenciennes (Figures 3.15 and 3.16).271 The text gives an abbreviated account of the origins of the Arca and lists its contents. On the basis of paleography, De Bruyne concluded that the text dates to the eleventh century, but could be as late as the early twelfth.272 As Uría Ríu and Alonso Álvarez have cautioned, de Bruyne’s dating is far from secure, despite the way in which it has been used in order to argue for the existence of a cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa before the time of Pelayo.273 Rather than treating this single text as an early testament to the cult, it is more logical to place it in the context of other texts produced under the aegis of the bishop and chapter of Oviedo during the early twelfth century, such as the elaborate account of the Arca Santa provided by Pelayo in his Liber Testamentorum and Liber Cronicorum.

The similarities between the Valenciennes text and that of Pelayo are many. The abbreviated account of the Arca’s origins and travels found in Valenciennes derives directly from Pelayo. In addition, while a small number of relics appear in a slightly different order, the Valenciennes text and that of Pelayo have identical lists of the reliquary’s contents. The main difference between them is not what they describe as being inside the Arca Santa, but rather those relics “extra archam.” According to the Valenciennes manuscript, the twelve relics appear

271 Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v-3r. Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 93- 96.

272 Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 96.

273 Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones, vol. 2, 480; Alonso Álvarez, “Patria vallata,” 23.

112 outside of the Arca: those of saints Eulogius, Lucretia, Eulalia, Pelagius, Vincent, Bishop Seranus, Julian Pomerius, and King Alfonso II, as well as the Cross of the Angels, the satchels of Peter and Andrew, a piece of wood that was miraculously lengthened and used to build the cathedral, and finally one of the jugs in which Christ turned water into wine at the Wedding at Cana.274 None but the miraculous Cross of the Angels appear in Pelayo’s account of the relics surrounding the Arca Santa, but they do appear in the other texts associated with the Valenciennes Apocalypse, including the earliest printed breviary for Oviedo use, and a series of “hojas del cabildo,” printed and manuscript sheets circulating from at least the fifteenth century that describe the contents of the Arca.275 They also appear in a fascinating text dated to the last

274 “Extra arcam ipsam habentur corpora sanctorum martirum eulogii, et lucrecie, et beate eulalie emeritensis, et sancti pelagii martiris, et sancti uicentii martiris adque abbatis, et sancti serani episcopi, et sancti iuliani pomerii qui arcam ipsam a toleto ouetum transtulit, et corpus regis casti qui ecclesiam sancti saluatoris fundauit, crux ibi monstratur opere angelico fabricata, sporte apostolorum petri et andree, lignum cuiusdam trabis deficientis ad edificium ecclesie quod deus mirabiliter augmentauit. In ipsa autem principali ecclesia habetur una de sex idriis in quibus dominus aquam uertit in uinum.” Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 95.

275 Biblioteca Central de la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 38v-39r. “Quas summa cum reverentia aperientes, viderunt quaedam scripta singulis reliquiis ibi reconditis alligata: quae omnia manifestissime declarabant. Inveneruntque magnam partem de syndone domini, qua involutus iacuit in monumento. De vera cruce domini. Quinque spinas corone domini. De tunica domini. De sepulchro domini. De pannis in quibus iacuit involutus in praesepio. De pane caenae domini. De manna quod dominis pluit filiis Israel. Magnum fragmentum cutius beati Bartholomei apostoli qui fuit excoriatus. Palium quod dedit regina coeli beato ildefonso archiepiscopo toletano. De lacte ipsius matris domini. De capillis et vestimentis eius. Unum ex triginta denariis pro quibus dominus fuit venditus a iuda. [...] Inveneruntque parvulam ampulam cum cruore domini fuso sanctus a latere cuiusdam imaginis, quam christiani ad similitudine christi fecerant: sed iudaei antiqua perfidia obstinati ipsam ligno effigerunt, et lancea latus eius iterum percusserunt: a quo sanguis et aqua exivit. De pallio heliae prophetae. De fronte et capillis beati Ioannis baptiste. De capillis quibus beate maria magdalene extersit pedes domini. De ossibus sanctorum innocentium, et be ossibus trium puerorum sanctus annie, azarie, misaelis. De lapide cum quo clausm est sepulchrum domini. Segmentum virgae qua ipse moyses divisit mare rubrum filiis israel. Vestimentum beati sancti stephani prothomartyris. Sandalium dextrum beati petri apostoli, et annulum de catenis eius. Reliquias duodeci apostolorum, et de ossibus prophetarum. Bursas sacntorum petri et andree apostolorum. Reliquias sanctorum laurentii, Sebastiani, cosme ey damiani, stephani papae et martyris, Martini episcopi, eulalie barchinonensis. Lo plura est corpora, ossa et reliquie sanctorum, prophetarum, martyrum, confessorum, atque virginum: ibi sunt recondita quorum numerum deus solus scit. Extra predictam arcam habent etiam crux quidam manibus angelorum operata. Unam ex sex hidriis in quibus dominus aquam in vinum convertit: et corpora sanctorum martyrum eulogii

113 quarter of the twelfth century, which survives in only two manuscripts.276 Some of the more cryptic relics listed in the Valenciennes text can be explained with reference to this later source, which is filled with miracles even more dramatic and improbable than even Pelayo could imagine.

This late twelfth-century text offers an elaborate account of the origins and travels of the Arca Santa, indebted to but distinct from Pelayo’s. The story begins with a pair of Christians, Julianus and Seranus, who have heard tell of a shrine containing many precious relics that has been sent out of Jerusalem for safe-keeping. They find the shrine in Carthage, and they accompany it from Africa to Toledo. There is a brief excursus about the miracles associated with the garment granted to Bishop Ildephonsus of Toledo by the Virgin Mary, then the author returns to the story of the Arca itself. Fleeing invading Muslim armies, the shrine is taken to Monsacro, outside of Oviedo. Alfonso II rescues the reliquary and decides to build a church to house it. Although his first attempts fail, he receives a miraculous vision telling him exactly where to build his church. The construction of the church itself is marked by a miracle; the craftsmen bring to the king’s attention the fact that one of the wooden beams is shorter than the others. The king prays and orders the short beam to be used anyway, but when they look again, it has miraculously grown in length. This would appear to be the piece of wood referred to among the relics outside of the Arca Santa by the Valenciennes text.

The king orders the Arca Santa, along with the relics of the two Christians, Julianus and Seranus, who shepherded it along its journey, to be brought to the newly built church for the consecration ceremony. Upon arrival at the doors of the cathedral of San Salvador, the Arca becomes completely immovable. The Arca remains fixed in place, despite an attempt to place it

et lucretiae, et sancte eulaliae virginis Emeritensis, sancti Pelagii, et Sancti Vicentii martyris atque abbatis: ac iuliani pontificis.”

276 Bibliothèque de Cambrai MS 800, fol. 68r-73v and formerly Cheltenham, Library of Thomas Phillipps MS 299, fol. 1r-16r. Kohler has dated the manuscripts to the late twelfth or early thirteenth centuries on the basis of their paleography, and the composition of this text to no earlier than the last quarter of the twelfth century. He bases this dating on references to pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas Beckett (d. 1170) in Canterbury, as well to Bishop Gundisalvus of Oviedo (r. 1162-1175). See Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 3.

114 near the main altar of the church, dedicated to the Savior. As soon, however, as it is suggested that the Arca be moved to the upper-storey space dedicated to St. Michael, the Arca miraculously becomes portable, and is successfully installed there. Alfonso II then makes a new, larger container with a gilded exterior for the Arca. When the Arca is placed in its new shrine, the four feet of the reliquary pierce the four corners of the gilded container. Pilgrims come to touch and kiss the feet of the reliquary, praying to God from underneath the shrine.277 Our text then includes an embroidered version of the miraculous manufacture of the Cross of the Angels. Following this great miracle, Alfonso II establishes Oviedo as an independent see, beholden only to the authority of the pope himself.

Following the death of Alfonso II, out text moves forward several centuries to the reign of Alfonso VI, providing a slightly different version of the opening of the Arca in the presence of the king and his court. The reliquary is opened to reveal twelve sealed “little boxes” (scriniola). One of the boxes is opened, and its contents inventoried. The relics therein are familiar from other twelfth-century accounts of the Arca’s contents, but we learn that the satchels of saints Peter and Andrew, both of which are mentioned in the Valenciennes text, remain outside of the Arca. At this point, the narrative shifts completely to tell the story of a young woman named Oria who is possessed by a demon, only to be saved by the Cross of the Angels.

This late twelfth-century text is a valuable witness to the Arca Santa’s appearance, function, and meaning during this period. The Arca was understood as somehow plural, both in terms of its contents as well as its form. The new shrine made by Alfonso II frames rather than replaces the former casket, whose feet are so devotedly kissed by pilgrims. These feet are described as being a foot and a half long.278 While it is difficult to know how to translate this measurement into modern terms, the text offers a hint when it tells us how the benighted Oria

277 “Rex autem castus fecerat aliam archam parari, majorem illa in qua reliquie continentur, que miro opere sculpta et tota deforis inaurata devotionem Regis casti et prudentiam artifìcis videntibus representat atque testatur. In hac majori archa collocavit sanctam archam tali modo quod quatuor pedes sancti scrinii perforatis angulis majoris arche foris apparent et a peregrinis tanguntur et devotissime osculantur et sub archa illa preces et lacrime coram Deo effunduntur.” Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 10.

278 “De unoquoque pede sancte arche foris apparet longitudo pedis et dimidii.” Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 10.

115 throws herself beneath the Arca Santa.279 The Arca is here represented as elevated above the ground in the manner of numerous contemporary saints’ shrines, and provoking similar behavior on the part of pilgrims who pray beneath it or touch its foot-like supports.280 Whether or not the Arca was actually ever elevated above the ground, the promoters of its cult wished the Arca to be identified as a focus of pilgrimage, a shrine that elicits specific devotional behavior from pilgrims. The Arca is here presented as the raison d’être for the cathedral as a whole, not just the upper-storey treasury dedicated to St. Michael. This text attempts to reactivate and reconfigure the early history and monuments of Oviedo, specifically the treasury of the Cámara Santa, around a single focus: the Arca Santa. By the last quarter of the twelfth century, the Arca Santa had, in fact, been transformed into the focus of the meaning and decoration of the Cámara Santa, as the space itself was adapted in response to the reliquary.

While the Arca might appear today to be thoroughly sealed and off limits, we have seen that its boundaries were more porous in the Middle Ages, and objects added to and taken out of the large reliquary box. The Libro Becerro, produced under the aegis of Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), contains an inventory of the chapter’s possessions, including reliquary caskets in the Cámara Santa. Among the caskets listed are several that contain material from the Arca Santa, but which now appear to have their own shrines.281 This inventory, together with evidence from the twelfth-century texts discussed above, suggests that the Arca Santa was opened up and its contents distributed into separate shrines over the course of the Middle Ages, making its contents more readily accessible to pilgrims. I wish now to turn to the plethora of objects that surround the Arca Santa, dating from the eleventh century to the sixteenth.

279 “Cumque venisset apud Sanctum Salvatorem, statim ingressa est ecclesiam, et sub archa in qua sancte reliquie continentur se projecit sine mora.” Kohler, Translation de reliques, 15.

280 Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 258-64.

281 ACO MS 9, Libro Becerro, pages 342-43 (ms is paginated, not foliated). The relics in the inventory that are identical to those found in inventories of the Arca itself include the rod of Moses, milk of the Virgin, blood from a miraculous image of the Crucifixion, sandal of Peter, sandal of Andrew, manna from heaven, forehead of John the Baptist, as well as fragments from the Crown of Thorns and the True Cross.

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A Collection of Objects: Reliquaries in and around the Arca Santa

While it is not listed as one of the relics outside of the Arca Santa, the most direct comparadum for the Arca Santa is the small gilded silver casket of Arias (Figure 3.17). Now in the cathedral museum, this reliquary used to be housed in the Cámara Santa. Its patronage seems secure; an inscription tells us that “+Conviviis xpi celes/tis mens(s)/a paratur Arian/us ep[iscopu]s fecit.”282 The casket dates to the episcopate of Arianus or Arias (r. 1073-1092/1094), noted previously as one of the signatories of the document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa. Serafín Moralejo has noted that the pseudo-kufic inscription around the top of the casket has led scholars to mistakenly identify the piece as mozarabic in style and origin, when its foliate decoration points to a more traditional Carolingian decorative vocabulary.283 This interpretation of the casket as mozarabic effectively separates it from analyses of the Arca Santa, when, in fact, the two pieces have more in common than chronology. The Latin and pseudo-kufic inscriptions function in parallel, just like those of the Arca Santa. The Latin inscription of the casket of Arias runs along the bottom edges of the casket, and the pseudo-kufic along the top. Epigraphically, the Latin inscriptions of the two caskets are also very similar, although the incised technique differs from the repoussé of the Arca.

Moving beyond stylistic analysis, the issue of patronage is also significant. The casket conveniently informs us that its patron was Bishop Arias, and the presence of this notably episcopal gift in the treasury of the Cámara Santa stands out in the context of the surviving precious treasures, including boxes, donated by earlier Asturian kings, such as the so-called Agate Casket donated by Fruela and Nunilo in 910.284 The inscription on the lid of the Arca tells us that it was “made” by Alfonso VI, seeming to identify a royal patron. As Therese Martin has argued in the context of gender and the making of medieval art, the verb “fecit” can refer to the individual who literally crafted the object, donated resources necessary for its making, or even

282 Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 65.

283 Moralejo Álvarez, “Les artes somptuaires hispaniques,” 225. This identification of the piece as “mozarabic” persists. See the most recent catalogue entry by Yayoi Kawamura in Museo de la Iglesia de Oviedo, 91-92.

284 The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 71, 143-44.

117 received it.285 Given the centrality of the kings of the Asturian monarchy to Pelayo’s history of power and patronage in Oviedo, it is unsurprising that royal presence should be evoked as much in the making of the Arca’s silver revetment as it was in the installation of the reliquary in the Cámara Santa under Alfonso II. We must also recall, however, the crucial role played by bishops in the Arca’s travels, from Fulgentius in the Holy Land, to Ildephonsus and Julian in Toledo. The casket of Arias indicates that the bishops of Oviedo played an active role in the production of the cathedral’s treasures by the late eleventh century. Might we not be able to interpret the Arca Santa as a collaboration between king and bishop, symbolizing and cementing the strong bonds between the two?

Another object now in the cathedral museum offers more evidence that the Arca Santa was opened up and multiplied over the course of the twelfth century. Again, none of our accounts of the Arca and its contents mention this object, but its inscription places it within the constellation of individual shrines generated by the Arca. Moreover, its episcopal patronage connects it to the casket of Arias. The reliquary diptych of Gundisalvus is a remarkable object, referred to as a portable altar (Figure 3.18). The patron identified in its inscription is none other than the Bishop Gundisalvus mentioned in the late twelfth-century account of the Arca Santa. The diptych opens up like a book to reveal on its interior a series of small ivory carvings framed by silver filigree and a niello inscription. From the right panel to the left, the inscription reads: “In the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, Gundisalvus, Bishop of Oviedo ordered that I be made. The relics that are here are the following: [part of] the Cross of the Lord, of the holy Virgin Mary, of St. John the Apostle and Evangelist, of Luke the Evangelist, of Mark the Evangelist, of Matthew the Evangelist, the bread of Our Lord, the sepulcher of the Lord.”286 On the left is a depiction of the Crucifixion, flanked by John the Evangelist and Mary and surmounted by personifications of the sun and moon, which are later additions made following the explosion of 1934. On the right, Christ appears in majesty, framed by a filigree mandorla and surrounded by

285 Martin, “Exceptions and Assumptions,” 2-6.

286 “In nomine Domini nostri Ihesu Christi Gundisalvus Episcopus me iussit fieri. Hae sunt reliquiae quae ibi sunt: de ligno domini, Sanctae Mariae virginis, Sanctis Iohannis apostoli et evangelistae / Lucae evangelistae, Marci Evangelistae, Matheus evangelistae, de pane nostri Domini, de sepulchro Domini.” Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 66.

118 the symbols of the four Evangelists. On the exterior of the diptych are a pair of silver panels, decorated in niello (Figure 3.19). On the left is a Crucifixion, and on the right, Christ in Majesty. Thus, the iconography of the exterior is the same as that of the interior, the outside revealing the imagery of the inside. The iconographic pairing of Christ in Majesty with the Crucifixion recalls the front and lid of the Arca Santa itself, the diptych echoing the imagery of the Arca.

The diptych form of this portable altar is unusual. The presence of the inscription on the interior suggests that it was meant to be opened, its contents displayed, but the context in which it would have been used remains unclear. Charles Little’s description of this diptych as a “portable version of the Arca Santa” expresses both the formal and functional sense of the object.287 While the attribution of the piece to the patronage of Bishop Gundisalvus (r. 1162- 1175) seems to provide a firm chronological context, the inscription likely only refers to the interior of the diptych. Moralejo was the first to suggest that the nielloed silver panels were reused when the portable altar was assembled during the time of Gundisalvus.288 Its form is more like that of a book than an altar, and Yarza has suggested that the silver panels on the exterior originally formed the covers of a Gospel Book.289 This kind of reliquary recycling was decidedly not an unusual practice in medieval treasuries, as evidenced by the famous A of Charlemagne in Conques, or the Suger’s Eleanor Vase in Saint-Denis, to name but two prestigious and well-known examples.290

Several of these relics can be identified with those listed as being in the Arca Santa. Relics of the True Cross and the Holy Sepulcher form part of the Arca Santa’s collection, attested to on the lid itself as well as in Pelayo’s writings. In addition, various kinds of bread, as well as relics of the Virgin Mary, are contained within the Arca. The relics of the four Evangelists, however, are nowhere listed as forming part of the Arca’s collection, and their presence in the diptych’s inscription may be a reference to the Gospel Book once bound within the silver panels. The resonance of metalwork with manuscripts, both their binding and interior

287 The Art of Medieval Spain, no. 129, 270.

288 Moralejo Álvarez, “Les artes somptuaires hispaniques,” 227.

289 De Limoges a Silos, cat. no. 77, 286.

290 Cahn, “The ‘A’ of Charlemagne;” Beech, “The Eleanor of Aquitaine Vase.”

119 decoration, occurs on other occasions in the Cámara Santa, most famously in the parallels between the frontal of the Arca Santa and the frontispiece of the Liber Testamentorum, with the kneeling figure of Alfonso II.

Several reliquaries mentioned as being located outside of the Arca in our twelfth-century texts are still in the Cámara Santa: those of Eulogius, Lucretia, Vincent, and Eulalia.291 As we saw in the first chapter, Eulogius and Lucretia were both martyred in Córdoba in the mid-ninth century. The relics of Eulogius and Lucretia were transferred to Oviedo in 884, not long after their martyrdom, when they were placed in the crypt of St. Leocadia. It is unclear how long their relics remained in the crypt before being moved upstairs. Their relics are now contained in a fourteenth-century reliquary, whose inscription tells us that on 9 January 1305, Bishop Fernando Álvarez (r. 1301-1321) transferred the relics from the crypt to the Cámara Santa following the miraculous healing of an archdeacon.292 As I argued in chapter one, the cult of these two Cordoban martyrs was absorbed into the larger relic cult of the Cámara Santa at some point between the twelfth century and the fourteenth.

The next saints in our list, Vincent and Eulalia, are among the most important early martyr saints of Iberia. They appear prominently in the Pasionario Hispánico, a group of seventeen hagiographic texts that formed the basis of the liturgy of the saints in Iberia between the seventh and eleventh centuries.293 Their cults are prior, even, to this Passionary, and they were important saints throughout the late antique and Visigothic periods.294 St. Vincent is one of the most popular of all the late antique martyrs, and his cult was widely diffused throughout Europe. From an early date, we see evidence of devotion to St. Vincent in Asturias, although it is unclear when his relics first arrived. The monastery of St. Vincent, next to the cathedral, is the

291 I am setting aside for now the question of the relics of St. Pelayo, child-martyr and titular saint of the monastery of San Pelayo in Oviedo. According to Pelayo in the Liber Cronicorum, his remains had been brought to Asturias “post multorum discursus annorum.” Prelog, ed., Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 94.

292 “Anno Dni. MCCC quinto, nonas Ianu. Dominus Fernandus Alvari Ovetensis episcopus transtulit [corpora sanctorum m(artyrum)] Eulogi et Lucreci(a)e in hanc capsam argenteam.” Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 67. Morales refers to this event in his Viaje santo, 83.

293 Riesco Chueca, ed., Pasionario hispánico; Fàbrega Grau, Pasionario hispánico.

294 García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 242-334.

120 oldest foundation in Oviedo, founded in the late eighth century by the clerics Maximo and Fromestano. Writing in the late nineteenth century, Fermín Canella mentions that, according to local tradition, the relics of St. Vincent were brought to Oviedo during the reign of Bermudo II (r. 982-999), although neither the Chronicle of Pelayo nor the Historia Silense mentions this.295

The reliquary of St. Vincent in the Cámara Santa dates to 1268, although it was “renewed” in the eighteenth century. According to the inscription on the original reliquary, which survives only in Ambrosio de Morales’ transcription of it, the reliquary was made for the archdeacon García in honor of St. Vincent.296 The mid-thirteenth-century chronology of this reliquary comes long after the period during which the monastery of St. Vincent more or less merged with the cathedral over the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and one wonders whether any of the monastery’s relics could have made their way into the cathedral treasury during this time, to be absorbed into the reliquary ensemble of the Cámara Santa.297

The last of these four saints whose relics were located “extra archam” is Eulalia. Eulalia was martyred in Mérida in the early fourth century, and her cult spread quickly throughout the peninsula and into France and the British Isles.298 Despite her popularity, no evidence exists for devotion to Eulalia in Asturias before the twelfth century. It appears that the growth of her cult

295 Canella y Secades, Oviedo. Guía, 203. This is a strange thing for Canella to mention, since Bermudo II’s reputation—thanks to Pelayo’s account of his reign—was very, very bad indeed.

296 Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “Hoc opus fecit fieri magister Garsias huius / almae ecclesiae archidiaconus ad honorem / sancti Vincentii martyris, quondam abbatis / monasterii Sancti Claudii Legionensis ci/vitatis, cuius corpus reconditur in hac arca. / Era MCCCVI” (1268). Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 67.

297 There appears to be little work on San Vicente and the process of ceding control to the cathedral. See the remarks of Fernández Conde and Torrente Fernández, “Los orígenes del monasterio de San Pelayo,” 197. See also the edition of the monastery’s cartulary by Floriano Llorente, Colección diplomática de San Vicente, docs. 25, 28, 38, and 185. We know that changes were made to the fabric of the building itself during the late twelfth century, although the radical reformation of the structure made during the seventeenth century means that we conserve only fragments of the Romanesque sculpture once present. See Manzanares Mir, “Fragmentos románicos,” 153-56.

298 Berger and Brasseur, ed. and transl., Les séquences de Sainte Eulalie. On her cult in Spain, see García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 284-303. See also Mateos Cruz, La basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida.

121 there can be traced back to the period of Pelayo.299 By Pelayo’s time, Eulalia was a saint of international prestige, with a large body of liturgical texts written in her honor. Eulalia makes an appearance in the Pelagian corpus, although not in the context of the account of the Arca Santa. In the Liber Cronicorum, Pelayo describes how he himself rediscovered the relics of St. Eulalia and had them enshrined in a new reliquary and celebrated with a new liturgy. In what is doubtless not a coincidence, the portion of the chronicle text immediately before relating the tale of this miraculous rediscovery tells us how King Silo (r. 774-783) went south to al-Andalus in order to rescue the relics of Eulalia.300 This episode is inserted between the two halves of his account of the Arca Santa, for, according to Pelayo, Eulalia’s relics were brought Asturias in the time between the Arca’s initial arrival in Asturias in the time of Pelayo and its transfer to the Cámara Santa under Alfonso II. With his discovery and elevation of the relics of Eulalia, Pelayo, the twelfth-century bishop, re-enacts the pious act of the eighth-century King Silo, asserting a continuity of authority between the early medieval Asturian monarchy and Pelayo’s own episcopacy.

Pelayo’s description of his rediscovery of the relics of St. Eulalia merits closer examination.

Many years having passed, in the era 1140 [1102], Pelayo, the bishop of the church of Oviedo, entered one day into the afore-mentioned treasury in order to pray, and he asked the custodians of the treasury, both the new and the very oldest, what thing lay inside the afore-mentioned little casket. These men told him that they did not know what was inside of it. This same bishop took up the little casket and opened it, and found inside a written text together with the body of the blessed virgin Eulalia. Then, this same bishop, along with the canons of that place, rejoiced with great joy, and the following Sunday they elevated her with great honor to the main altar of the church.

299 López Fernández, “Devoción a santa Eulalia en Oviedo.”

300 “Deinde congregavit magnum exercitum militum et peditum multum nimis, et fuit in civitatem que dicitur Emerita, et beatissimam virginem Eulaliam, que ibi a Calpurnio prefecto fuerat interfecta et a christianis sepulta, extravit a sepulchro, in quo iacebat recondita, et misit in capsellam argenteam, quam ipse facere iusserat; et quartam partem cunabuli ipsius virginis ibi invenit. Quod cum corpore beate virginis Eulalie secum in Asturiis territorio Pravie aduxit, et in ecclesiam santi Iohannis apostoli et evangeliste et sanctorum apostolorum Petri et Pauli et Andree, quam ipse fundavit, eam postuit.” Edited by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 88-89. BN MS 1513, fol. 48r.

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And so that it might be made widely known through the entire world, he had thirty women and more than one hundred men witness it. Then, the afore-mentioned prelate placed that little casket inside a larger silver casket, which had been donated to that place by the lord King Alfonso, son of King Ferdinand and Queen Sancha, and he placed it in the afore-mentioned treasury, where it would be venerated by the faithful. He then sought out and found in the province of Narbonne responses and antiphons about the aforementioned virgin, and he ordered them to be written and sung everywhere.301

This episode is crucial for the history of the cult of St. Eulalia in the cathedral of Oviedo because before the time of Pelayo in the twelfth century, precious little is known of her cult in Asturias. The same can be said of the period following Pelayo, for it appears that her cult falls into relative obscurity in the later Middle Ages, until it was resurrected definitively in the sixteenth century, and she was made patron of the dioceses of Oviedo in 1639. What is the significance of this particular saint that makes her useful in this twelfth-century context, as part of Pelayo’s larger strategy of legitimation of his diocese?

While she was originally an Iberian martyr, she had become a saint of international prestige, and Pelayo looked beyond the Pyrenees for appropriate liturgical texts to celebrate Eulalia. The specific reference to Narbonne as the source for the liturgical texts used in the ceremonial elevation of the relics makes sense in the context of the diffusion of her cult in the early Middle Ages. In order to trace this story, we first must introduce another Eulalia into the mix. In 877, the relics of a St. Eulalia were discovered in the city of Barcelona. Historians

301 “Post multorum vero curricula annorum, sub era MaCXL, Pelagius, Ovetensis ecclesie episcopus, quadam die introivit in predicto thesauro, ut oraret, et interrogavit custodes thesauri novos et vetustissimos, que res iacebat in predicta capsella. Illi autem dixerunt se nescire, que intus eam erant. Ipse vero episcopus accepit et aperuit eam, et intus eam invenit scriptam cartam cum corpore beate virginis Eulalie. Tunc ipse et canonici eiusdem loci magno gaudio gavisi sunt, et in sequenti dominica levavit eam cum magno honore in principali ecclesia; et ut esset propalata cause ista in omni orbe, fecit eam videre numero XXX feminis et plus quam centum viris. Deinde capsellam ipsam misit predictus episcopus in aliam capsam maioram argenteam, que ibi dederat rex dominus Adefonsus, filius Fredenandi regis et Sancie regine, et posuit eam in thesauro iam dicto, ubi a fidelibus populis veneratur. Deinde inquisivit et invenit in Narbonensi provincia responsa et antiphonas, que sunt suprataxate virginis, et iussit ea scribere et canere ubique.” Edited by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 89-90. BN MS 1513, fol. 48r.

123 continue to debate the existence of this second Eulalia—some claim that there was, in fact, a second Eulalia martyred in the late antique period and buried in Barcelona, while others claim that she is the result of medieval confusion that has produced two saints where, in reality, there is only one: Eulalia of Mérida.302 Regardless of whether two young girls named Eulalia were martyred, or just one, the events in Barcelona of 877 had important repercussions for the cult of the saint in Oviedo. The discovery of the relics came about because Sigebodus, the archbishop of Narbonne, had come to Barcelona because he wished to build a basilica in the saint’s honor back in Narbonne. Frodoinus, the bishop of Barcelona, set about searching for information about the location of her remains, and they were miraculously discovered in the area of the church now known as Santa María del Mar in Barcelona.303 This reference to the role of the archbishop of Narbonne in the invention of the relics within the Catalan tradition, combined with Pelayo’s reference to finding liturgical texts in Narbonne, suggests that the story of the ninth-century invention of St. Eulalia in Barcelona was known to Pelayo. Indeed, a passio of St. Eulalia of Barcelona circulated from the seventh century onwards, deepening confusion about the twin virgin martyrs.304 It is noteworthy that Pelayo sought liturgical texts from Narbonne, choosing to elevate the relics of one of the most venerable of the late antique martyrs from Spain, via her re- discovery in Barcelona.

Crucial to this liturgical re-framing of the cult of Eulalia in Oviedo was the physical form of her reliquary. Pelayo refers explicitly to the transfer of the saint’s relics into a silver casket that had been donated by King Alfonso VI, into which was placed the older, ivory reliquary. The casket that survives today in the Baroque chapel dedicated to the saint is likely the same one referred to by Pelayo (Figure 3.20). In the sixteenth century, Ambrosio de Morales described seeing a silver casket decorated with niello that sounds identical to the one there today, although he mentions the presence of another ivory casket inside of the silver reliquary, which no longer

302 The arguments are presented in García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 289-90. See also Fàbrega Grau, Santa Eulalia de Barcelona.

303 See the text transcribed by Fàbrega Grau, Santa Eulalia de Barcelona, 151-55. Surviving accounts of the invention of the body of St. Eulalia of Barcelona are taken from fourteenth-century liturgical mansucripts in the archive of the Cathedral of Barcelona.

304 For the passio of St. Eulalia of Barcelona, see Riesco Chueca, Pasionario hispánico, 105-13.

124 survives.305 This casket contains an Arabic inscription around the four edges of the lid, which, according to the transcription by Pascual de Gayangos, can be translated: “(May) Full blessings, abundance of goods and comforts, and perfect security: ever-increasing greatness, lasting peace, together with glory and perpetual rule (accompany the lord of this building).”306 As Isabel Ruiz de la Peña says, many questions remain open about the stylistic filiation and origins of this object.307 It has been relatively little published and little studied, appearing in Shalem’s corpus of Islamic objects in church treasuries, but not discussed in any depth.308 It does not appear in the influential 1995 catalogue, The Art of Medieval Spain, and it has been more or less left out of accounts of both Islamic and Christian medieval metalwork. This may in part be because of the reliquary’s current location in a difficult to access Baroque baldachin, but it is also because of the casket’s formal elements, which do not fit easily within what little we know of late eleventh- century Islamic metalwork.

Given the inscription’s silence on such mundane matters as date and place of manufacture, we must look for formal parallels. An important initial observation is the fact that the truncated pitched-roof box shape of this metal casket imitates the form of some ivory caskets made in al-Andalus in the tenth through twelfth centuries.309 Given that Morales mentions the presence of a smaller, ivory reliquary inside the current shrine, the form of the metal casket is surely significant. Among these metalwork boxes that share the same basic form of ivory

305 “Al otro lado frontero en semejante grada, junto al Santo Sudario, está un Arca mas alta que larga, de plata maziza, sin madera, labrada à la Morsica de atauxia, y de nielado. Abrieronse tres cerraduras, que tiene, hallóse dentro otra Arca menor de plata, en que estan algunos huesos y cabellos de Santa Eulalia la de Merida, y fuera estaba un lienzo teñido en algunas partes al parecer con sangre, y asi parece del velo desta Santa, de que hay mucha mencion en la Vida de Masona, Arzobispo de Merida. No se abrió esta Arca pequeña, no otra de marfil, que alli dentro tambien está, por ser muy dificultoso de abrirlas.” Morales, Viaje Santo, 84-85.

306 Miguel Vigil, Asturias monumental, 29.

307 Ruiz de la Peña, “Arte y reliquias.”

308 Shalem, Islam Christianized, cat. no. 207, 301.

309 Rosser-Owen, “Metal Mounts on Andalusi Ivories,” 302. See, for example, the silver, gilt, and niello Gerona casket of 976: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 38a, 94. For an ivory “version” of this form, see the Victoria and Albert Museum casket (10-1866), made in Andalucía in the early eleventh century: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 40, 95-96.

125 caskets, one particular box stands out as a convincing comparandum for the Oviedo reliquary of St. Eulalia: a small (8 x 17.7 x 11 cm) gilded silver casket, decorated with niello, formerly in the treasury of San Isidoro and now at the National Archaeological Museum in Madrid (Figure 3.21). The inscription on these two boxes is nearly identical, and both share the “low truncated pyramid”-type lid.310

Ángela Franco has suggested that the Madrid box may have been among the objects donated by Fernando and Sancha to San Isidoro on 22 December 1063.311 The text of the donation describes “an ivory casket … and two more of ivory worked with silver, in one of which sit three other small boxes made in the same fashion.”312 She suggests, furthermore, that this casket might be one of those three smaller caskets that were contained inside of a larger one. While declaring herself not entirely in accord with Franco’s hypothesis, Susana Calvo points to a series of stylistic comparanda from the first half of the eleventh century. She points in particular to the perfume flask in Teruel, dated to around 1044-1045, which has a similar combination of inscription and depiction of animals, in this case birds.313 She connects the birds of the Oviedo casket with similar depictions found on an early eleventh-century ivory panel, a tenth-century textile fragment, and an eleventh-century glazed ceramic bowl.314 In a later publication, however, Calvo returns to the Madrid casket and suggests an alternative, slightly later date in the later eleventh or early twelfth century.315

Part of Calvo’s problems dating the Madrid casket, and the closely connected Oviedo casket, may have to do with the relative scarcity of firmly dated metalwork, particularly silver,

310 The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 45, 98.

311 Franco Mata, ”El tesoro de San Isidoro,” 53.

312 “capsam eburneam … et alias duas eburneas argento laboratas, una ex eis sedent intus tres aliae capsellae, in eodem opere factae.” Quoted in Franco Mata, ”El tesoro de San Isidoro,” 53.

313 See Cynthia Robinson’s catalogue entry in Al-Andalus, cat. no. 16, 219.

314 New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, John Steward Kennedy Fund, 1913, 13.141, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 6, 203; Madrid, Instituto Valencia de Don Juan, 2071, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 20, 224-25; Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 74/48/30, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 32, 238-39.

315 Maravillas de la España medieval, cat. no. 21, 113.

126 from the western Mediterranean during the Fatimid period (909-1171). Precious little Fatimid metalwork has survived owing to the destruction of the Cairo treasury in 1062, and its sacking by the conquering Ayyubids in 1169.316 Despite this, I would like to suggest that the casket of St. Eulalia may have been made within a Fatimid context, or perhaps in emulation of Fatimid silver.317 The sole piece of metalwork that can be firmly dated and attributed to Fatimid Cairo on the basis of its inscription is a small (7.5 x 12.4 x 7.9 cm) gilded silver casket, decorated with niello, now in the treasury of San Isidoro in León (Figure 3.22). The main inscription refers to the patron of the box, Sadaqa ibn Yusuf. Calvo proposes that the man mentioned in the inscription can be identified as Abu Mansur Sadaqa ibn Yusuf al-Falahi, vizier from 1044 to 1047 under the Fatimid Caliph al-Mustansir billah (r. 1036-1094).318 Like the Madrid casket with which the casket of St. Eulalia is closely associated, this Fatimid box formed part of the treasury of San Isidoro in León, where it still resides. As Calvo states, this second San Isidoro casket raises important questions about “the reciprocal artistic influences of Islamic Spain and Fatimid Egypt in the tenth and eleventh centuries.”319 The other San Isidoro casket now in Madrid has an Andalusian provenance, and it may have been made at least in part in emulation of contemporary Fatimid metalwork from North Africa.

A series of small decorative details likewise point to a potential North African Fatimid (or emulation of Fatimid) context for the production of the casket of St. Eulalia. The distinctive striped turbans worn by the figures can be seen in a textile fragment from the second half of the eleventh century and attributed to Fatimid silk workshops.320 Another textile fragment, this time a piece of royal tiraz silk made in North Africa in the seventh or eighth century, contains

316 For an excellent introduction, see Ward, Islamic Metalwork, 60-69. See also the exhibition catalogues, Trésors fatimides cu Caire and Schätze der Kalifen. On the artistic and architectural production of the Fatimids more generally, see Bloom, Arts of the City Victorious.

317 For the following discussion, I am deeply indebted to Mariam Rosser-Owen of the Victoria and Albert Museum, who kindly shared her thoughts on the casket of St. Eulalia, pointing me towards a Fatimid context for this piece.

318 The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47, 99-100.

319 The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47, 100.

320 Collection Jean-François Bouvier no. JFB M 92. Schätze der Kalifen, cat. no. 44, 100-01.

127 quadripartite heart-shapes similar to those on the Oviedo casket.321 The distinctive interlocking Y pattern of the background appears in a pair of thirteenth century candlesticks, made in Ayyubid Egypt or Syria.322 The later date of these Ayyubid pieces should not lead us to think that the Oviedo casket must, perforce, date to the thirteenth century. James W. Allan has argued that much Ayyubid metalwork, which survives in far greater numbers than Fatimid metalwork, adopted Fatimid decorative motifs.323

One of the most striking aspects of the casket of St. Eulalia is its simplified forms and repetitive iconography of a seated ruler figure flanked by cupbearers. The polylobed roundels on the casket of St. Eulalia recall forms found in ivory carving, such as the Pamplona casket. The roundels on the Oviedo casket are considerably more schematic and simplified than the luxurious Pamplona casket, however. Moreover, while the ninth- and tenth-century ivories of al-Andalus and the twelfth- and thirteenth-century inlaid metalwork of Ayyubid North Africa combine multiple compositions, the Oviedo casket repeats the same composition of the royal figure flanked by cupbearers. This simultaneous evocation and simplification of established motifs recalls the ivory work of eleventh-century Cuenca, in which the traditions of the magnificent Cordoban ivory workshops underwent dramatic change following the dissolution of the Umayyad caliphate into the taifa states.324 Caskets such as the reliquary of St. Dominic of Silos and the Palencia casket contain forms which are considerably simplified and repetitive in comparison to their Cordoban predecessors.325

Not long after their initial manufacture, these Cuenca ivories entered church treasuries and were used to house relics. Both the Palencia and Silos caskets were substantially adapted by

321 Victoria and Albert Museum, 1314-1888.

322 A cast bronze and silver and gold inlaid candlestick made in Cairo ca. 1270, discussed by James W. Allan, Islamic Metalwork, cat. no. 13, 80-83; a mid-thirteenth-century candlestick from Ayyubid Syria or Egypt in the British Museum, discussed in O’Kane, Treasures of Islamic Art, no. 91, 107.

323 Allan, “‘My Father is the Sun.’”

324 I am grateful to Therese Martin for drawing my attention to this comparison.

325 Reliquary of St. Dominic, 1026, Burgos, Museo Arqueológico Provincial, The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 132, 273-74. Palencia Casket, 1049, Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 57371, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 7, 204-06.

128 the addition of new mounts and hinges in the mid-twelfth century, which clearly stand apart in terms of medium (metal and enamel). Shalem has argued that such re-mounting acted as a symbolic Christianization of Islamic objects.326 While the fate of these Cuenca ivories seems to bear out his hypothesis, when we look at the mounts and hinges on our Andalusian and North African boxes, they have not been so obviously “Christianized.” Rosser-Owen has recently examined the metal mounts on a group of tenth-century Cordoban ivories, concluding that these mounts are in all likelihood original.327 Rosser-Owen reminds us that we should pay close attention to these often overlooked elements of caskets and pyxides, for the metal mounts can potentially tell us a great deal about the manufacture and circulation of these enigmatic objects.

A case in point is the mount on the Fatimid San Isidoro casket, which contains an inscription on the underside of the lock itself identifying the maker, a certain ‘Uthman (see Figure 3.22). The playful placement of this inscription on the mid-eleventh-century San Isidoro casket recalls a similar inscription on the underside of the lock on the 976 Gerona casket, also known as the casket of al-Hisham II.328 The mounts on the Oviedo and Madrid caskets have not, to my knowledge, been studied, but a few initial observations suggest that these mounts can help us to understand the production and circulation of these objects. While the mounts on the Oviedo and Madrid caskets appear to interrupt the inscription on the lid, the lobed heart-like shape of the lock on the Oviedo casket seems to emulate the form of its polylobed roundels. The locking mechanism of the Oviedo casket consists of a bar that passes through a pair of small metal rings on either side of the lock, somewhat similar to the locking mechanism of the Gerona casket. I would like to suggest that we cannot eliminate the possibility that these mounts are of Islamic manufacture, perhaps added in al-Andalus before moving up north to Oviedo and León. This complicates the interpretation of such Islamic caskets as triumphalist booty, given that they were not physically modified for their new liturgical or reliquary use.

Islamic objects proliferated in church treasuries in medieval Iberia not merely because of the rhetoric of Reconquest and the desire to dominate the Muslim south by possessing its

326 Shalem, Islam Chrisitanized, 132-33.

327 Rosser-Owen, “Metal Mounts on Andalusi Ivories,” 307-10.

328 Al-Andalus, cat. no. 9, 208-09.

129 treasures, but also because these Islamic objects were readily adaptable to new liturgical uses. Indeed, sometimes they needed no physical adaptation at all. The form of the truncated pyramid roof caskets in Oviedo and Madrid was identical to that of several reliquaries in the treasuries of both Oviedo and San Isidoro, in and before the eleventh century.329 The use of a casket of Islamic manufacture as a reliquary for the newly rediscovered relics of St. Eulalia seems to have posed no problem for Pelayo, and the form of this casket was seen as appropriate for the new liturgical context offered by the imported liturgy from Narbonne. I wish to turn now to look more closely as this reformed liturgical context in the diocese of Oviedo, and in Iberia in general.

Ritual Frames: From Liturgical Reform to the Feast of the Relics

Pelayo’s reference to seeking out new liturgical texts in Narbonne must be placed in the context of the liturgical reform undertaken on the Iberian peninsula in the eleventh century by Alfonso VI in the realms of Castilla and León, and Sancho III el Mayor in Navarra.330 Examination of the textual references to liturgical reform within the writings of Pelayo, as well as in the 1075 document discussed above, add nuance to our picture of the liturgical landscape of eleventh- and twelfth-century Iberia.331 The centralizing authority of Toledo has overshadowed the varieties of reform and its multiple geographic centers during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. I begin by examining the career of an often-overlooked character described in the putative 1075 document recounting the opening of the Arca Santa: Bishop Poncius, or Ponce. Ponce attempted to open the Arca a generation before Arias and Alfonso VI, but was unable to open the reliquary because a blinding light emitted from it. This Ponce was, in fact, the bishop of Oviedo between approximately 1025 and 1030.332 In what follows, I examine the career of this

329 San Isidoro: Casket, made in León (?) in the eleventh century, now Museo Arqueológico Nacional 51.053, The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 120, 255-56; reliquary of St. Pelagius, made in León, 1099 or earlier, still in the treasury of San Isidoro, The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 109, 236-37. Oviedo: Agate Casket, made in Oviedo in the tenth century and still in the cathedral treasury.

330 Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano. See also the essays in Reilly, ed., Santiago, Saint-Denis and Saint Peter.

331 Rubio Sadia, “El cambio de rito,” 13-15.

332 Riu, “Ponce de Tabernoles;” Sánchez Candeira, “El obispado de Oviedo.”

130 churchman and what his presence in Oviedo might tell us about the meaning of liturgical reform within the writings of Pelayo.

Although his career in Oviedo remains poorly understood, the rest of Ponce’s career has been well studied. Ponce began his ecclesiastical life as a monk in one of the great Catalan monasteries, either Ripoll or Cuixà. By 1004, he was abbot of San Saturnino de Tabérnoles, and in 1018 he appears closely linked to the court of Sancho el Mayor (r. 1004-1035) in Pamplona. Over a generation before Alfonso VI’s efforts in the 1080s, Sancho el Mayor promoted liturgical reform in the territories within the kingdom of Navarra.333 As Charles Bishko and Derek Lomax have argued, Catalan churchmen played an important role in the Sancho el Mayor’s reforms.334 Ponce himself participated actively in this process, for he was responsible for the liturgical restructuring of the newly reconquered see of Palencia between 1032 and 1034, and he chose the first bishop of Palencia, Bernardo I (r. 1034-1043), a fellow Catalan. This has led to some speculation that Ponce himself left Oviedo in approximately 1030 because of conflict about liturgical reform, although no documentary evidence of this has come to light.335 With this background information about both Ponce himself and the importance of the Catalans and their liturgy in the process of reform during the eleventh century, Pelayo’s references to liturgical texts from Narbonne take on a particular significance.

As Rubio Sadia points out, during the eighth and ninth centuries, the Catalan territories were under the control of the bishopric of Narbonne, from whom the Catalans received the reformed Roman liturgy.336 Rubio Sadia traces signs of this Narbonne liturgy in the surviving breviaries of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries from the see of Palencia, concluding that Palencia “took on the Francoroman rite in its Catalan-Narbonne expression.”337 The connection between Oviedo and Palencia in the figure of Bishop Ponce places Pelayo’s actions in the wider context of liturgical reform in the late eleventh century, and within the specific context of the

333 Ayala Martínez, Sacerdocio y reino; Martínez Diez, Sancho III el Mayor; Sancho el Mayor y sus herederos.

334 Bishko, “Fernando I y los orígenes;” Lomax, “Catalans in the Leonese Empire.”

335 Sánchez Candeira, “El obispado de Oviedo,” 623.

336 Rubio Sadia, “La liturgia catalana-narbonense,” 265.

337 Rubio Sadia, “La liturgia catalana-narbonense,” 272.

131

Catalan-influenced liturgical reform we see during the early phase of what now appears like a gradual process of the transfer from the Hispanic to the Francoroman rite on the Iberian Peninsula.338

This Catalan influence stands in subtle but significant contrast to the growing influence of the newly restored diocese of Toledo after 1086. Rubio Sadia has distinguished between these two general ecclesiastical and liturgical spheres of influence in the wider context of Iberian church reform.339 Perhaps we have here another example of Pelayo’s resistance to Toledan ecclesiastical hegemony, shown clearly in the constant disputes over episcopal authority during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. It also renders problematic the reference in the putative 1075 document of Alfonso VI to the presence of Toledan clerics at the opening of the Arca Santa. If the events described had, in fact, taken place in 1075, that would have been prior to Alfonso’s conquest of the city in 1080, and to the restoration of the see in 1086. Moreover, Pelayo’s references to the change of rite in the Liber Cronicorum do not mention Toledo at all, emphasizing instead the roles of Alfonso VI and Gregory VII.340

The liturgical innovation displayed by Pelayo in the context of the cult of St. Eulalia suggests that he might have engaged in a similar process for the relics of the Arca Santa. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the liturgical use of the reliquary and the space of the Cámara Santa during the twelfth century is very limited. The late twelfth-century text discussed above mentions the presence of pilgrims around and beneath the Arca, but we do not know what—if any—more formal liturgical rituals took place there. We do, however, know more about the liturgical use of the Cámara Santa beginning in the fourteenth century. In the Libro de las Constituciones, the cartulary known as the Libro Becerro, and the liturgical manuscript Kalendas III, all made under the auspices of Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), we find instructions on “how to perform and solemnize the celebration of the Invention of the Relics and

338 Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano, 35-57.

339 Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano, chapter 8.

340 Sánchez Alonso, ed., Crónica del Obispo Don Pelayo, 80. The passage can be found in BN MS 1513, fol. 67v.

132 the Anniversary of King Alfonso.”341 The so-called Feast of the Relics is a two-day ceremony, starting on the thirteenth of March in commemoration of the 1075 opening of the Arca by Alfonso VI. There are two sets of vespers, a procession, mass, and the office of De plurimorum martirum. The second day saw the celebration of a funeral mass for the soul of King Alfonso.

The liturgy of the Feast of the Relics appears more fully developed in the 1556 breviary printed for Bishop Cristóbal de Rojas y Sandoval. The text of the breviary elaborates on tropes found in the writings of Pelayo. The Arca becomes, implicitly, a kind of new Ark of the Covenant, to be praised joyfully with the sound of musical instruments as the language of the liturgy echoes that of the psalms. The priest recites the story of the Arca’s wanderings, and describes Alfonso VI and Urraca’s opening of the Arca in 1075. The respondents then praise Oviedo as a blessed city, sacralized by the presence of these relics. The priest picks up the narrative of the opening once more, enumerating the relics found inside, which constitutes by far the longest portion of the written liturgy. This enumeration of the relics is virtually identical to that found in the Valenciennes manuscript, including the list of saints “extra archam.” The one exception is the absence of the relics of Alfonso II in the breviary text’s list of the relics “extra archam,” an omission which takes on meaning in the context of the other half of the liturgy of the relics: the anniversary for King Alfonso.

There appears to be some uncertainty about which king is being commemorated: Alfonso VI or Alfonso II. The 1556 breviary reads, “Blessed be those who built you; you, too, will rejoice with the relics of the saints.”342 This may be a reference to Alfonso II, but by far the most notable protagonist in the Feast of the Relics is Alfonso VI. In Gutierre of Toledo’s constitution establishing the feast, he states that an anniversary should be performed for Alfonso VI, whose generous donation of the lands of Langreo supplies the funds for the celebration. A marginal note in the liturgical manuscript Kalendas III also refers to saying a mass for the soul of the “Rey Don Alffonso el Bono que dio el castello de Lagneo a la iglesia.” Despite the fact that both of these

341 “cómmo se ha de fazer et sollempnizar la fiesta de la Invención de las Reliquias et de la aniversaria del rey don Alfonso.” ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol. 11v-12r; Libro Becerro, fol. 42r-45v; and Kalendas III, fol. 17v. The first is transcribed by Fernández Conde in Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.

342 “Benedicti erunt qui te edificaverunt: tu autem letaberis cum sanctorum reliquiis.” Biblioteca Central de la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 37r.

133 texts clearly refer to Alfonso VI, Javier Fernández Conde states that the anniversary commemorated is that of Alfonso II.343 None of the sources that I have consulted suggest that Alfonso II was the protagonist of the Feast of the Relics, so Fernández Conde’s conflation of the two Alfonsos is perplexing. This Alfonsine confusion merits closer study.

According to the Valenciennes manuscript, Alfonso II’s relics are to be found in the Cámara Santa. While they do refer to the Cross of Angels donated by the king in the early ninth century, neither Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa nor the liturgical text of the sixteenth-century breviary make any mention of the presence of the relics of Alfonso II in the Cámara Santa. What are we to make, then, of the presence of his remains as relics in the Cámara Santa in the account of the Valenciennes codex? As we have seen, the figure of Alfonso II was consciously cultivated as the patron and point of origin for the Cámara Santa, a sort of ideal king whose enthusiasm for artistic and architectural patronage was matched only by his Christian virtue. As such, the presence of his remains in the Cámara Santa is not surprising, but a problem arises when we recall that among his building projects was a royal pantheon in the church later known as Santa María del Rey Casto. As Alonso Álvarez has argued, by the time of Alfonso III (d. 910) at the very latest, this church was understood as a royal pantheon for the Asturian rulers of Oviedo.344 According to the version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III in Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum, Alfonso II’s body was buried in “ab eo fundata ecclesia,” Santa María.345 The physical presence of the king in the space of the Cámara Santa thus appears to be in doubt, but his presence as patron and donor of the Cross of Angels and of the Cámara Santa itself is undeniable.

Liturgy is, of course, subject to constant change, particularly in response to the built environment that forms the stage for liturgical performance. While the precise physical shape of the Feast of the Relics—the spaces in which its various stages were performed—remains unclear, a few clues have come down to us. The 1383 constitution establishing the Feast of the Relics requires that the vespers and mass be said in the Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, “which is in

343 Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 205, note 218.

344 Alonso Álvarez, “Los enterramientos de los reyes.”

345 Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, eds., Crónicas asturianas, ad Seb. version, ch. 22, 141.

134 front of the chapel of the relics.”346 Cuesta Fernández, archivist and canon of the cathedral during the first half of the twentieth century, states that “there was always an altar with its retable in the right-hand corner of this space,” before which the Feast of the Relics was celebrated (Figure 3.23).347 Just as the cult of the relics was amplified in the later Middle Ages, physical access to the relics became increasingly mediated. In the late fifteenth century, the south transept was completed and the Cámara Santa completely absorbed into the body of the cathedral.348 The celebrations took advantage of the expanded field, as it were, of the Cámara Santa—the series of antechambers built between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries that mediate access to the holy chamber.

Early Modern Medieval: Representing Relics in the Sixteenth Century

All of these means of celebrating the relics of the Arca Santa that I have discussed thus far—inscriptions, documents, chronicles, and liturgy—share a common impetus to represent the Arca Santa and its contents, rendering them visible in some form. I wish now to turn to another attempt to represent the Arca Santa, this time through the media of painting and sculpture. Four painted and sculpted wood panels formerly on view in the Cámara Santa and now in the cathedral museum contain unique imagery that engages with the history and sacred contents of the Cámara Santa, particularly moments of important royal patronage embodied in the Arca Santa and the Cross of the Angels (Figure 3.24). These panels reconfigure and reactivate the

346 ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol.12r. “Por ende, establescemos que perpetuamientre para siempre jamás en el día de la Inuención et Reuelación destas sanctas Reliquias, que son treze días del mes de março, sea siesta doble de seys capas con procesión de capas et díganse las viespras et otro día misa en la capiella de la Sancta María Magdalena, que es ante la capiella de las Reliquias et que se digan las oras et officio de la missa De plorimorum martirum, fasta quel obispo faga ordenar la estoria propria.” Edited by Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.

347 “En el rincón de la derecha de esta estancia, hubo siempre un altar con su retablo; primero fué San Antolín, más tarde de Santa María Magdalena, ultimamente de Nuestra Señora de Covadonga. Ante este altar se celebraba antiguamente la Fiesta de las Santas Reliquias con Misa cantada de Canónigos y Beneficiados, procesión con capas por la Iglesia, etcétera, etcétera. En los últimos años se redujó a sólo la Misa cantada y hasta eso desapareció con la voladura del año 1934.” Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la Catedral de Oviedo, 91-92.

348 Caso, La Catedral de Oviedo, 100-14. His discussion is purely architectural, and does not mention liturgy or function in any way.

135 medieval relics of the Cámara Santa in a contemporary sixteenth-century context, creating an ongoing dialogue between the past and the present, bringing together all of the textual sources we have discussed thus far.

Dated on stylistic grounds to the first half of the sixteenth century, what little attention these panels have received from art historians has focused on their potential attribution to the circle of Alonso Berruguete (1490-1561). Berruguete had been contracted by the chapter to work on the retable for the main altar of the cathedral in 1522, but conflict between the artist and the chapter put an untimely end to his time in Oviedo.349 The panels, which conserve their original polychromy, are certainly of high artistic quality, and stand out as among the few self- consciously “Renaissance” works in the cathedral museum. The attribution to the circle of Berruguete is suggestive, and I argue that a series of events in the mid to late sixteenth century provide a compelling context for the production of these panels. Rather than focus on these questions of dating and attribution, however, I wish first to concentrate on the rich iconography of these panels.

Four panels survive, with polychromed carving on one side and painting alone on the other. The recent catalogue entry on these panels suggests that they can be identified as part of what Ambrosio de Morales described in his 1572 Viaje Santo as “a wooden reliquary […] richly made, gilded and painted both outside and inside on its two doors.”350 These panels may have formed the reliquary’s decorated doors, displayed with the rest of the treasures of the Cámara Santa. In the absence of documentation about these panels, we cannot know precisely when they were made or what kind of object of which they formed a part, but their close relationship to the Arca Santa becomes clear as we consider their iconography. Moreover, the way in which these panels formed part of a pair of doors that were intended to open, revealing the contents inside, also connects to the ongoing anxiety about visuality and access to the relics of the Arca Santa— which was, in anything, intensified in this Counter-Reformation context.

349 Ramallo Asensio, “Propuesta de atribución.” See also the catalogue entry by Javier González Santos in Museo de la Iglesia, 252-58.

350 “Al lado derecho [of the central window] esta un Relicario de madera, dos varas y más en alto, y una en ancho. Es de talla muy rica y costosa, dorada, y estofada dentro y fuera en las dos puertas que tiene, aunque dentro está mucho más costoso.” Morales, Viaje santo, 75-76.

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The wooden reliquary consists of two registers of imagery. The left panel on the upper register depicts the arms of King Charles V on one side, and saints Eulogius and Vincent on the other (Figure 3.25). On the other panel is the coat of arms of Bishop Cristobal de Rojas y Sandoval, and saints Lucretia and Eulalia (Figure 3.26).351 As we have already seen, the reliquaries of all four of these saints are mentioned in several medieval and early modern texts as being located around the Arca Santa. In lower register, the left-hand panel has a painting of the angel Gabriel on one side, and a depiction of Alfonso II surrounded by clerics and courtiers on the other (Figure 3.27). The second panel contains the Virgin Mary on one side, while on the reverse, Alfonso VI kneels before the open Arca Santa in the company of numerous churchmen (Figure 3.28). These two panels must be read in conjunction. Alfonso II gazes across to the other panel, and the crowd in the background seems to occupy one continuous architectural space. Finally, the painting on the reverse of these two panels underscores their connection. On the panel with Alfonso II, we see the angel Gabriel, half of an Annunciation. On the other panel is the Virgin Mary, completing the scene.

Although I am arguing for the structural and conceptual connection between these panels, it is difficult to know the nature of the object of which they formed a part. We do, however, have visual evidence of the display of the panels in the Cámara Santa from the late nineteenth century. Undated late-nineteenth-century photographs show these panels, carved sides facing outwards, flanking the small window at the east end. On the left side, we see the panel with saints Eulogius and Vincent atop that of Alfonso II, while on the right, the panel with saints Eulalia and Lucretia is atop that of Alfonso VI (Figure 3.29).352

Let us turn now to the most iconographically rich of the panels. Surrounded by churchmen, Alfonso VI kneels before an open reliquary, filled with smaller boxes (see Figure 3.30). This is clearly none other than the miraculous opening of the Arca Santa by King Alfonso VI, one of the most important episodes in the history of the cathedral. To my knowledge, this is

351 Identified by Hevia Ballina, “Santa Eulalia emeritense,” 156.

352 In 1919, the reliquary cabinet in the Cámara Santa was taken apart during the archaeological investigation and restoration undertaken by José Cuesta Fernández and Arturo de Sandoval. See the discussion in their Trabajos realizados en la Cámara Santa, 22.

137 the earliest visual representation of the event, a fact which has not received any attention but which I think is fundamental to the interpretation of this image.

As we have seen, medieval sources are remarkably silent about this event. Bishop Pelayo does not mention the episode. In the face of Pelayo’s silence about the opening of the Arca in 1075, we rely on the epigraphic and documentary record for evidence of this event. The inscription on the lid of the Arca is problematic, being badly damaged and completely illegible in certain crucial sections, including where it mentions the date of the events described. This leaves us with the documentary record, which consists of the pair of thirteenth-century documents discussed earlier. Unlike Pelayo’s account, the documents are quite terse, and give no details about the Arca’s origins or the individuals involved in its migration north. Another important difference with the Pelagian account is the inclusion of the story of the previous Bishop Ponce’s attempt to open the Arca. This unfortunate reforming bishop was not successful in his attempt, for he and all those who accompanied him were blinded by a light that emitted from the reliquary when they tried to open it. This contrasts with the ceremony described in the rest of the document, in which Alfonso VI and his court succeed in opening the Arca and inventorying its contents.

Specific details in the iconography enrich our reading of this panel. The inscription along the bottom refers to “King Alfonso the Great,” and includes a now-illegible date—rather like the damaged portion of the inscription on the Arca Santa. Thanks to photographs from the early twentieth century, we can see details that are now missing after the panel was damaged in the bombing of the Cámara Santa in 1934 (Figure 3.31). With the help of these photographs, it is possible to reconstruct the inscription above the head of the leftmost figure on the panel, who is labeled “PONCIVS”—a clear allusion to the eleventh-century bishop who failed to open the Arca. Along the top of the panel, it is possible to make out the names of the three bishops who, according to the pair of thirteenth-century documents, accompanied Alfonso VI in the opening ceremony, namely, Arias of Oviedo, Bernard of Palencia, and Simeon of Oca. But other details appear out of place to our eyes, for they cannot be traced to the account as it is transmitted in our documents. Instead, we must look to later sources, particularly those from the sixteenth century.

First, the figures are in contemporary sixteenth-century dress. This is particularly notable in the case of the kneeling king, who wears the characteristic chain of the Order of the Golden Fleece around his neck. The arms of Charles V painted on the reverse of another panel in this

138 group make the imperial connection explicit. In 1517, Charles V arrived at Villaviciosa on the Asturian coast for the first time after being declared king of Castilla and Aragón. Though Luis de Carvallo tells us that the emperor had intended to travel to Oviedo to venerate the relics of the Cámara Santa, plague prevented him from visiting the city.353 Charles V here echoes the actions of his predecessor Alfonso VI, establishing a parallelism between the two monarchs. Even if the emperor never made it to Oviedo, he is present in the Cámara Santa thanks to the depiction on this panel.

A pair of events from the second half of the sixteenth century provides a suggestive context for this representation of the opening of the Arca Santa. In book 13 of his Crónica General, Ambrosio de Morales gives a detailed account—apparently taken first-hand from the bishop himself—of a failed attempt by Bishop Cristobal de Rojas y Sandoval to open the Arca. Rojas y Sandoval was bishop of Oviedo from 1546 until 1556, so the attempt must have taken place some time during that decade. Morales recounts how the bishop ordered prayers and processions to take place for three days before the Sunday that he planned to open the Arca. When that day arrived, the bishop said mass in the cathedral and then climbed up the stairs to the Cámara Santa, where he knelt in prayer before the relics. When he tried to insert the key to open the Arca, however, he was seized by fear and unable to open the lock. As Morales says, “the Arca remained unopened on that day, and I believe it will remain unopened forever, sealed more tightly thanks to veneration and reverence, and to the effect of these examples, than by the thickness of the bolt of its lock.”354

Despite the seeming finality of this pronouncement, in 1588 another bishop of Oviedo attempted to open the Arca Santa—this time successfully. The most detailed account of this event comes from a brief text written by Juan Pérez de Peredes, a canon of Oviedo, which survives in a copy printed sometime around 1621. Pérez de Peredes tells us how, on 25 January

353 “No se fue por Oviedo, aunque lo deseava mucho, por visitar las Santas Reliquias, por aver mucha peste.” Carvallo, Antiguëdades y cosas memorables, part 3, título 49, chapter 1, 459.

354 “Assi se quedo por abrir ento[n]ces al arca santa y assi creo se quedara sie[m]pre, mucho mas cerrada con la veneracion y reuere[n]cia y con el respecto destos exemplos, que con es gruesso pestillo de su cerradura.” Morales, Crónica General, book 13, ch. 38, fol. 66v. The reference to a lock is perplexing, for the Arca has no visible locking mechanism.

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1588, Bishop Diego Aponte de Quiñones, together with other members of the cathedral chapter including the historian Tirso de Avilés and the notary Cristobal Gutierrez de Santillana, paid a visit to the relics of the Cámara Santa. The bishop had for several days in a row performed mass in the Cámara Santa, and after this liturgical preparation, the assembled company proceeded to inventory the relics therein. When they get to the Arca Santa, he lists with great precision the contents, specifying the physical appearance of the relics, whether they were found within smaller containers or loose inside the Arca, and whether they were accompanied by identifying labels or not.355

This act of inventorying the Arca Santa helps us to understand one of the most striking details of the panel: the presence of myriad smaller caskets within the larger Arca. Numerous sources mention that multiple caskets were found inside the Arca. For example, Luis de Carvallo tells us that, when the Arca was opened in the presence of Alfonso VI, “they found many caskets, little arks, and other reliquaries, all filled with innumerable relics, with rotuli describing the contents of each one.”356 The representation on the panel thus speaks to this textual conflation of the episode of Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca with later inventories of its contents. In addition, the trope of the large reliquary containing one or more smaller reliquaries

355 “En la camara santa de la Yglesia Catedral de la ciudad de Oviedo, a veinte y cinco dias del mes de Enero, de mil y quinientos y ochenta y ocho años, Don Diego Aponte de Quiñones Obispo de Oviedo, Conde de Noreña, del Consejo de su Majestad, aviendo antes tratado en el Cabildo de la dicha santa Yglesia, como queria visitar las santas Reliquias que en la dicha camara santa, e Yglesia estavan, y aviendo el dicho Cabildo nombrado al Doctor don Juan de Illanes Maestre Escuela, y a don Gonçalo de Solis Arcediano de Benavente, y a los Canonigos, Diego Menendez de Acellana, Juan de la [illegible] y Tirso se Aviles, Canonigos y prebenda[?] de la dicha santa Yglesia, para que asistiesen / a la dicha visita, y hallandose presentes, y otros del gremio de la dicha santa Yglesia, y aviendo dicho Missa su señoria en la dicha camara santa, el dicho dia, y otros dias antes, començo la dicha visita, ante los susodichos, y con su asistencia, ante mi Christoval Gutierrez de Santillana, Canonigo en la dicha santa Yglesia, Secretario de su Señoria, y Notario publico Apostolico: la qual dicha visita començo en la forma siguiente” Juan Pérez de Peredes, Relación sumaria de... las santas reliquias, que estan en la Sta. Iglesia Catedral de Oviedo.1621? BN MS 2/12929, no foliation.

356 “se manifestó el celestial tesoro abriendose el Arca, donde hallaron muchas Caxas, Arquecitas, y otros Relicarios, y todo lleno de innumerables Reliquias, con rotulos de lo que era cada una.” Carvallo, Antiguëdades y cosas memorables, 308.

140 is familiar from Pelayo’s own account of the reliquary of St. Eulalia, which, it will be recalled, contained a smaller ivory casket within it.

The iconography of this panel points to several different historical moments, attempts— both successful and unsuccessful—to open the Arca Santa. A clear parallelism emerges when considering the events of the sixteenth century and those of the eleventh, a parallelism which is underscored by the representation on this panel. The presence of the unfortunate Ponce, clearly labeled, calls to mind the failed attempt in the sixteenth-century to open the Arca described by Morales, while Bishop Aponte de Quiñones’s successful inventory of the Arca’s contents mimics that of Alfonso VI. Sixteenth-century attempts to open the Arca Santa provide a suggestive context for the production of these panels. The imagery speaks to contemporary events, and suggests that we should not date the panels any earlier than Rojas y Sandoval’s initial failed attempt to open the Arca in the mid-sixteenth century, a dating still consistent with previous attributions to the circle or workshop of Alonso Berruguete, if not the master himself.

The 1556 breviary’s description and inventory of numerous arks re-enact liturgically the opening of the Arca Santa, its verbal display of the Arca’s contents acting as a sort of annual re- activation of the power of the relics and the history of the Cámara Santa and its royal patrons. The chronology of these panels is of crucial importance for understanding the history of the cult of the relics and their status as objects of pilgrimage, underscoring the significance of the early modern reception and reconfiguration of medieval history. The depiction seamlessly weaves together various traditions surrounding the reliquary, in the process creating a modern vision of the Arca Santa that is framed in medieval terms.

* * *

In this chapter, I have laid out a constellation of objects, texts, and ceremonies that surround and mediate the Arca Santa and its sacred contents. The variety of mediating frames between the Arca and its audience of pilgrims and clerics points to the fundamental incompleteness and instability of the reliquary, and of the larger collection of which it was a part in the treasury of the Cámara Santa. Rather than attempting to locate the Arca Santa’s manufacture and meaning in a single time and place, it is this instability which I have found most productive for my analysis.

On the one hand, I have offered a straightforward chronological argument, following Moralejo in dating the production of the reliquary’s silver revetment to the late eleventh-century

141 episcopacy of Arias (r. 1073-1092/1094). The depiction of the Maiestas Domini in the opening folia of the Liber Testamentorum does not, therefore, precede the Arca, but rather follows it, forming part of Pelayo’s larger project to enhance the antiquity and importance of this reliquary. We have also seen how access to the relics inside the Arca gradually increased from the time of the reliquary’s making, from the more verbal and textual means of didactic inscriptions, documents inventorying its contents, and liturgical commemoration, to more visual means employed in the Counter- Reformation context of the sixteenth century. On the painted and sculpted panels from the wooden reliquary cabinet formerly in the Cámara Santa, we see the innards of the Arca revealed quite literally in the form of myriad smaller caskets.

On the other hand, we have seen how in its decoration the Arca itself strives for an antiquity that transcends its more prosaic manufacture in the late eleventh century. Pelayo himself did his utmost to enhance the venerable antiquity of the reliquary through his myriad writings on its miraculous origins and fantastic journey to Asturias. This highly self-conscious striving for antiquity has contributed to a temporal instability that has dominated the art historical fortunes of the Arca, as scholars since Manuel Gómez Moreno in the early twentieth century have debated the date of the Arca Santa. As I suggest, proposing a date for the production of the reliquary’s silver revetment is far from being the last word in the study of the Arca Santa. Instead, viewing it in the context of the numerous relics and reliquaries “extra archam” helps us to come to an appreciation of the activation of the Arca as a liturgical and devotional object.

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Chapter 4 Touching the Past: The Sculpture of the Cámara Santa between Modern Restoration and Medieval Ritual

During the second half of the twelfth century, the Cámara Santa underwent a series of dramatic changes that reoriented the relationship of the space and its decoration to the relics contained within it, particularly the Arca Santa. In essence, the imagery and significance of the Arca Santa took on monumental form, expanding to fill the enlarged space of the Cámara Santa. Like Abbot Suger at Saint-Denis, the bishops of Oviedo were concerned to harmonize the old and the new, for they respected the basic form of the building, especially the east end in which the relics were kept.357 This space remained unchanged, including the marble columns that flank the entrance to the eastern end. In the rest of the Cámara Santa, a stone barrel vault was built and the height and strength of the lateral walls was increased. Six pairs of column statues of the apostles were installed along the lateral walls, and, finally, a Crucifixion scene, whose figures had sculpted heads and painted bodies, was put in place on the western wall over the entrance to the Cámara Santa. This late twelfth-century sculptural and architectural ensemble forms the focus of this chapter (Figure 4.1).

The presence of the apostles on the walls of the Cámara Santa reminds viewers of the apostolic origins of the Arca Santa itself, which Bishop Pelayo’s accounts of the Arca so insist upon. These column figures, known as the apostolado, are organized into six pairs of statues, three pairs directly across from one other on each wall. The viewer encounters the first two pairs immediately upon entering the Cámara Santa. On the north wall are Simon and Judas Thaddeus (Figure 4.2), and across from them are Thomas and Bartholomew (Figure 4.3). Moving through the space, the next group of apostles is located in the middle, between the entryway and the apse area. These are among the most easily identifiable figures: Peter and Paul. Peter holds his characteristic keys, and Paul appears balding and bearded (Figure 4.4). Across from this pair, in the center of the room, are John and James. James is depicted as a pilgrim, carrying a cross- headed staff and a satchel adorned with a shell (Figure 4.5). His sculptural presence as a pilgrim evokes the physical presence of numerous pilgrims who came to the Cámara Santa to revere its

357 Panofsky, ed. and trans., Abbot Suger; Speer and Binding, ed., Ausgewählte Schriften; Clark, “Suger’s Church at Saint-Denis.”

143 relics. Like the pilgrims, he acts as a witness to the relics, affirming their miraculous origins and enduring spiritual power. Looking towards the apse, it becomes harder to identify the individual apostles. On the north wall is a pair that has been identified as Andrew and Matthew (Figure 4.6), and across from them, James the Lesser and Philip (Figure 4.7).358 These last four figures are not identified by any attribute or inscription. Certainty about the identities of each of the figures is not necessary for the ensemble as a whole to be meaningful, and Oviedo is far from the only site at which the precise identities of all of the apostles are unknown.359

The sculptural decoration of the Cámara Santa plays out on multiple levels, from the capitals of the double-columns and the impost blocks above them, to the bases that support them. Several of the apostles stand on monstrous beasts or strange figures, and the decoration is also carried out on the level of micro architecture—the miniature capitals on the pedestals which support the sculpted double columns are adorned with elaborate foliage or hybrid creatures. Three of the apostolado’s capitals display narrative imagery, while the other three contain foliage, inhabited on two capitals by animals and armed fighters (see diagram, Figure 4.8).360 Above Andrew and Matthew on the north wall, the capital depicts Christ in Majesty, surrounded by eight of the apostles (Figure 4. 9). The most iconographically complex of the capitals are located in the center of the space, above the figures of James and John on the north wall, and Peter and Paul on the south wall. The capital above Peter and Paul contains a depiction of the

358 See the entry by Álvarez Martínez in García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 607-22. See also the essay/guidebook by Azcárate y Ristori, Las esculturas de la Cámara Santa. Fernández Buelta argues that this figure should be identified as Andrew.

359 Similar problems are posed by the apostles of the Pórtico de la Gloria and the Sainte-Chapelle. For Santiago, see Otero Túnez, “Los apóstoles de la arcada derecha.” The classic studies on the figures of the Sainte-Chapelle are those of Salet, “Le statues d’apôtres” and his “Nouvelle note sur les statues.” See also Weber, “Les grandes et les petites statues.”

360 The breakdown of capitals is as follows. On the north wall, starting at the western entrance and moving east: Simon and Judas Thaddeus, uninhabited decorative foliage; James the Greater and John, Holy Family, Annunciation, Isaiah and the Virgin, and the Harrowing of Hell; Andrew and Matthew, Christ in Majesty surrounded by eight apostles. On the south wall, starting at the western entrance and moving east: Thomas and Bartholomew, foliage inhabited by armed fighting figures; Peter and Paul, the three Marys at the tomb of Christ; James the Lesser and Philip, foliage inhabited with animals and an armed figure.

144 three Marys at the empty Tomb of Christ (Figure 4.10). Above James and John are a series of images. On the west face, we see the Holy Family (Figure 4.11), while the front of the capital contains the Annunciation and the Virgin accompanied by the prophet Isaiah (Figure 4.12). Finally, on the east face of the capital is a scene of the Harrowing of Hell (Figure 4.13). While the impost above the capital with the three Marys has elaborate foliate decoration, the complex, narrative capital above James and John is surmounted by an impost block containing what appears to be a depiction of a wild boar hunt.

The expansion and elaboration of the Cámara Santa constitutes an important architectural and sculptural response to the growing cult of the relics of the Arca Santa. The cathedral chapter—both the corporate entity and the architectural spaces built for its members—offers a formal and functional context in which to place these twelfth-century reforms. I highlight the role of the canons in this process, for they were the curators of the space and its relics. Ambrosio de Morales speaks of the canons’ role when he visited Oviedo in the sixteenth century: “The eldest canon tells the pilgrims about all of the relics by means of a written text that is there for this purpose, which the canon learns by heart, and it is all very well organized.”361 As I argue, the presence of the canons in the Cámara Santa shapes the decoration itself, which resonates with the ritual use of the space by both canons and pilgrims.

This focus on the function of the sculpture, and its relationship to its audience and patrons, offers an alternative to previous scholarship on the site that has focused almost exclusively on style. The analysis of stylistic comparanda is, of course, crucial to attempts to date the sculpture and place it in a wider art-historical context. Nevertheless, no one has yet been able to point to any direct stylistic comparanda for the sculpture in the Cámara Santa, and attempts to establish connections to known workshops have been largely unsuccessful.362 Thus, the apostles of Oviedo languish in the gray area of the late Romanesque.

361 Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “El Canonigo mas antiguo va relatando a los Peregrinos todas las Reliquias, por escrito que hay para esto, el qual el aprende de coro, y es harto bien ordenado.”

362 Most recently, see Ruiz de la Peña González, “La reforma románica;” Cosmen Alonso, María Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica;” and Martínez Álvarez, El Románico en Asturias and her entry on the Cámara Santa in the García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 607-22. Earlier twentieth-century scholarship on the Cámara Santa was less

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It is my contention that the questions posed by the style of the apostles of Oviedo cannot satisfactorily be answered given the site’s complex history of reconstruction. In the first part of this chapter, I consider the restoration of the sculpture by the Asturian artist Víctor Hevia Granda that took place first around 1919/1920, and again after the explosion of 1934. I revisit the historiographic fortunes of the apostolado in light of the problems of restoration, tracing the historiography of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa down to the present day, when questions of the apostolado’s chronology depend less on stylistic comparanda and more on patronage. I argue that the role played by the cathedral canons as patrons has been overlooked thanks to inherited assumptions about the importance of royal patronage—the desire to attribute the sculpture to the agency of individual monarchs. The second half of the chapter returns to the late twelfth century, placing the sculpture of the Cámara Santa in the context of the construction of the cloister and the buildings associated with capitular life over the course of the twelfth century. I look for comparanda not on the basis of style, but rather on the basis of the unusual disposition of the sculpture in the interior of the space, which I connect to the sculptural decoration of a handful of late-twelfth-century apses. I conclude by returning to the iconography of the sculpture and its meaning in the liturgical and devotional context of the Cámara Santa and the cult of the relics.

The Making of a Monument: From Nineteenth-Century Representation to Twentieth- Century Reconstruction

The mis-en-valeur of the sculpture has gone hand in hand with its isolation from the wider context of the Cámara Santa and the cathedral. One of the most striking aspects of the history of the apostolado is the relatively little interest shown in the sculptures until the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Until this time, attention was focused almost exclusively on the Cámara Santa’s relics, including the building itself, understood as an architectural relic of the time of King Alfonso II. Later medieval sources that describe the Cámara Santa do not even mention the sculptures, and early modern historians who provide detailed descriptions of the space and its contents are content merely to mention the presence of

concerned with precise workshops and more interested in general stylistic filiation. See Pita Andrade, Los Maestros de Oviedo, 14-16 and Porter, Spanish Romanesque Sculpture, 33-35 and his Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, vol 1, 261-63.

146 the apostolado. Ambrosio de Morales states that “the pillars which sustain the vault are rich marble in which have been sculpted twelve apostles, two by two, on each column, six on each side.”363 While he does acknowledge the existence of the sculpture, his brief reference pales in significance when compared to the pages and pages that he dedicates to the relics of the Cámara Santa.

This relative neglect begins to shift in the second half of the nineteenth century, which, not coincidentally, coincides with the period following the desamortizaciones, or ecclesiastical confiscations, and subsequent creation of provincial Commissions of Monuments.364 As we see elsewhere across Europe, periods of destruction tend to correspond closely with the emergence of preservation movements, and an interest on the part of scholars and the general public in the decaying monuments of the past.365 This is certainly true in Spain, where the second half of the nineteenth century saw numerous attempts to catalog and preserve national patrimony. In Asturias, the Provincial Commission of Historical and Artistic Monuments (Comisión Provincial de Monumentos Histórico-Artísitico) was established in 1844, charged with the creation and maintenance of a museum of art and antiquities. The second half of the nineteenth century saw the ongoing and often frustrated efforts of this nascent organization to establish a permanent seat and to care for its monuments.366

Two major nineteenth-century publications are especially significant for the development of the image of the Cámara Santa. In 1877, José Amador de los Ríos—involved in the activities of the newly-founded Asturian Commission of Monuments—completed a volume on Asturias as part of the short-lived series, Monumentos arquitectónicos de España.367 Produced on a

363 “los pilares sobre que se sustenta la boveda, son ricos mármoles en que estan entallados los doce Apostoles de dos en dos, en cada columna, seis a cada lado.” Morales, Viaje Santo, 70.

364 For a general overview, see Martí Gilabert, La desamortización española. On Asturias, see Moro, La desamortización en Asturias.

365 The literature on this subject is vast. For a concise analysis, focussed on the French context, see Choay, L’allégorie du patrimoine.

366 Adán Álvarez, “La comisión de monumentos.”

367 Sánchez de León Fernández, “El arte medieval y la Real Academia de Bellas Artes,” 845 ff.

147 monumental scale and lavishly illustrated with detailed engravings, Amador de los Ríos framed his work as scientific and archaeological. The plan and elevation of the Cámara Santa that accompany his text are rendered with the precision of scientific drawings. The artists have given the space a monumentality and grand scale, untroubled by human presence (Figure 4.14).368 The Cámara Santa is here presented purely as an object of study, abstracted from the architectural and liturgical context of the cathedral. The building has been dissected, its contents laid out, analyzed, and labeled.

In a more Romantic vein, the artist Francisco Javier Parcerisa, together with a series of authors, produced eleven volumes entitled Recuerdos y bellezas de España. The volume for Asturias and León appeared in 1885. Its author, José María Quadrado, dedicates several lines to a description of the apostolado, and the Cámara Santa is given its own engraving, with minimal human presence. The space is given a scale and monumentality belied by its relatively small size, and the sculptures here take on a certain importance in this monumental vision of the Cámara Santa (Figure 4.15). This depiction of the Cámara Santa contrasts with period photographs of the space before its restoration around 1920 (Figure 4.16).369 The Commission of Monuments did manage to take photographs inside the Cámara Santa around 1898/1899, and we see the whitewashed walls, painted dado level and paintings cluttering the wall that would later be removed—none of which appear in Parcerisa’s lithograph of 1885.

This late nineteenth-century photograph is a valuable witness to the actual condition of the Cámara Santa before the more dramatic interventions of the twentieth century. The vast majority of photographs, however, come from the period between the first restoration campaign in 1920 and the destruction of 1934. The 1920s were the time of the great “Spain or Toulouse” debate between the American scholar Arthur Kingsley Porter and the French scholar Émile

368 While the detail of the cross-section of the Cámara Santa lists Ricardo Arredondo as the artist and D. Martínez as the engraver, documents from the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando indicate that the artist was the Italian Ricardo Frassinelli. A rather fabulous letter from Frassinelli to the Commission requests that its members write on his behalf to the cathedral chapter of Oviedo, requesting that he be given more than the two hours allotted to him by the chapter in the Cámara Santa, so that he could finish his drawings. See Sánchez de León Fernández, “El arte medieval y la Real Academia de Bellas Artes,” 1670, referring to document 3/192 in the Archivo San Fernando.

369 See the photographs in the Archivo Provincial de Asturias, caja 83735/3. A note on the reverse of these photographs suggests that these photographs might have been taken in 1898.

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Mâle.370 Porter was a vocal proponent of the priority of Spanish sculpture, articulated in his seminal work, Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads (1923). Porter was particularly enthusiastic about the apostolado of Oviedo, writing that “[n]othing in Toulouse, nothing in Languedoc, nothing in Spain (unless it be Santo Domingo de Silos), I almost wrote nothing in Europe, surpasses the apostles of Oviedo.”371

The photographs of the apostolado that Porter published were taken by photographers working for the Archivo Mas in Barcelona, sometime between the first restoration campaign in 1919/1920 and the destruction of 1934 (Figure 4.17).372 These photographs show the apostolado as isolated sculptural pairs, distinct from the nineteenth-century engravings which clearly placed them in the architectural context of the Cámara Santa. One reason for this may be the considerable difficulty in photographing the entirety of the space. Photographs cannot convey both details of the apostles themselves, and the relationship of the sculpture to its architectural setting. The role that such photographs play in the formation of academic opinions about this sculpture has not been taken into account, despite the importance of the photographic medium in the creation of art-historical narratives in the early twentieth century. Indeed, these photographs were used in numerous post-war publications on the medieval sculpture of the Cámara Santa. Although the photographs did not change, the same certainly cannot be said of the sculpture itself, which suffered considerable damage during the explosion of the Cámara Santa in 1934.

Scholars’ silence and seeming lack of interest in the extent to which the physical fabric of the sculptures themselves has changed since these early twentieth-century photographs were taken is remarkable. The stylistic analysis that has dominated the study of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa is rendered particularly problematic in the context of the numerous restorations of

370 Mann, “Romantic Identity,” as well as the chapter dedicated to this topic in her recent monograph, Romanesque Architecture and its Sculptural Decoration. See also the work of Brush, especially “Arthur Kingsley Porter, le Fogg Art Museum.”

371 Porter, Romanesque Sculpture, 262.

372 It is likely that the Porters took their own photographs of the Cámara Santa, but they chose to publish the Archivo Mas images. Research in the Arthur Kingsley Porter archive at Harvard University is necessary to determine if the Porters did photograph the Cámara Santa, a research project that I would like to undertake at some point in the future.

149 the early twentieth century.373 Following the dramatic destruction of the Cámara Santa in 1934, the artist Víctor Hevia Granda was brought in to restore the sculpture of the twelve apostles. In addition to his work as a restorer, Hevia also collaborated with the scholar José Fernández Buelta in what is still the most extensive archaeological investigation of the Cámara Santa, as discussed in chapter one. Despite considerable scholarly attention to their conclusions about the chronology and construction of the Cámara Santa, little has been said about the restorations made to the sculpture itself. I wish to look more closely at Hevia’s artistic interventions, and consider the implications of his restoration on the subsequent historiography of the site.

This was not the first time that Hevia had worked in the Cámara Santa. He was brought in to restore the damaged apostolado precisely because of his participation in a previous restoration campaign, which took place between 1919 and 1920 under the canons José Cuesta Fernández and Arturo Sandoval. Víctor Hevia thus serves as a sort of hinge figure, connecting pre- and post-war restoration. He provides us with a useful locus to explore the larger story of the Cámara Santa’s restoration during the modern era, and specifically the pre-history of the ideologically charged reconstruction of the site in the 1940s.

While overshadowed by the more dramatic post-war restorations, the work undertaken of Cuesta and Sandoval (along with Víctor Hevia) before the Civil War deserves closer examination. Three pamphlets in the guise of archaeological “memorias” were presented to the cathedral chapter between 1919 and 1920. The canons characterize their work as “archaeological research” combined with restoration, with the goal of writing a more definitive history of the Cámara Santa. They signal from the start their primary interest: the traces of mural paintings on the vault and walls. Despite references to photographs taken during their work, no photographs or drawings are known to survive of the remains of mural paintings that Cuesta and Sandoval cleaned and restored. We must thus rely on their written descriptions of what they saw and did in the Cámara Santa.

Cuesta and Sandoval begin by invoking Ambrosio de Morales’ rather terse description of the paintings in the Cámara Santa, which he characterizes as being of the time of Alfonso II. Morales states that, in the center of the vault, there is a painted image of Christ surrounded by the

373 My thinking on this subject has been shaped by the work of Cohen, “Restoration as Re-Creation.”

150 four Evangelists.374 Our canons describe seeing traces of painted drapery, as well as one full arch and the beginnings of another, on the vault. They connect this to the depiction of Christ in Majesty, flanked by the twelve apostles under arches, on the front of the Arca Santa and the miniature of Alfonso II in the Liber Testamentorum.375 On the north and south walls, they found traces of black lines that they suggest constitute the outlines of painted drapery, and they highlight the presence of copious quantities of pilgrims’ graffiti and traces of wax on the dado level. On the western wall, the paintings appeared to be better conserved, for Cuesta and Sandoval describe seeing two angels holding pieces of cloth, one with the sun and the other with the moon, above the scene of the Crucifixion. The figures of Christ, John, and Mary in the Crucifixion group were discernable, as well as the figure of a mitered bishop next to the Virgin.376 Although they express uncertainty about the chronology of these wall paintings, Cuesta and Sandoval suggest that they are twelfth century in origin.

Cuesta and Sandoval focused on restoring these paintings, cleaning off layers of whitewash and repainting where possible.377 They also removed layers of whitewash, varnish, dust, and polychromy from the sculpture, revealing the apostles to be the medieval masterpieces that so delighted Arthur Kingsley Porter. Although they never mention Víctor Hevia by name, we know that he was responsible for the majority of restoration work. It is difficult to assess what, if any, restoration took place beyond the cleaning of the sculpture, as we have no detailed record of the appearance of the sculpture before this time.

We are on somewhat firmer ground in analyzing the restorations made by Hevia in the wake of the explosion of 1934. Restoration of the apostolado began in 1940, and Hevia was put

374 “La boveda desta capilla es lisa, y tiene pintado en medio a nuestro Redemptor, en medio de los quatro Evangelistas, y la obra es tan antigua, que assegura bien ser del tiempo de su fundador.” Morales, Crónica General, fol. 63v.

375 Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 6-7.

376 Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 15.

377 Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 10. “Es de advertir que las pinturas y todo lo demás que se ha descubierto ha sido escrupulosamente respetado, no habriendose hecho otra cosa sino rellenar, con el conveniente color, las muchas picaduras que, por efecto de los posteriores trabajos de blanqueo, habian sido practicadas.” Later, on p. 23, they say that they repainted “lo que se creyera más acertado” on the Cruifixion scene on the western wall.

151 in charge of the entire process. His collaborator Fernández Buelta compares his “recreation” of the apostolado to the reconstruction of the Cámara Santa itself following its destruction in 1934, observing that it is difficult to separate the two endeavors.378 Six of the apostles were removed completely from the wall, and lay on the floor of the sculptor’s workshop (Figure 4.18). The other six statues, still in place on the wall, were restored in situ. The three sculpted heads of the Calvary scene were removed from the wall and restored in the studio. Hevia spent ten months studying the sculptures, trying out various ways to replace missing pieces and restore the whole ensemble.

Hevia’s restoration work is described by his collaborator, who tells us how the hands of the sculptor brought back to life the bodies of the apostles.379 He describes a conversation with one of the masons working on the reconstruction of the building that is indicative of the philosophy that informed both the architectural and sculptural restoration of the Cámara Santa.

One time, I asked an old workman: “Why do you call on Don Víctor to ‘ruin’ the stone? Don’t you know how to do that?” And the octogenarian man from Navarra, whose father had been a mason and who left the maternal cloister with these skills already learned, answered me: “I know how to cut stone. I don’t know how to make the stones that I cut look as old as the old stones. I do what I am ordered, and I do so without varying one centimeter. But Don Víctor has to do this other task.”380

378 Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 127.

379 Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 128.

380 “Una vez le pregunté al viejo obrero:

--¿Por qué llama usted a don Víctor para que ‘estropée’ la piedra? ¿No sabe usted estropearla?

Y el octogenario Navarro, que había nacido de padre cantero y había salido del claustro materno con el oficio aprendido, me contestaba:

--Yo sé labrar; lo que no sé es hacer que las piedras que yo labro queden tan viejas como las viejas. A mi me mandan hacer y yo lo hago sin variar un centímetro. Pero eso otro tiene que hacerlo don Víctor.” Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 129.

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From this description, it is clear that the criteria for the restoration of the sculpture were similar to that of the architecture; what is new must appear to be old. It must, as Fernández Buelta might say, share the same spirit.

We see this quasi-mystical conception of the sculpture repeatedly in contemporary descriptions of the apostolado. Hevia’s role as restorer was celebrated during the re-consecration ceremony of 1942, as expressed in rather florid terms by a poem printed in the newspaper La Nueva España together with photographs of the restored apostles. Our anonymous poet declares, “Beauty did not die, for it still breathes/ and, among the broken stones, it lives again/ revived by the most wise hands of Víctor […].” The broken bodies of the apostles are brought back to life by the hands of the restorer. The photographs of the apostles, restored and whole, that accompany the poem underscore the contrast with photographs of the mutilated sculpture, fragmented and missing both their capitals and bases. As we saw in the case of the architectural reconstruction of the Cámara Santa, attention was focused on the restored and whole monument, and images of the mutilated statues were employed in order to evoke horror at the destruction wrought by war and, specifically, by Republican forces. The newspaper chose to illustrate this poem, and their stories about the 1942 reconsecration ceremony as a whole, with images of the restored denizens of the Cámara Santa rather than the damaged and dismembered apostolado (Figure 4.19). The sculpture was thus conscripted to the cause of post-war propaganda, its restoration naturalized, like that of the building itself, as a perfect recreation of what had been lost.

Stepping away from these ideologically fraught interpretations of the sculpture, let us consider the changes made by Hevia during the course of these restorations. In some cases, such as the figures of Simon and Judas in the northwestern corner, the replacements for missing fragments are clearly visible (Figure 4.20). The staff carried by James, for example, has been replaced (Figure 4.21). Fernández Buelta’s references to Hevia’s close study of the drapery and subtle modeling of the figures, however, leads one to wonder what sorts of changes might not be so readily visible, particularly those made during the initial restoration campaign.

Over a decade after Hevia’s restorations, José Manuel Pita Andrade published his seminal Los maestros de Oviedo y Ávila (1955). Pita illustrated his slender monograph with the same Archivo Mas photographs used by Porter before the war, and, indeed, his general conclusions echo pre-war scholarship. Pita connects the sculpture on the west façade at San

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Vicente and the Pórtico de la Gloria of the Cathedral Santiago de Compostela with the apostles of Oviedo, a connection that Porter himself had made in previous publications.381 Both Santiago and Ávila, and the connection between them, continue to be the subject of intense study, but the apostles of Oviedo have rather fallen out of contemporary scholarly narratives of late Romanesque sculpture in northern Spain.382 Oviedo now fits neither in grand sweeping master narratives about the formation of late Romanesque art, nor does it have a place in more recent studies of workshop production. Some of the reason for this must lie in the extensive restoration of the Cámara Santa and its sculpture both before and after the Civil War, which renders minute analysis of style problematic.383

Part of the problem must also lie in the way in which the history of late Romanesque art has been constructed over the course of the twentieth century: a linear sequence of sites— established by means of close formal analysis—that follows the path of itinerant masters, each with an identifiable style. In an astute critique of this methodological mindset, Moralejo cautions his fellow art historians that “[c]onceiving of these relationships in terms of anteriority or posteriority, and thereby concluding that one must be dependent on the other, is to create—we

381 See, for example, Porter, Spanish Romanesque Sculpture, 33-35 and his Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, vol 1, 261-63.

382 Manuel Gómez Moreno argued over the course of his long and illustrious career that the famous Master Mateo, responsible for the Pórtico de la Gloria, or west façade of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, had been formed in Ávila, thereby establishing a clear line of descent from the sculpture of San Vicente to that of Santiago de Compostela. See his “Prólogo” to García Guinea’s 1961 El arte románico en Palencia, as well as his “Problemas del segundo período,” in the 1961 catalogue, El arte románico. Tormo, “Ávila. Castilla excursionista” and Camps, El arte románico en España shared Gómez Moreno’s theory. However, Porter, Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, vol. 1, 33-34, and Mayer, El estilo románico en España, 157, inverted this relationship of dependence, while Goldschmidt, “El Pórtico de la Gloria,” held that Ávila and Santiago were too different stylistically to be so closely compared. Finally, Gaillard, “La Porche de la Gloire,” argued that both monuments were the product of parallel developments, occurring simultaneously rather than one dependent on the other.

383 There is a suggestion of this in Jacques Lacoste’s recent treatment of the apostolado in Le maîtres de la sculpture romane. “On aimerait parvenir à une meilleure connaissance de l’art du Maître et de ses aides, préciser la distribution des tâches dans l’atelier, et mieux cerner les possibles filiations, en étudiant attentivement les visages des statues et en analysant leurs expressions. Il est malheureusement impossible d’obtenir aujourd’hui des renseignements aussi précieux à propos de beaucoup de visages.”

154 believe—a false problem, which, moreover, distorts an accurate view of the late Romanesque.”384 Unfortunately, this construction of the relationship between works of art as anterior versus posterior, in a singular and linear fashion, still dominates the study of this material. More recent scholarship has moved away from the language of connoisseurship and emphasizes issues of patronage and documentation, but the end goal is the same: to date the sculpture, and place it within this sequence of sites. I now turn to questions of patronage not in order to date the sculpture of the Cámara Santa, but instead to think about the wider formal and functional context of the late twelfth-century reforms to the space.

Patronage Problems: Varieties of Agency in Twelfth-Century Oviedo

Let us turn to the historical context of mid- to late-twelfth century Oviedo, between the reign of Alfonso VII (r. 1126-1157) and Fernando II (r. 1157-1188). Fernando II and his half- sister Urraca “la Asturiana” (1133-1164) were very generous to the see of Oviedo. This contrasts sharply with the legacy of their father, Alfonso VII, for whom only two major donations survive.385 No fewer than twenty-two donations from Fernando II survive in the cathedral archive, starting in 1161 and lasting until his death in 1188.386 While Fernando II wished to be buried in the Cathedral of Santiago, his half-sister declared, in an 1161 document, her desire to be buried in the Cathedral of Oviedo.387 In addition to her own anniversary commemorations,

384 “Plantearse sus relaciones como necesariamente formulables en términos de anteriordidad/ posterioridad, y concluir en consecuencia en la fatal dependencia del que se juzgue posterior respecto del anterior es crear— pensamos—un falso problema, que altera además toda correcta perspectiva para abordar nuestro románico final.” Moralejo, “Esculturas compostelanas,” 50.

385 ACO ser. 3, folder 3, nos. 4 and 7. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. nos. 149 and 158.

386 ACO ser. A, folder 4, nos. 6, 9, 12/13; ser. B, folder 3, nos. 9-20; and ser. B, folder 4, nos. 2-10. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. nos. 173, 178, 179, 182-87, 190, 193, 194, 195, 197, 198, 200, 201, 204, and 209.

387 Fernando II had stated his wish to be buried at Santiago, but upon his death in 1188, his son Alfonso IX had to personally intervene to get his remains translated to Santiago. See the discussion by Moralejo Álvarez, “El 1 de abril de 1188.”

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Urraca expressly stated that her donation was “for building and restoring the church of Oviedo.”388

While Urraca’s role as a donor to and protector of the Cathedral of Oviedo is surely significant, the language of her bequest makes it clear that agency is shared between the queen- regent, bishop and canons. Patronage here is not a top-down imposition of royal will, but rather a process of negotiation between the monarch, bishop, and canons. Despite this political reality, one still encounters accounts of patronage that prioritize the agency of the monarch. Contemporary scholarship concerned with dating the sculpture of the Cámara Santa attributes it either to the Fernando II or his half-sister, Urraca. María Soledad Álvarez Martínez and César García de Castro propose a date of around 1161 for the apostolado on the basis of Urraca’s donation.389 Isabel Ruiz de la Peña González as well as a research group based at the University of León including María Concepción Cosmen Alonso, María Victoria Herráez Ortega, and Manuel Valdés Fernández prefer to date the apostolado and the architectural reformation of the Cámara Santa to the 1180s, attributing it to the patronage of Fernando II (r. 1157-1188).390 Scholars’ desire to identify a royal patron has overshadowed the importance of agency of bishops and canons as patrons. The late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa must be seen as the result of a collaborative patronage process, in which the canons were key players.

388 “Hec omnia suprascripta ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris [in margin, et cultoribus eius do et per cartam testamenti confirmo ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris] hereditario iure in perpetuum, tali seruata determinacione ut predicta palacia cum domibus suprascriptis et uillam ipsam Uillam nouam cum bonis suis obtineat unus de personis ecclesie per ordinacionem Christi et consilium Capituli et fructus quo inde potuerit habere per consilium episcopi et capituli expendatur in edificium et restauracionem ecclesie Ovetensis et post mortem meam et de mei aniuersarii et pro mea commemoratione do in refectione canonicorum uacam obtimam, duos porcis bonos, quinque arietes, uiginti gallinas, in superposita beati Peratas? sex quartarios scandule per eminam canonice et siceram suficat.” ACO ser. B, folder 3, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. no. 172.

389 Martínez Álvarez, El Románico en Asturias, 107-10 and her entry on the Cámara Santa in the García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 607-22. For more on Urraca herself, see Fernández Conde, “Urraca ‘la Asturiana.’”

390 Ruiz de la Peña González, “La reforma románica;” Cosmen Alonso, María Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica,” 128-31.

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The twelfth century saw the growth of the cathedral chapter as a corporate entity, as well as the construction of spaces in which the canons were to live, pray, eat, and sleep. Before the buildings of capitular life could be erected, however, some sense of the corporate identity of the chapter as a whole had to be developed. This was a long process that leads us back to the eleventh century, and to the shifting landscape of liturgical reform on the Iberian peninsula discussed in chapter two. In 1055, the Council of Coyanza was held, followed in 1056 and 1063 by two more councils in Santiago de Compostela.391 In Peter Linehan’s succinct summation, these councils attempted to “strengthen episcopal control over clergy, monks, and laity.”392 The Council of Coyanza’s ambit was much broader than the smaller Composetalan councils, which focused more on the organization of life within the cathedral. The 1056 council insists that the cathedral clergy must live under a rule, and establishes a basic bureaucratic hierarchy under the leadership of the bishop for the administration of diocesan business. Indeed, it is in these mid- eleventh century council texts that the very term “canonici” is first used within the lands of León-Castilla to distinguish between monastic and cathedral clergy, an important moment in the development of the identity and function of the cathedral chapter.393

In the late eleventh-century world of reform, rhetoric often overshadows reality. When we turn from the proscriptive texts of these councils to more prosaic documents that attest to the activities of the cathedral clergy in Oviedo, we see that the process of articulating the chapter as an coherent entity, whose members carried out specific functions, was a slow and piecemeal one. On a purely semantic level, it is not until the very end of the eleventh century that the term

391 García Gallo, “El Concilio de Coyanza;” Martínez Diez, “García Gallo y el Concilio de Coyanza;” Martínez Diez, “El Concilio Compostelano.”

392 Linehan, History and the Historians, 186. For the text of the 1055 Council of Coyanza, see Martínez Diez, “La tradición manuscrita,” 179-88. For the 1056 Council of Santiago de Compostela, see Martínez Diez, “El Concilio Compostelano,” 126-31.

393 Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 85. Eduardo Carrero astutely points out that we should not extrapolate from the use of the term that the canons within these dioceses in northwestern Spain and Portugal (including Oviedo) were the Roman-style canons of the Gregorian Reform. Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 14.

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“canonici” appears in surviving documentation from Oviedo.394 This brings us to the eventful episcopate of Pelayo (d. 1153), whose role in the reorganization of the cathedral chapter was decisive. Pelayo himself made two significant donations to the chapter, first in 1117, when he donated to the canons a large swath of territory belonging to the archdeaconry, and again in 1136, when he donated hereditary lands in León, to the south of Asturias, specifically to the canons’ refectory.395

In addition to attention to the practical matters of funding the chapter, Pelayo also left us with more theoretical, proscriptive texts relating to the role of the cathedral chapter. His reforming agenda is manifested in both the Liber Testamentorum and Liber Cronicorum. The transmission of the text of the Council of Coyanza derives from Pelagian manuscripts, and Martínez Diez has identified his hand behind one of the redactions of the Compostelan council of 1056.396 Moreover, Pelayo includes in the Liber Cronicorum a new rule for the canons of Oviedo.397 This text is peculiar on several levels. Pelayo frames his text as a letter addressed to our bishop from none other than the Patriarch of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, William (r. 1130-1145).398 Eduardo Carrero points out that the Church of the Holy Sepulcher had been reorganized under the Augustinian Rule between 1113 and 1114, and thus the rule described in the putative letter bears little resemblance to the rule under which the Jerusalem canons actually lived during William’s patriarchate.399 Perhaps Pelayo was thinking not only of

394 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 108. A donation made in 1096 by the noblewoman Jimena Peláez to Bishop Martin and “clerici canonici commorantium cum eo in ipsam sedem.” Survives in two contemporary documents (ACO series B, nos. 14 and 15), as well as in the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 94v-95v.

395 ACO series A, folder 2, no. 17. García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 138; ACO series A, folder 3, no. 6. García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 151.

396 It appears in the Batres Codex (Madrid, BN MS 1513, fol. 106r-108r) and the manuscripts descended from it, as well as in the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 62v-63v. On the Council of Coyanza, see Martínez Diez, “La tradición manuscrita,” 141-47. On the Compostela council, see Martínez Diez, “El Concilio Compostelano,” 134-38.

397 It appears in the Batres Codex (Madrid, BN MS 1513, fol. 108r-109v) and the manuscripts descended from it.

398 For the text, see Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 157-60.

399 Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 22.

158 the contemporary religious community of the Holy Sepulcher, but more broadly of the apostolic community of Jerusalem, which was held up as a model for the communal life of canons.400

Pelayo’s text lays out rules for food and dress across the liturgical year, as well as specifying the number and type of readings. Via its putative author, William, Pelayo invokes papal authority repeatedly, specifically that of Gregory VII and Urban II. Fernández Conde identifies the Pelayo’s text as one contained in the late-eleventh-century compilation of Gregory VII’s capitular legislation, but argues that, given repeated reforms to the chapter later in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Pelayo’s rule was never actually observed in Oviedo.401 Regardless of whether or not this rule was ever observed, the existence of this text points to a context in which the cathedral chapter took on more significance in the practical and spiritual life of the cathedral, becoming an integral part of its institutional function and identity.

Although there is no surviving rule from eleventh- or twelfth-century Oviedo, there are some indications of chapter organization during this period. Of particular interest is the figure of the treasurer, charged (among other things) with the care of the relics of the Cámara Santa. Documentary references to the treasurer are sparse before the mid-eleventh century. A “presbiter thesaurarius” appears as a witness in three documents of the early tenth century (all of which, it should be noted, survive only in later copies).402 In 1006, a Serenianus “presbiter et tensorarius” is given as the notary, although, again, this document survives only in the Liber Testamentorum and a much later royal confirmation.403 Treasurers appear more frequently beginning in the middle of the eleventh century; a certain Fredenandus appears in 1056 as the “tesaurario” and in 1058 as “abba et erarius.”404 Again, though, both these documents survive only in Pelayo’s Liber Testamentorum.405

400 As discussed within a broader twelfth-century context in Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society, 220.

401 Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 92. He identifies the text as MS Vat. Lat. 628, fol. 268v-270r.

402 Laurelius, 906, García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 18; Aurelius, 908, García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 19; Dauid, 912, García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 20.

403 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 37. In the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 51r-51v.

404 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 58 and 61.

405 On fol. 66v-67v and 67v-68v, respectively.

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We are on somewhat firmer ground in the later eleventh century because contemporary documents survive, in addition to references in the Liber Testamentorum. A certain Alvarus appears eight times in documents from the years 1078 and 1097. In 1078, 1079, 1090, 1092, 1096, and 1097 he signs as both abbot and treasurer, while in 1081 he is the “archidiaconus clauiculario de ipsius thesauro sancto.”406 A Petrus Sescutiz appears as the treasurer from 1104 until 1117, while Ciprianus was abbot and treasurer from 1127 until 1143.407 Later, in 1177 and again in 1197, Pelagius Artero “thesaurarius” appears as a witness a pair of documents.408 Finally, in 1200 there is a reference to “Gomez Pelagius thesaurarius.”409 The characterization of Alvarus as the keeper of the key to the treasury recalls other medieval and early modern references to the guardians of the Cámara Santa. Pelayo mentions “custodes thesauri” inside the Cámara Santa, while the sixteenth-century customary of the cathedral tell us about the office of the claveros, two canons charged with safeguarding the keys to the Cámara Santa and controlling pilgrims’ access.410 Finally, a late-twelfth-century account of the Arca’s origins and miracles makes a reference to the presence in the Cámara Santa of an archdeacon who took care of the treasury.411

The identification of the treasurer in this text as an archdeacon points to another issue in the development of this ecclesiastical office. Fernández Conde has argued that high-status abbot- treasurers like Fredenandus, Alvarus, and Cirprianus were typical from the early eleventh

406 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 80 (1078), 81 (1079), 83 (1080), 84 (1081), 96 (1090), 104 (1092), 108 (1096), and 113 (1097).

407 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 125 (1104), 134 (1113), 137 (1117), 138 (1117), 146 (1127), 148 (1128), 152 (1136), 154 (1143), 155 (1143).

408 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 191 (1177) and 214 (1197).

409 García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 215.

410 BN MS 1513, fol. 48r, ed. by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons‘ III, 89-90. Libro de los Estatutos y Constituciones, fol. 24v-25v.

411 “Cumque venisset apud Sanctum Salvatorem, statim ingressa est ecclesiam, et sub archa in qua sancte reliquie continentur se projectit sine mora. Vix ibi se projecerat, cum ecce malignus, in eam ingressus, cepit magnis vocibus clamare et omnia verba illa et plura alia replicare que superius dicta sunt: ‘Ego eam non dimittam, et cetera.’ Ilico archidiaconus qui thesaurum custodiebat collo ejus stollam injecit.” Edited by Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 15.

160 century, but Suárez Beltrán points out that he bases his argument on documents that survive solely in the Liber Testamentorum, and which thus may reflect the reality of the early twelfth century rather than previous centuries.412 As we have seen, treasurers appear more frequently from the late eleventh through the mid-twelfth centuries. Suárez Beltrán has linked the growth of the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa to the growth of the status of the treasurer himself.413 As I argued in my first chapter, pilgrimage to the relics of the Cámara Santa increased over the course of the later eleventh and twelfth centuries. I suggest we extend this argument into the realm of artistic and architectural patronage, seeing the late twelfth-century reforms to the building as a response to these large-scale and protracted devotional and institutional changes.

The Cámara Santa between Apse and Cloister

The architectural reforms of and sculptural installations in the Cámara Santa must be seen in relation to its location within the larger ecclesiastical complex of the cathedral. As is clear on the plan, the Cámara Santa is tucked between the south transept to the north, and the cloister and conventual buildings to the south (Figure 4.22). Its placement relative to these larger structures suggests the intermediary status of the Cámara Santa, literally between apse and cloister. In what follows, I will explore these two structural and functional contexts. First, I place the late twelfth- century reforms to the Cámara Santa in the larger context of the construction going on around it in the cathedral cloister. Then I move to a consideration of a suggestive comparanda for the sculpture of the apostolado itself that can be found in a series of decorated apses dating to the second half of the twelfth century.

As the care and divulgation of the relics of the Cámara Santa came under the purview of canons, the space itself became integrated into the ensemble of capitular buildings—cloister, refectory, dormitory, and chapter house—erected between 1100 and 1150. Located between the south transept of the cathedral and the cloister, the Cámara Santa’s location suggests its status as the lynchpin of this architectural ensemble. Indeed, the shape of the cloister’s north flank conforms to the Cámara Santa and crypt of Santa Leocadia. In what follows, I revisit Eduardo Carrero’s foundational work on the Romanesque cloisters of northwestern Iberia in order to

412 Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 95-97. Suárez Beltrán, 42, n. 27.

413 Suárez Beltrán, El cabildo, 43.

161 place the Cámara Santa and its sculptural decoration within the context of these often-overlooked structures of communal life.

The Romanesque cloister of Oviedo was likely built between 1100 and 1150, and may even have been begun during the episcopate of Pelayo. The opening folio to manuscript 1513 in the Biblioteca Nacional, the most complete medieval copy of Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum, contains a notice about his architectural reforms throughout the city of Oviedo, including the cathedral, although the text does not mention the cloister specifically. The text describes how thirty “weak and very old” (vetustissimae et debiles) wooden beams in the cathedral were replaced with new beams. Several altars across the city that were “foul and small” (foeda et exigua) were renewed, including the images that were atop them.414 These descriptions of Pelayo’s widespread renewal of altars and buildings themselves, together with the bishop’s clear interest in reforming the cathedral chapter, suggest that Pelayo himself might have been an active force behind the initial construction of the cloister and its associated buildings.

Carrero’s meticulous documentary and architectural analysis has shown that these structures existed in some form from the late 1130s. Carrero points to a series of documentary references to the refectory, likely in place by the 1130s and located on the southern flank of the cloister.415 Pelayo himself made a donation to the refectory in 1136.416 The 1161 donation by

414 BN MS 1513, fol 1r. Published by Manuel Risco, España Sagrada, vol. 38, doc. 40, 371. “Erant tunc in principali Ecclesia ligniae vetustissimae et debiles XXX. trabes quas cum filiis Ecclesiae suae praecipitavit, et novas XIII. sicut modo apparent, composuit. Deinde subscripta altaria, quae erant foeda, et exigua, praecipitavit in Oveto, et majora, et optima sicut modo apparent condivit in Idus Octubris, scilicet: altare nostri Saluatoris, altare Apostolorum Petri et Pauli, altare Sancti Johanis Apostoli et Euangelistae, altare Sancti Nicholai Episcopi, et imagines quae sunt supra eam, altare Sanctae Mariae semper Uirginis, altare Sancti Pelagii Martyris, altare Santi Vicentii Levitae et Martyris, altare Ecclesiam Sanctae Mariae Magdalenae cum omnibus Sanctic Virginibus, altare Sancti Johanis Baptistae quod est situm in hospitali palatio, altare Sancti Cypriani Episcopi et Martyris, quod extra secus Ovetum. Vis ergo fratres karissimi qui ad praedicta altaria Dominis exortatus, et psalmos canitis, et divina misteria celebratis, praedictum Episcopum Pelagium die at nocte in memoriam habeatis, ita ut et vos qui digne orationis, a Domino Deo nostro Jesu-Christo exaudri valeatis. Amen.”

415 Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 91-95.

416 ACO ser. A, carp. 3, num. 6; edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 384-86, doc. no. 151. Pelayo states: “Has supradictas hereditates cum omnibus bonis sibi perinentibus tali conuencione eas concedo ut

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Urraca also mentions the refectory, specifying the number of cows, pigs, sheep, and hens to be given to the canons’ kitchen.417 As for the chapter house, an 1144 document from the monastery of San Juan Bautista in Corias describes legal proceedings taking place “in capitulo Sancti Saluatoris,” while an 1157 donation by Urraca “la Asturiana” refers to her father, Alfonso VII, being present in the chapter house.418 The chapter house as it stands today is a product of later medieval reforms, although its location in the northeastern corner of the cloister remains the same.

Carrero has linked the promulgation of capitular reform with the construction of cathedral cloisters and communal spaces in the first half of the twelfth century.419 In Oviedo, only traces of the Romanesque cloister survive, but a handful of other sites in the north of the Iberian peninsula (Santiago de Compostela, Zamora, and Tuy) offer material and textual evidence for a direct connection between capitular reform and the construction of the buildings required for communal life.420 While the agency of individual bishops like Pelayo is instrumental in these architectural projects, the long time-frame during which the Oviedo cloister was built suggests the necessity for a model of patronage that does not depend solely on a single individual, but

dum ego uinens fuero iuri meo teneam ad usufructuario per manum prioris et canonicorum qui comedunt in predicto refectorio.”

417 “...do in refectione canonicorum uacam obtimam, duos porcis bonos, quinque arietes, uiginti gallinas [...].” ACO ser. B, folder 3, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. no. 172.

418 Floriano, El libro registro de Corias, 202, doc. no. 657. Rodríguez Díaz, El libro de la ‘Regla Colorada’, 407, doc. 42. “...domnus rex Adefonsus bone memoriae, eius auus ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris ueniens itaque imperator domnus Adefonsus benigno animo, pura deuocione in ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris causa orationis sub era millesima Ca nonagesima Va, sede(n)te in capitulo Sancti Saluatoris astantibus comitibus [...] atque baronibus sui inperii necnoc [sic] et Martino eiusdem ecclesie episcopo presente...”

419 Carrero Santamaría, “Cathedral Cloisters,” 91.

420 On Bishop Diego Gelmírez’s reforms and frustrated building plans in Santiago, see the Historia Compostelana, ed. Falque Rey, 98-99, 11, 284, 401 and 494. On Bishop Bernard of Perigord’s similarly frustrated attempts to build a cloister, refectory, and dormitory in Zamora, see Carrero Santamaría, “El claustro medieval de la catedral de Zamora.” Bishop Pelayo Menéndez adopted the Augustinian Rule at Tuy in 1138 and the chapter house dates to 1150: see Cendón Fernández, La Catedral de Tuy, 91.

163 rather a group whose identity and interests remain relatively consistent over a period of time: namely, the chapter itself. As we have seen, in Oviedo, between the 1130s and the 1170s (at the very least), the refectory, chapter house, and cloister were constructed, and the Cámara Santa itself remodeled. These construction projects span the tenure of several different bishops, namely, Pelayo (r. 1101-1130 and 1143-1143), Alfonso (1130-1142), Martin I (1143-1156), Pedro (1156-1161), and Gonzalo (1161-1175).421

One aspect of the construction undertaken in the Cámara Santa during the twelfth century that stands out is the survival of the eastern apse of the earlier structure, which, as I have mentioned, suggests that this space had particular significance. Only fragments of the twelfth- century cloister survived after it was destroyed to make way for the larger fourteenth-century cloister that still stands today.422 What was preserved, however, was the general shape and location of the cloister and its dependencies. Thanks to a series of archaeological interventions in the site over the course of the twentieth century, we have some notion of what this cloister looked like, as well as where it was located. As today, the cloister was located to the south of the cathedral, taking in the southern flank of the Cámara Santa itself (see Figure 4.22). A series of relief panels, column bases, capitals, and impost fragments survive from the destroyed cloister and its dependencies.423 A few of these fragments show similarities to elements of the sculpture in the Cámara Santa. I refer in particular to two capitals; one depicts a pair of rampant feline hybrids, whose depiction is similar to the smaller creatures found beneath the feet of Simon and Judas Thaddeus (Figure 4.23), and another with a vegetal motif that recalls the decoration carved beneath the feet of Paul (Figure 4.24).424 All of these fragments have been dated on the basis of style to the second half of the twelfth century.

Among the most remarkable pieces surviving from the Romanesque cloister of the Cathedral of Oviedo are a series of six relief panels, which offer valuable evidence about the

421 Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 72.

422 Like Carrero, I, too, find García de Castro’s assertion that no cloister existed before the fourteenth century to be problematic in the light of archeological, textual, and comparative evidence to the contrary. García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 506.

423 See the catalogue entries in Caso, ed., La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, Catálogo y bienes muebles, plates 78-123.

424 See Caso, ed., La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, Catálogo y bienes muebles, cat. nos. 78 and 94.

164 larger monumental and iconographic context of the apostolado. Of these six panels, two have been located likely since the fifteenth century high up on the façade of the chapter house (Figure 4.25), while the other four were discovered by Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda during their archaeological work in 1950. The sculptures had been reused as building material in the chapter house, and were found beneath the large late Gothic windows (Figure 4.26).425 The two panels in the chapter house wall depict Peter and Paul, both of whom are identified by inscriptions. Peter, standing in a rigidly frontal posture and holding a key and a book, appears with the inscription,

“+ EST : MICHI : FAS : CELI : PORTAS : APERIRE : FIDELI” (Figure 4.27). Paul holds a scroll and turns to the right, one leg crossed over the other, identified by the inscription above his head as 426 “+ QVI FVERAM SAVLVS : SVM : XPI : MVNERE : PAVLUS” (Figure 4.28). Three of the other four panels are more difficult to identify based on iconography alone; one is labeled by an inscription as “+ NICOLAVS : EPISCOPUS” (Figure 4.29), and the other three remain unidentified. One of them may represent a female figure because of its form of dress (Figure 4.30), another perhaps an ecclesiastic of some kind (Figure 4.31), and only the bottom half of the third panel survives, with the detail of a figure holding a closed book (Figure 4.32).

The identity of the three figures that are labeled—Peter, Paul, and Nicholas of Bari—has led some scholars, namely Vicente José González García and Francisco de Caso, to suggest that these relief sculptures correspond to the renovations made by Bishop Pelayo in the first part of the twelfth century.427 Despite the quite understandable desire to attribute the sculptural program of the cloister to Pelayo, the period of his episcopacy is too early for the production of these relief panels. Carrero argues on stylistic grounds that the four mutilated relief panels date to around the middle of the twelfth century, while the two reliefs of Peter and Paul still in the chapter house façade date to the second half of the twelfth century.428 Carrero’s mid-century dating for the four mutilated fragments in the cloister has been reiterated in the most recent study

425 Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 42-45.

426 Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 95. “To me is given to open the doors of heaven to the faithful,” and “I who was Saul by the grace of God am Paul.”

427 Caso, La construcción de la Catedral de Oviedo, 31 and González García, El Oviedo antiguo y medieval, 91-92.

428 Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 104.

165 of these sculptures by Cosmen Alonso, Harráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández.429 They point to the relationship between the Oviedo panels and the sculpture now on the south façade of Santa Marta de Tera, in Zamora, usually dated on the basis of style to the second quarter of the twelfth century (Figure 4.33).430 The figure of Santiago, depicted as a pilgrim with his staff and satchel, has attracted particular attention, as it is, by all accounts, the earliest depiction of the iconographic type of St. James dressed as a pilgrim.431 The façade sculpture at Santa Marta shares stylistic and iconographic features, such as the pilgrim’s shell and crossed legs, of the sculpture in both the cloister and the Cámara Santa. Cosmen Alonso and her colleagues point to the distinctive treatment of the clothing on the figures at Santa Marta and on the cloister reliefs in Oviedo as an indication of close connection between the sculptors working at both sites, and argue for a dating around 1150.432

Both the identity of these figures in Oviedo and their placement in the cloister have important parallels with the later sculpture of the Cámara Santa. Manzanares suggested that the Oviedo panels once decorated the sides of pillars in the twelfth-century cloister, much like the famous reliefs of Santo Domingo in Silos, Saint-Pierre in Moissac, and Saint-Étienne and Saint- Sernin in Toulouse.433 In support of this hypothesis, Carrero points out that the northeastern and southeastern corners of the Gothic cloister in Oviedo contain figures carved in niches that are mounted on compound piers, which can be interpreted as harkening back to the sculpted decoration of the Romanesque cloister.434 The figures of the apostles Peter and Paul fit well into what Ilene Forsyth termed the iconography of the vita apostolica so often found in Romanesque

429 Cosmen Alonso, Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica.”

430 Moralejo writes that the sculpture of Santa Marta “dificilmente puede ser anterior al segundo cuarto del siglo XII.” See his “El claustro de Silos,” 149.

431 On Santa Marta de Tera, see Regueras Grande, Santa Marta de Tera; Martín Benito, Juan Mata Guerra, and Regueras Grande, Los caminos de Santiago, 45-50; Viñayo, León y Asturias, 335-49; Gómez Moreno, Catálogo monumental de la provincia de Zamora, pp. 182-86; Gómez Moreno, “Santa Marta de Tera.”

432 Cosmen Alonso, Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica,” 124.

433 Monzanares Rodriguez Mir, “Relieves románicos del antiguo claustro.”

434 Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 100.

166 cloisters.435 Their particular connection to the canons themselves is underscored by the reuse of these panels over the monumental doorway to the Gothic chapter house. Other panels in this group also speak to this iconography of the apostolic life in the context of the cathedral cloister. One of the fragmentary figures in Oviedo may be identifiable as a bishop, as we have in the lost Romanesque cloister at León Cathedral, which contained carved panels depicting two local Leonese bishop-saints, Alvito and Froilán, in addition to panels depicting Peter and Paul (Figure 4.34).436 These reliefs in Oviedo and León can thus be placed in the context of other more well- known depictions of important foundational members of the religious community, such as the panel with Abbot Durandus at Moissac, as well as the reliefs depicting Abbot Gregory in Saint- Michel de Cuxa and Abbot Berga in Santa María in Ripoll, both dated to around 1150.437

The sculpture of the Cámara Santa thus fits within the context of the cloister decoration and speaks to the identity of its inhabitants, the canons themselves. Moreover, the pairing off of these panels in the corners of the cloister offers a useful parallel to one of the many idiosyncratic elements of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa: the paired column figures. Although there are a series of column figures found of exterior portals in the Iberian peninsula over the latter half of the twelfth century and early thirteenth century, the formal and functional context of the portal does not speak to the unusual interior arrangement of sculpture we see in Oviedo.438 Indeed, part

435 Forsyth, “Vita apostolica.”

436 Froilán died in 905, and some of his relics were transferred from where they had been interred in Moreruela to León in 1175. Alvito was thought to have been instrumental in bringing the remains of Isidore to León in the eleventh century. Boto Varela, La memoria perdida, 85-100; Carrero Santamaría, Santa María la Regla, 40-47; Herráez, Cosmen Alonso, and Valdés, “La catedral de León;” Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Una empresa olvidada.”

437 On Moissac, the classic study is Schapiro, “The Romanesque Sculpture of Moissac.” See also Droste, Die Skulpturen von Moissac and the work of Rutchick, especially “Visual Memory and Historiated Sculpture.” On the panel in Cuxa, see Cazes and Durliat, “Découverte de l’effigie de l’Abbé Grégoire.” On the Ripoll figure, see Barral i Altet, “La sculpture à Ripoll au XIIe siècle,” 338-39.

438 Briefly, the portals with column figures are as follows: Santa María in Sangüesa, San Vicente in Ávila, San Martín in Segovia, Santa María de Carrecedo in León, and the cathedrals of Santiago de Compostela and Ourense in Galicia. On Sangüesa, see Ancho Villanueva and Fernández-Ladreda Aguadé, Portada de Santa María de Sangüesa; Müller, “Santa María la Real, Sangüesa” and her summary article, “La arquitectura plástica.” On San Vicente, see Rico, San Vicente de Ávila. On San Martín in Segovia, see Merino de Cáceres and Reynolds Álvarez, “La Iglesia de San Martín de Segovia.” On Santa María de Carrecedo, see Gómez Moreno, Catálogo monumental de

167 of the problem posed to scholars by the sculpture of the Cámara Santa is the lack of comparanda not only for the style, but also the disposition of the sculpture.

The most relevant parallels to the apostles in the Cámara Santa can be found not in the celebrated portals of Santiago de Compostela and Ávila, but rather in a series of apses decorated with monumental sculpture in the late twelfth and early thirteenth century. I argue that both the disposition and iconography of the sculpture at these sites can shed light on the meaning of the apostles in Oviedo. Large-scale sculptures decorate the apses of San Martín in Uncastillo (Aragón), Santo Domingo de la Calzada (near Nájera in La Rioja), the Cathedral of Zaragoza (known as La Seo), San Juan in Alba de Tormés (near Salamanca), and San Martín in Fuentidueña (now in the Cloisters Museum in New York). The simpler or more damaged sculpture in Uncastillo, Zaragoza, Alba de Tormés and Fuentidueña was studied by René Crozet in a 1969 article, while the complex sculptural ensemble at Santo Domingo de la Calzada has been the subject of considerably more scholarship.439 Study of this sculpture has focused on placing the figures within the context of workshops active in the Iberian peninsula in the last quarter of the twelfth century. Less attention has been paid to the role played by these sculptural ensembles in the architectural and liturgical context of the apse itself. Let me briefly describe each of these sites and sketch what little is known about their relationship to one another, in the process pointing out significant parallels to the sculpture in Oviedo.

León, vol 1, 406-15; Porter, Spanish Romanesque Sculpture, 30-31; Abundio Rodríguez, Castille romane, vol. 1, 428-29; Martínez Tejera’s entry in García Guinea, Miguel Ángel, José María Pérez González, and José Manuel Rodríguez Montañés, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en León, 269-87. On Santiago, see, among others, Moralejo, “Le Porche de la Gloire” and Yzquierdo Perrín, “El Maestro Mateo.” On Ourense, see Pita Andrade, La construcción de la catedral de Ourense. On the Pórtico del Paraíso, see also Carrero Santamaría, El Pórtico del Paraíso de la Catedral de Ourense and the essays in García Iglesias, ed., La Catedral de Ourense, esp. José Carlos Valle Pérez, “La arquitectura,” 51-104, and Marta Díaz Tíe, “La escultura medieval,” 105-70.

439 Crozet, “Statuaire monumentale.” On Santo Domingo, see Moya Valgañón, Etapas de construcción, as well as the essays by Bango Torviso, Yarza Luaces, and Español in La cabecera de la catedral calceatense. The classic study on Santo Domingo in the context of late Romanesque sculpture is Iñíguez Almech, “Sobre tallas románicas.”

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The site that most closely resembles the iconography and distribution of the sculpture in the Cámara Santa is San Martín in Uncastillo.440 The church dedicated to St. Martin of Tours was completed in several phases, culminating in the consecration of the new apse by Bishop Pedro of Pamplona (r. 1167-1193) in 1179. The apse was originally decorated with three pairs of column figures, of which only two survive in situ (Figure 4.35). The statues clearly depict the apostles, although not all have been identified. On the northern side are Paul and Thomas, while on the south, Peter is accompanied by an unidentified apostle. Arbuniés suggested that the fragments in the cloister belong to a figure of St. James, while de Egry identified him as the titular bishop-saint, Martin.441 The capitals are decorated with scenes of the life of Christ, including the Annunciation, Visitation, Nativity, Annunciation to the Shepherds, Epiphany, a Virgin orans, and, perhaps, the Three Marys at the Tomb of Christ or the Presentation in the Temple.442

Thanks to its relationship with more canonical monuments, the apse sculpture at San Martín has been placed in the context of the workshop of a figure known as Leodegarius. This figure has been associated on the basis of style with a network of sites and monuments in the northern Iberian peninsula, including the sarcophagus of Doña Blanca of Navarre, Santa María la Real in Sangüesa, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, and finally San Martín in Uncastillo. Some time between her death and 1156 and the death of her husband Sancho III in 1158, the sarcophagus of Doña Blanca of Navarra was carved, making this the first monument in the chain of works associated with Leodegarius and his workshop.443 The latest work associated with him is San Martín, whose apse sculpture, as we have seen, has a terminus ante quem of 1179. In between these two relatively firm and widely agreed-upon chronological markers are two other important monuments that contain sculpture identified with the workshop of Leodegarius: Santa

440 On San Martín specifically, see the entry by Delia Sagast e Abadía in García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez de Aguirre, eds. Enciclopedia del Románico en Aragón: Zaragoza, vol. 2, 703-16; Canella López and San Vicente, Aragon roman; Egry, “Esculturas románicas inéditas;” Abbad Ríos, Catalogo monumental de España: Zaragoza; Bayarte Arbuniés, “El arte en la villa de Uncastillo.”

441 Bayarte Arbuniés, “El arte en la villa de Uncastillo,” 69; Egry, “Esculturas románicas inéditas,” 186.

442 Melero-Moneo, “El sarcófago de doña Blanca,” 19.

443 Melero-Moneo, “El sarcófago de Doña Blanca.” See also Valdez del Alamo, “Lament for a Lost Queen.”

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María la Real in Sangüesa and Santo Domingo de la Calzada, both of which are on the route to Santiago de Compostela.

The façade of Santa María de la Sangüesa is a veritable patchwork of sculpture from different dates and hands. The jamb figures that flank the west portal of the church have been attributed to Leodegarius and dated on the basis of style to circa 1160-70.444 These are the earliest known jamb figures in the Iberian peninsula. A French origin has been suggested for the sculptor on the basis of the resemblance between the jamb figures of Sangüesa and their more famous cousins at Chartres.445 Questions of the national origin of the column figure, or indeed of the mysterious Leodegarius himself, are not what interest me here. I wish instead to think about some of the other locations in which column figures are found, and the functions and possible meanings of this distinctive sculptural form.

Further west on the pilgrimage route to Santiago is the church of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, founded in 1158 around the cult of its titular saint, Dominic (d. 1109), famous for his care of pilgrims. Yarza has identified at least four sculptural campaigns in the years between the site’s foundation and the early thirteenth century. Yarza connects a group of historiated capitals in the ambulatory with the workshop of Leodegarius, and dates them to between 1162/65 and 1170/75. The most remarkable sculpture, however, is the group of four carved pilasters sandwiched between paired columns that divide the apse from the ambulatory (Figure 4.36). Yarza leaves open the question of the possible relationship between the sculptors of the capitals and those of the pilasters, carved sometime during the 1170s.446 The imagery on the pilasters can be read both vertically and horizontally, thereby expanding the possibilities for narrative reading and interpretation within its architectural and liturgical setting.447

444 Ancho Villanueva and Fernández-Ladreda Aguadé, Portada de Santa María de Sangüesa; Müller, “Santa María la Real, Sangüesa,” 234.

445 Porter, Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, 254. Porter’s suggestion was taken up by Gudiol y Ricart and Gaya Nuño, Arquitectura y escultura románicas, 156, and still persists in the literature.

446 Yarza Luaces, “La escultura monumental,” 167-85.

447 Yarza Luaces, “La escultura monumental,” 181-94. The basic iconographic program of these pilasters as a group has been identified as the Tree of Jesse. Only two of the four pilasters have figural decoration. At the base of the southernmost pilaster is Jesse himself. Above him are several unidentified busts, atop which is a seated figure with a

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Discussions of the decoration of the apse and ambulatory at Santo Domingo are largely isolated from the larger liturgical and devotional use of the space. I would like to suggest that we must see the sculpture in relation to the building’s raison d‘être: the cult of St. Dominic. The original location of the saint’s shrine has been the subject of some dispute. It is now located in the south transept, and many sustain that the shrine was always located there.448 Francesca Español has argued that the saint’s tomb, elevated on columns, was placed in conjunction with the main altar in the apse.449 If we follow Español’s proposal, the tomb of the saint would have been framed by the four carved pilasters that divide the apse from the ambulatory. Even if we hesitate to embrace this proposal, we should interpret the imagery of the sculpture in light of the presence of the main altar in the center of the apse. These carved pilasters, an unprecedented sculptural form within the Iberian peninsula, can thus be seen as a sculptural amplification or frame of the liturgical space of the apse, whose main altar was dedicated to the Trinity (depicted at the top of the southernmost pilaster).

In the cathedral of Zaragoza, known as La Seo, we see an analogous ensemble of apse sculpture, whose imagery plays out on historiated capitals, narrative friezes, and large-scale individual figures located between columns. The cathedral was founded in 1188, and the decoration of the apse has been dated to the last decade of the twelfth century. Although not directly associated with the workshop of Leodegarius, the sculpture of the apse of La Seo of

halo that has been identified as the Virgin Mary. Above her now-missing head is a small cross within a circle, and traces of a dove, and above this God the Father with the Christ Child in his lap. On the other decorated pilaster, at the same height as the figure of the Virgin, is an angel who turns in her direction, forming an Annunciation group. Beneath Gabriel is another headless seated figure, identified as the prophet Isaiah. At the base of the third pilaster is a seated depiction of King David, playing a musical instrument. Many of the figures are also framed by rich foliage, underscoring the iconography of the Tree of Jesse.

448 Bango Torviso, “La cabecera de la catedral calceatense,” 96-103; Moya Valgañón, Etapas de construcción, 16- 17; Sánchez Ameijeiras, “La ritualización del camino de vuelta.”

449 Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 280.

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Zaragoza has been linked on the basis of style to that of Santo Domingo de la Calzada.450 The sculpture of the apse of La Seo has been badly damaged and is still hidden behind a large altarpiece, making photography difficult. Large-scale sculptures of the apostles stand between columns with decorated and historiated capitals with scenes from the New Testament, amidst a narrative frieze recounting the Old Testament story of Adam and Eve. 451 Only two of the apostles survive, although there may have originally been five (Figure 4.37). The remaining two sites, San Juan in Alba de Tormés and San Martín in Fuentidueña, represent somewhat simplified late twelfth or early thirteenth-century responses to the innovative sculptural ensembles of Santo Domingo de la Calzada and La Seo. A chorus of seated apostles frames the central apse of the church of San Juan in Alba de Tormés, which has been connected to the apse decoration in Zaragoza (Figure. 4.38).452 Finally, at San Martín in Fuentidueña we have two column figures

450 Buesa Conde, “La catedral románica de San Salvador;” Ruiz Maldonado, La Seo románica; Iñiguez Almech, “El abside de La Seo de Zaragoza.”

451 Crozet (“Statuaire monumentale,” 292-94) has the most thorough description of the iconography. There are three large sections, each of which is divided once more into three parts. Starting with the first part in the first section in southern end of the apse, the two capitals depicts the Presentation it the Temple (on the left) and the Three Pilgrims on the Road to Emmaus (on the right). The frieze between these capitals depicts the parable of Dives and Lazarus. Below this frieze is an apostle, beneath which is another frieze depicting the Creation of Adam. The next two capitals show harp-playing and dancing (left) and the Supper on the Road to Emmaus (right). A statue of an apostle with a phylactery stands between the two columns. The frieze above him depicts more musical shenigans, and beneath him is a depiction of Adam being shown Paradise. The next part is damaged, though we can see beasts in an interlace design on the capitals. The frieze below the capitals shows a hunting scene, beneath which stands another apostle. Beneath the apostle is a frieze depicting the Creation of Eve. The middle section is the most badly damaged, and it is difficult to discern any of the iconography. The northern section is better preserved. In the first part, the capital to the right shows a hunting scene, and the left capital depicts Peter cutting off the ear of Malchus. The frieze beneath the capitals shows humans and dragons in an interlace pattern. The statue, presumably of an apostle, has been lost, as has the frieze below it. In the middle part, the left capital depicts fantastical birds, and the right, the Kiss of Judas. The frieze beneath shows Pilate ordering the flagellation of Christ. The bottom frienze depicts the Original Sin. Finally, the third part is largely destroyed except for a frieze depicting the moment when Adam realizes his nakedness.

452 See the entry, with relevant bibliography, García Guinea et al, eds., Encicplopedia del Románico en Castilla y León: Salamanca, 69-78.

172 that are not apostles, but rather an Annunciation and a mitered bishop, perhaps the titular saint Martin (Figure 4.39).453

While their connections of the level of workshop production remain unclear, what these sites have in common is the presence of monumental sculpture in the apse, surrounding the altar and the relics within it, permanent witnesses to the mass taking place in the liturgical heart of the church. I contend that the disposition of the apostles in the Cámara Santa must be seen in relation to these apse ensembles. The apostles in Oviedo surround the Arca Santa, acting as reminders of the apostolic origins of the reliquary and standing in for the canons themselves, heirs to that apostolic authority and curators of the space and its relics. Their disposition, so similar to that of these apse ensembles, also suggests if not a specific liturgical function, then at least a ritual frame within which to interpret the sculpture of the Cámara Santa.

Ritual and Meaning in the Decoration of the Cámara Santa

The enlargement and elaboration of the Cámara Santa in the twelfth century took place within a context of an expanding ritual program celebrating the relics of the Arca Santa. Alfonso III’s fortified treasury of the tenth century was not longer adequate for the increasing number of pilgrims or the new liturgies that emerged over the course of the later Middle Ages, such as the Feast of the Relics. The changing shape and status of the Cámara Santa can be directly linked to the Arca Santa itself. In my previous chapter, I argued that the contents of the Arca Santa were visually and rhetorically divulged to devout pilgrims in the form of multiple texts enumerating the reliquary’s contents, as well as by means of the fragmentation of its voluminous contents into smaller reliquaries. I wish now to turn to examine how the Arca gives meaning to the late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa, focusing not on formal or iconographic parallels with the reliquary’s silver revetment, but rather on the ritual context that gives life to both the space and its contents.

Easter, the death and resurrection of Christ, constitutes the “liturgical substrate” of the decoration of the Cámara Santa, a phrase I borrow from Serafín Moralejo’s discussion of the Pórtico de la Gloria. In the context of the Pórtico, the inscription commemorating the work of

453 Simon, “Romanesque Art in American Collections. XXI,” 145-49; Gómez Moreno, “History, Stylistic Analysis, and Dismantling.”

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Maestro Mateo specifies the date of 1 April 1188, the Friday of the fourth week of Lent. This liturgical context connects directly to the Arca Santa not only in the form of the numerous relics of Christ contained within it, but also the history of the reliquary itself. The famous opening of the Arca Santa in the presence of Alfonso VI that is commemorated on the inscription of the lid also took place on the Friday of the fourth week of Lent, 13 March 1075.454 The story of the Arca Santa thus is woven into the larger liturgical context of Easter, the central part of the liturgical year.

Moralejo connects this liturgical context of Easter with the imagery of the Resurrection of Christ in the Pórtico de la Gloria, in particular the Harrowing of Hell and the visit of the three Marys to the tomb of Christ. As the closest parallel to the iconography of the Pórtico, Moralejo points to a pair of capitals in which the three Marys at the tomb of Christ is juxtaposed with the triumphant risen Christ.455 These capitals, both from the region of Palencia, are dated to the 1180s; one is from the otherwise undocumented church of Santa María de Lebanza (Figure 4.40) and the other from Santa María la Real in Aguilar de Campoo (Figure 4.41).456 Moralejo connects the Harrowing of Hell in Santiago with these depictions of the risen Christ on the Palencian capitals, underscoring his liturgical reading of the imagery in Santiago.

Although the representation of the risen Christ does not appear in the Cámara Santa, we do have a depiction of the Harrowing of Hell juxtaposed with the three Marys at the tomb. The double capital above the apostles Peter and Paul on the north wall is devoted entirely to the scene of the three Marys at the tomb of Christ (see Figure 4.10), while the Harrowing of Hell is depicted directly across the space on the capital atop the figures of James and John (see Figure 4.13). Interestingly, there are two angels in the Ovetense representation of this scene, one of which stands behind the open tomb, touching it. It appears that the sculptor ran out of space to depict the three female figures, for there are three heads, but only two bodies—the second head emerges rather improbably behind the shoulder of the second Mary. This peculiarity can likely be explained by considering this capital in tandem with the Palencian capitals that also depict the

454 Moralejo, “El 1 de abril de 1188,” 115.

455 Moralejo, “El 1 de abril de 1188,” 115.

456 Described by David Simon in The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. nos. 97 and 98, 218-19. The Lebanza capitals are also described by Seidel, “Romanesque Sculpture in American Collections,” 138-41.

174 three Marys at the tomb of Christ.457 In both of these capitals, there is only one angel, while in the Oviedo capital, there are two. This second angel occupies the same location relative to the tomb that the first Mary does in the two Palencia capitals. The Oviedo sculptor has added, intentionally or by accident, a second angel to the scene, necessitating the extra head for the third Mary. Why might this be?

Small details of the composition that differ among these three capitals suggest that, despite the similar iconography, subtly different meanings were intended in each one. In the Aguilar de Campoo capital, the angel points towards the visibly open tomb, from which a cloth spills out. The figure closest to him holds up her hands in a gesture of surprise or acclaim, and all three women look towards the angel. In the Lebanza capital, the first Mary points towards the angel, looking towards her companions. The angel points again to the open tomb with the shroud, and the edge of the tomb bears the inscription: “Simile sepulchro Domini quodammodo” (In some measure this is a likeness of the tomb of the Lord). On the Oviedo capital, both angels touch the tomb, while the second angel also points towards the three Marys. The tomb here is depicted differently than in the Palencian capitals, for although it appears to be open, it lacks a visible shroud.

We can relate these iconographic differences to the relics of the Cámara Santa, and how were divulged, verbally or visually, to pilgrims. The iconography of the three Marys at the tomb has long been a touchstone for studies of the interaction between ritual and representation, established by Émile Mâle’s classic thesis on the connection between this iconography and the Quem queritis drama.458 In the context of the Lebanza capital, Linda Seidel has argued that the gestures of the three Marys “visually reconstruct the chain of responses found in the liturgical dramatization of the Quem queritis passages.”459 I would like to suggest that something similar is happening in the Cámara Santa: not liturgical drama, per se, but the perhaps para-liturgical drama of divulging the relics of the Arca Santa to pilgrims.

457 Simon, The Art of Medieval Spain, astutely notes the stylistic similarity to the Oviedo capital, although he does not address the particular issue of the number of figures.

458 Mâle, L’art religieux du XIIe siècle, 125-39.

459 Seidel, “Romanesque Sculpture in American Collections,” 140.

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According to Morales, the eldest canon told pilgrims about all of the relics of the Cámara Santa, performing a verbal inventory of the Arca’s voluminous contents.460 We know from the surviving sixteenth-century customary of Oviedo Cathedral that two clerics, referred to as claveros, had to open the Cámara Santa on Sundays after mass so that the devout could visit the relics.461 The capital depicting the three Marys can thus be seen as a visual narrative device analogous to these clerical interlocutors who explain to pilgrims the miraculous origins of the Arca Santa, just as the angels explain to the three Marys that Christ is no longer in his tomb. The pilgrims, in turn, mimic the behavior of three Marys, marveling at the miraculous relics.

This imagery also resonates with the form and contents of the Arca Santa. The Arca contained several relics associated with the death and burial of Christ, including the fragments of the True Cross, tomb of Christ, and his burial shroud. While the shroud is now the cathedral’s most venerated relic, the growth of the cult of this specific relic can be traced back to the period of the Countereformation; during the twelfth century, this relic formed part of a larger ensemble of other Christological relics found inside the Arca. Perhaps there is even a visual parallel made between the tomb of Christ depicted on the capital and the Arca Santa itself, appropriate given the reliquary’s tomb-like form. The tomb of Christ depicted on the capital is supported on short columns, and while the Arca today rests on a plain concrete plinth, a late twelfth-century text suggests that this was not always the case. According to this account of the Arca Santa, redacted sometime between 1175 and 1187, Alfonso II made a new golden revetment for the Arca. When he placed the venerable reliquary inside its new container, the four feet of the shrine pierced the corners of the golden shrine. These feet was “most devotedly touched and kissed by pilgrims, and in the presence of God prayers and tears flowed beneath that ark.”462 This text thus presents

460 Morales, Viaje Santo, 85.

461 Libro de los Estatutos y Constituciones, fol. 24v-25v.

462 “Rex autem castus fecerat aliam archam parari, majorem illa in qua reliquie continetur, que miro opere sculpta et tota deforis inaurata devotionem Regis casti et prudentiam artificis videntibus representat atque testatur. In hac majori archa collocavit sanctam archam tali modo quod quatuor pedes sancti scrinii perforatis angulis majoris arche foris apparent et a peregrinis tanguntur et devotissime osculantur et sub archa illa preces et lacrime coram Deo effunduntur. De unoquoque pede sancte arche foris apparet longitudo pedis et dimidii.” Edited by Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 10.

176 us with an image of the Arca Santa elevated on columns, not unlike numerous other saints’ shrine on the Iberian peninsula and beyond.

Whether or not the Arca Santa was ever actually elevated on columns remains unclear. Regardless, I would like to point to other imagery in the twelfth-century sculpture of the Cámara Santa that seems to take advantage of the familiarity of such an arrangement for medieval pilgrims. Cuesta and Sandoval mention seeing visible signs (such as incised crosses) of the presence of pilgrims on the dado level of the Cámara Santa, particularly on the layer of stucco covering the elaborate pedestals that support the apostolado.463 These supporting structures merit further comment in the context of the wider play of meanings of the sculptural and pictorial decoration of the Cámara Santa. The apostles stand on pedestals that are in turn supported by finely-rendered microarchitectural supports; the column capitals of this microarchitecture are often carved with the same level of detail as the larger-scale capitals of the apostolado (Figure 4.42). The architectural details on these supports were meant to be visually read as columns, and their location on the dado level made them readily accessible to pilgrims in ways that the larger figures of the apostolado and its decorated and historiated capitals were not.

The elaboration of this microarchitecture becomes be meaningful when we consider the decoration and disposition of numerous twelfth- and thirteenth-century saints’ shrines, which were elevated on columns.464 The columns themselves were the object of pilgrims’ rituals, and contact with the columns supporting the shrine could stand in for contact with the saint himself, with similarly miraculous effects.465 Sánchez Ameijeiras argues that the architectural decoration on saints’ shrines, particularly depictions of columns, “employ[s] a visual language of expectation and desire, inspired or determined by actual rites that took place at saints’ tombs, and intended to provoke the pilgrims’ active response.”466 The four minutely-rendered columns that support each of the bases beneath the pairs of apostles recalls the four feet of the Arca that

463 Cuesta and Sandoval, Trabajos realizados en la Cámara Santa, 23.

464 On the Iberian peninsula, among the most noteworthy shrines are those of San Vicente in Ávila, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, and San Millán. For a general contextualization of these reliquaries, see Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada.”

465 Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and Interactivity,” 27-29.

466 Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and Interactivity,” 30.

177 perforated the new container built by Alfonso II, described in the late twelfth-century text discussed above. Thus, direct contact with this dado-level microarchitecture might stand in for direct contact with the reliquary itself and its sacred contents.

The presence of the relics in the Cámara Santa was underscored, and pilgrims’ experience intensified, by what is arguably the most unusual element of the sculpted decoration of the space. High up on the western wall, above the entryway, are three sculpted heads of Christ, the Virgin, and John the Evangelist, making up a Calvary scene (Figure 4.43).467 Evidence exists that the bodies were painted rather than sculpted, and Cuesta and Sandoval mention seeing the painted figure of a mitered bishop next to the Virgin, now lost. This remarkable ensemble has received surprisingly little consideration in the scholarship. While such “multi-media” ensembles of painting and sculpture are not unknown, they are unusual.

Another set of heads of a Calvary group, similar though not stylistically identical to those in the Cámara Santa, was installed in the nearby church of Santa María del Rey Casto (Figure 4.44).468 Santa María was primarily a funerary church, and several kings and queens of the Asturian monarchy are buried there. The building, constructed during the reign of Alfonso II according to ninth-century chronicles, was torn down and rebuilt in the eighteenth century as a chapel attached to the main body of the cathedral. These sculpted heads were conserved, and are now located above the western entrance to the chapel. According to witnesses of the building before it was torn down, the Calvary group was located on the arch between the central apse and the nave.469 The location of this Calvary group immediately preceding the apse in Santa María underscores the status of the twelfth-century Cámara Santa as an apse-like space, similar to the decorated apses in Uncastillo, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, Zaragoza, Alba de Tormés, and Fuentidueña.

The prominence of the sculpted heads of the Cámara Santa recalls some of the enamels of Limoges, on which the “classical heads” of the figures project from the flat surface of the

467 García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, 622.

468 García de Castro, La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 92.

469 Carvallo, Antigüedades y cosas memorables, 180.

178 object.470 The nature of the Arca Santa as a metalwork object, although decorated using the repoussé technique rather than with enamel, thus resonates with this aspect of the Cámara Santa’s decoration.471 In terms of architectural sculpture, the medium of stucco offers suggestive parallels to the detached limestone heads in Oviedo. While not much eleventh and twelfth century stucco survives, we do have examples of a sculpted head and painted body at the monastic church of Saint-Chef-en-Dauphiné (Isère) (Figure 4.45). The paintings have been dated to the first half of the twelfth century, although it is uncertain whether the stucco was put in place at the same time or somewhat later.472 As Christian Sapin and Bénédicte Palazzo-Bertholon write, the stucco head of St. George “underscores the human nature” of the saint, standing out from the rest of the painted decoration as the sole sculptural element.473 The three-dimensional sculpture thus stands in for the physical body of the saint, making his presence more palpable in much the same way that the projecting heads on enamel reliquaries might have functioned to embody the presence of the holy bodies contained within.

The sculpted heads that emerge from the flat painted surface of the Cámara Santa’s western wall function underscore the reality of the Crucifixion and the physical presence of

470 On these heads, see Enamels of Limoges, 52-53. The presence and origins of objects de opere lemovicensi in the Iberian peninsula has been the subject of much debate. The so-called Silos workshop was likely producing enameled objects by the mid-twelfth century, and objects with sculpted heads by around 1165. See Martín Anson, “Los esmaltes silenses.” See also Gauthier, “L’atelier d’orfèvrerie de Silos;” Hildburgh, Medieval Spanish Enamels. Español, “Los esmaltes de Limoges en España,” 88, has examined references in inventories, and asserts that Limoges work is attested to in Iberian treasuries starting in 1217 in the Crown of Aragón, and 1231 for the kingdoms of Castilla and León. One of the most important enamel reliqaries, likely made in Silos, is the Urna of Santo Domingo de Silos. In the specific context of this object, Gauthier (Émaux méridionaux, cat. no. 80, 89) has suggested that the sculpted heads were inspired by figural sculpture on capitals and column-figures, while Hildburgh (Medieval Spanish Enamels, 78-79) cites as evidence of the Spanish origin of several enamel objects with these projecting heads the presence of the three sculpted heads in the Cámara Santa.

471 A similar argument has been made for a series of late twelfth-century altar frontals from Cataluña, which use a technique known as pastiglia that involves sculpting in low relief with a paste such as gesso. See Castiñeiras and Camps, “Pintura pintada, imagen esculpida,” 141.

472 Sapin, Le Stuc, 205-06.

473 Sapin, Le Stuc, 206.

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Christ in the form of the relics contained there. The semi-sculpted Crucifixion above the entrance to the Cámara Santa is analogous to the arrangement in the sacristy of San Filippo Neri in Pontone (Amalfi), where a stucco Crucifix emerges from a painted Calvary scene above the entryway into the space. As Jill Caskey points out, “[c]ross and body are formed of the same liquid material as wall, vault, and painted ground.”474 This melding of media creates a vividly embodied space in which viewers can participate in the drama of the Crucifixion, and feel the palpable truth of the Incarnation.

In Oviedo, as in many other pilgrimage sites, pilgrims left their own mark on the walls of the Cámara Santa in the form of what we now term graffiti. As recent studies have made clear, medieval and early modern graffiti “was not trespass,” and did not have the same negative meaning it has in contemporary society.475 Rather than being against the rules, graffiti-making was an important visual and textual practice engaged in by medieval and early modern pilgrims. It can be seen as expressing devotion, as well as a desire to remember and be remembered. In the Cámara Santa, the stuccoed surface of the wall was a locus for pilgrims’ communication with the relics and connection to the wider narratives of death and resurrection that play out in the sculpture and painting. By incising into the surface of the stucco that forms the ground for the painted and sculpted decoration of the space, they participate directly with these powerful narratives and connect to the holy figures whose relics they have come to venerate. Although their traces have been lost, these marks form an integral part of the function and meaning of the decoration of the Cámara Santa. In the end, we are left not only with the hands of sculptors— Pita’s “masters of Oviedo”—but also with the hands of centuries of anonymous pilgrims.

* * *

I have presented a vision of the Cámara Santa as a complex ensemble of painting, sculpture, and ritual, inhabited by canons and pilgrims. This contrasts with the fragmentary and frankly reductive vision of the space offered by the purely stylistic analysis of the sculpture alone. As consideration of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century publications on the Cámara Santa suggests, the process of restoration went hand in hand with the increasing focus on

474 Caskey, “Liquid Gothic,” 118.

475 Fleming, “Wounded Walls,” 3. See also Kupfer, “The Cult of Images;” Plesch, “Memory on the Wall;” Jäggi, “Graffiti as a Medium for Memoria.”

180 the apostolado as an art historical monument that needed to be categorized in terms of style. Treating this as a separate history, with specific implications for our understanding of the apostolado, helps clarify the issues at stake in our study of this material and allows us to explore alternative meanings for the sculpture. Contrary to the focus on style and formal details that has thus far characterized the study of the apostolado, I have argued for an interpretation of the sculpture that is based on its meaning in the space, particularly how it engages with its viewers, both canons and pilgrims alike.

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Conclusion: Monuments, Memory, and the Dead

A monument is so named because it admonishes the mind to remember the deceased person. Indeed, when you don’t see a monument, it is as what is written, ‘I have slipped from the heart as one who is dead.’ But when you see it, it admonishes the mind and brings you back to mindfulness so that you remember the dead person. Thus both monument and memory are so called from the admonition of the mind.476

Isidore of Seville here emphasizes the active role of the monument in provoking viewers to a state of mindful awareness of the dead person being commemorated. As we have seen, the late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa functioned similarly to provoke awareness of the sacred treasures housed within and to elicit devotional behavior on the part of pilgrims. The drama of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ plays out on the walls of the space and is materialized in the relics housed therein. Just as Isidore envisioned, the Cámara Santa is a monument that creates a physical link between the living and the dead, reaching between the past and the present.

Several hundred years separate Isidore from the contemporary disciplines of art history and historic preservation that now define, manage and study monuments. Despite this, we are, if anything, even less concrete than Isidore in our definition of what constitutes a monument. In the words of Margaret Olin and Robert Nelson, a monument is “what art history chooses the celebrate and proclaim a monument.”477 While nineteenth- and twentieth-century notions of the monument privilege its ability to embody and crystallize a particular vision, often of national history or identity, more recent studies have instead pointed out that the power of monuments also comes from the fact that they are “living, vital, immediate, and accessible,” rather than static

476 “Monumentum ideo nuncupatur eo quod mentem moneat ad defuncti memoriam. Cum enim non videris monumentum, illud est quod scriptum est (Psalm. 31, 12): ‘Excidi tamquam mortuus a corde.’ Cum autem videris, monet mentem et ad memoriam te reducit ut mortuum recorderis. Monumenta itaque et memoriae pro mentis admonitione dictae.” Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 313.

477 Olin and Nelson, “Introduction,” 2.

182 embodiments; monuments are “things we think with,” not about, a formulation with which Isidore himself might have agreed.478

This is the perspective I have brought to bear on the Cámara Santa. Its status as a monument in the traditional, art historical sense is unquestionable, as the scholarship and tourism it has generated attest. The post-war restoration of the site intended to produce a single, stable interpretation of the building and its early medieval origins, but I have shown that the Cámara Santa is ripe for alternative interpretations that attend to multiple pasts over the longue durée. I began by revisiting the twentieth century debates surrounding the destruction and reconstruction of the Cámara Santa, revealing the ideological interpretations that continue to shape scholarship on the site. I then turned to the early medieval form and function of the building, arguing that we must understand it as a two storey structure, a treasury atop a martyrs’ shrine. It was only in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries when both these functions come together in the upper storey space known as the Cámara Santa.

My second chapter focused on this rich twelfth century context, particularly the writings of Bishop Pelayo of Oviedo (d. 1153), who oversaw the production of an illuminated cartulary and chronicle. I analyzed text and image in these manuscripts, showing how they work together to enhance the antiquity and authority of the see of Oviedo in ways that still shape our contemporary experience of the Cámara Santa and its contents. The focus of Pelayo’s textual labors was the Arca Santa, the most important reliquary and object of pilgrimage in Oviedo, and the the centerpiece of the Cámara Santa itself. In my third chapter, I considered the Arca Santa as well as a constellation of texts and objects associated with it, arguing that this reliquary shapes the form and function of the space as a whole. Finally, in my fourth and final chapter, I focused on the late twelfth-century expansion and decoration of the Cámara Santa. I argued that the sculpture that lines the walls of the space animates and embodies the relics contained within the Arca Santa, interacting with the pilgrims and canons who used the space. Thus, this sculpture represents the culmination of the long twelfth-century transformation of the Cámara Santa into a space of pilgrimage focused around the Arca Santa and the memory of the early medieval patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, a memory which abides to this day.

478 Olin and Nelson, “Introduction,” 3 and 6.

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Throughout my dissertation, I strove to maintain a balance between synchronic and diachronic narrative. I traced the changing form, function and meaning of the building from its origins in the early tenth century, its reconfiguration in the twelfth century and finally its reconstruction in the twentieth. The diptych structure of my chapters encouraged a more diachronic reading of these texts, images and spaces across time periods usually isolated from one another in more synchronic narratives. In other words, I attended to the historical life of the building, but also its afterlife, or resurrection.479 This metaphor is not accidental. Isidore tells us that monuments are tombs for the dead. Thus, within Christian eschatology, those dead will be resurrected. Buildings and bodies can thus come together in this metaphor of resurrection.

Medieval debates about the resurrection of the body offer a rather literal but nonetheless productive perspective on architectural restoration and reconstruction. Caroline Walker Bynum highlights a pervasive concern about bodily change and decay, understood as the consumption or fragmentation of the body, within early writing on the idea of resurrection. Here, Isidore of Seville is once again pertinent, for he points to some of these anxieties about bodily decay within the context of the physical spaces within which the dead rest:

A sepulcher is so called from ‘buried.’ Originally, people were buried in their own homes. Later, this was prohibited by law, so that the bodies of the living would not be infected by contact with the stench.480

This fear of decay is thus contained by the separate space of the sepulcher, although the sepulcher itself becomes a locus of anxiety about the consumption and fragmentation of the body. Specifically, Isidore recalls the Greek etymology of the word “sarcophagus,” so called “because bodies are consumed there.”481

479 On the “life of buildings,” see Camerlenghi, “The Longue Durée.”

480 “Sepulchrum a sepulto dictum. Prius autem quisque in domo sua sepeliebatur. Postea vetitum est legibus, ne foetore ipso corpora viventium contacta inficerentur.” The Latin text is from Isidore, Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 313.

481 “Sarcophagus Graecum est nomen, eo quod ibi corpora absumantur.” The Latin text is from Isidore, Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. and trans., Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 313.

184

Augustine describes the moment of resurrection as being like a sculptor recasting a bronze statue to remove imperfections, and Bynum observes the frequency with which early medieval thinkers represented the idea of bodily resurrection by means of metaphors of remaking, either the recasting of sculpture, or the reconstruction of buildings. Bynum terms these metaphors “inorganic images” that attempt to contain the threat of bodily change and physical decay.482 Taking into account Isidore’s vivid language, I would like to suggest that buildings and sculptures were not so “inorganic” as they seem from our modern perspective. Such material and architectural metaphors do not represent the inorganic disembodiment of the human body; rather, they actively embody the spaces and objects associated with the dead. Instead of seeing bodies as being like buildings, we might instead reverse the logic of this metaphor, seeing buildings as being like bodies, subject to the organic processes of change, decay and fragmentation.

Scholars such as David Freedberg and Alfred Gell have highlighted the power and agency of images, and work on iconoclasm and the destruction of images likewise underscores their capacity to take on life—and to die.483 If works of art can die, they can also be resurrected through reconstruction. Such is the case of the Cámara Santa and its sculptural inhabitants, the twelve apostles that line the north and south walls of the space. A photograph taken soon after the destruction of 1934 shows six of the apostles, laid out on the floor like shrouded bodies, the fragmentation of the stone recalling the wounded, broken bodies of the victims of war (see Figure 4.19). The uncanny quality of this wounded sculpture was noted by contemporaries. José Fernánadez Buelta, who collaborated with Víctor Hevia, the sculptor responsible for the restoration of the apostles, wrote that “[t]hey displayed horrible mutilations, and a sense of unease was provoked, viewing those fragmented bodies and disfigured faces.”484

As even a cursory glance at our medieval sources indicates, this metaphorical association of remade sculpture and resurrected body is not unique to Spain in the 1930s. Given the intense National Catholicism which imbued much Francoist rhetoric with religious associations, I

482 Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body, 72.

483 Freedberg, Power of Images; Gell, Art and Agency; Gamboni, The Destruction of Art; Latour and Weibel, eds., Iconoclash.

484 “Presentaban horribles mutilaciones y causaba desasosiego contemplar aquellos cuerpos fragmentados y aquellos rostros desfigurados hasta lo espantoso.” Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 127.

185 believe that this resonance between modern practices of reconstruction and medieval ideas of resurrection takes on particular significance. In the wake of the Civil War, explicit parallels were drawn between the reconstruction of cities and the remaking of the Spanish nation and its people. Buildings stand in visually and rhetorically for bodies, and an explicit correspondence was made between devastated cities and wounded bodies. A series of postcards packaged together and entitled “Oviedo, ciudad mártir” makes this comparison explicit. The damaged buildings stand in for wounded bodies, otherwise absent from these photographs.

The story of the martyred city’s reconstruction has its own victims, heretofore invisible. As more than seventy-five percent of its urban fabric had been destroyed, Oviedo was officially “adopted” by Franco in 1940, which meant that the State took it upon itself to fund and carry out all reconstruction.485 Prisoners of war were forced to rebuild cities in order to “redeem” themselves, and it is likely that prisoners of war were used extensively to rebuild Oviedo.486 The language used to describe urban reconstruction embodies the city and its buildings, even as the actual individuals who labored to rebuild it were condemned to invisibility and anonymity.

The invisibility of these prisoners, as well as other victims of Francoist repression, has prompted a move to exhume their bodies, literally bringing their existence to light. This has been the most polemical aspect of the 2007 Law of Historical Memory, provoking passionate debate in Spanish society.487 The stated objective of this piece of legislation is “to recognize and widen the rights of those who suffered persecution or violence for political, ideological or religious reasons during the Civil War and Dictatorship,” which has been taken as a legal basis on which

485 On the pueblos adoptados, see Viejo-Rose, Reconstructing Spain, 49-50.

486 On 22 November 1938, Pedro Muguruza (the head of the General Direction of Devastated Regions) wrote to Menéndez Pidal requesting housing for prisoners in monasteries and castles of lesser artistic importance, sites that would then be reconstructed by these prisoners. ACO, papers of Luis Menéndez Pidal, folder 1, no. 99. The program, Redención de penas por el trabajo, was the brainchild of the Jesuit José Pérez de Pulgar, and was instituted before the end of the war, in 1938. It was featured in the first issue of the journal Reconstrucción (1940), 28-31. For a recent monograph on this program, see Lafuente, Esclavos por la patria. In the context of architectural reconstruction, see the remarks in Muñoz-Rojas, Ashes and Granite, 9-10. See also Viejo-Rose, Reconstructing Spain, 50.

487 For a useful summation of these debates, with additional bibliography, see Faber, “The Price of Peace,” and his “Revis[it]ing the Past.”

186 to proceed with these controversial exhumations.488 As Francisco Ferrándiz rightly observes, the popular movements to exhume the remains of the war dead carry with them a heavy weight of history.489 We cannot, like Miguel de Unamuno, shrug off the weight of the past; the contemporary movement to exhume the dead must be understood in the context of the violence of the 1930s and of the explicitly Christian symbolic language in which that violence was carried out.

During both the medieval and modern eras, the Cámara Santa has been employed for ideological ends. While I do not wish to draw a simple correspondence between the medieval and modern uses of the building, or suggest an equation between twelfth-century bishops and twentieth-century dictators, it is important to take the persistent ideological power of the site seriously. The extent to which the political agenda of the early Francoist government has shaped both the physical form and historical interpretation of the monuments of medieval Asturias poses a fundamental ethical question. When the preservation of the past and its monuments is so deeply implicated in political ideology, how should we engage with these restored remains? As art historians, we value the bienes culturales of the past and have a stake in their survival, for they are our objects of study. But when their survival depends on a highly ideologically charged practice of reconstruction which puts them in the service of political agendas, how should we respond?490

We must, I believe, respond actively and self-consciously, because non-engagement is its own kind of choice and often a highly problematic one. As Sebastiaan Faber has shown in the

488 Boletín Oficial del Estado (BOE). “Ley 52/2007, de 26 de diciembre, por la que se reconocen y amplían derechos y se establecen medidas en favor de quienes padecieron persecución o violencia durante la guerra civil y la dictadura.”

489 Ferrándiz, “The return of Civil War ghosts.”

490 Scholars looking at the cases of fascist Germany and Italy have asked similar questions, but fascist Spain still loiters at the margins of these larger debates. For a general consideration of monuments and the construction of national identiy, see the essays in Gillis, ed., Commemorations. The German case is explored in works such as Koshar, From Monuments to Traces. For fascist Italy, see Lasansky, The Renaissance Perfected and Lazzaro and Crum, eds., Donatello among the Blackshirts.

187 context of the Spanish Civil War, North American scholars of Spain were encouraged to be non- partisan and to refuse to engage in politics. In Faber’s blunt assessment,

Throughout much of the postwar period, academic Hispanism . . . proved too depoliticized, specialized, and conservative an institution to take on the war as a topic of serious scholarly discussion and investigation. Instead, academic Hispanism appeared largely willing to accept the Franco regime as the new status quo.491

Meanwhile, within Spain, the participation of intellectuals in the workings of the Franco regime has received little study or comment.492 This is particularly true within the traditionally conservative field of medieval studies, and my footnotes are full of references to works by individuals who were complicit, either as active participants or passive bystanders, in the regime. My goal here is not to judge the actions of individual scholars, but rather to propose a way forward from this painful history precisely by engaging with it directly.

The legacy of the Civil War has become increasingly visible in recent years, particularly in the wake of the passage of the Law of Historical Memory in 2007. The law seeks to make “moral reparations” to those who suffered, recovering their personal and familial memory and commemorating their suppressed history in public space and popular discourse. As part of this attempt at reparations, the fifteenth article of this law orders the removal of “seals, insignia, plaques or other objects or commemorations exalting, personally or collectively, the military uprising, Civil War and repression under the Dictatorship.” Some crucial qualifications were made to this sweeping pronouncement; it does not apply to purely private commemoration or to monuments protected by law on artistic, architectural, or religious grounds. In effect, this exempts works of art and religious structures, some of the very monuments most freighted with ideological baggage during the Civil War and Dictatorship. The extent to which the physical and political landscape of Spain is constructed out of the legacy of Francoism renders the stated goal of the Law Historical Memory difficult to achieve. What does it mean to make “moral

491 Faber, Anglo-American Hispanists, 220.

492 See the discussion in Jerez-Farrán and Amago, “Introduction.”

188 reparations,” when, as we have seen, the act of reparation—meaning literally to restore—is itself highly problematic?

In producing a smooth façade—both ideological and architectural—the Francoist government buried the traces of the conflict and dissent that marked its own difficult formation. The bodies of the Civil War dead have come back to haunt contemporary Spanish society; whether those bodies are exhumed or remain buried, their existence is undeniable. They are present not only in numerous unmarked graves, but also in the very stones and substance of the buildings rebuilt in the wake of the war. Attending to the buried history of monuments thus helps us to remember the dead, the fundamental goal of history-writing since the time of Isidore.

189

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Appendix 1

Geneaological Chart of the Kings of Asturias, ca. 718-910 (From Collins, Caliphs and Kings, fig. 2)

235

Appendix 2.1

Contents of BN MS 1358, known as the Alcalá Codex

1. Catalogue of the cities ruled by the Goths (ff. 1r-1v) 2. Second Castilian Annals (ff. 1v-4r) 3. Annals of the monastery of Corias (ff. 4r-4v) 4. Computation of the judges, kings and emperors of different lands (ff. 5r-5v) 5. Synopsis of the ages of the world (fol. 5v) 6. Historical descriptions of Toledo, Zaragoza, León and Oviedo (ff. 6r-8v) 7. Liber chronica seu fabularium (ff. 8v-27v) a. Computation of the history of the universe, from Adam until 883 (ff. 8v-9r) b. Sequence of the ages of the world (ff. 9r-9v) c. Exquisitio tocius mundi (ff. 9v-10r) d. Ordo Romanorum (ff. 10r-14v) e. Ordo gentis Gotorum (ff. 14v-18r) f. Ordo Gotorum regum (ff. 18r-22r) g. Noticia episcoporum cum sedibus suis (fol. 22r) h. Continuation of the Ordo Gotorum regum until 883 (ff. 22r-25r) i. List of distances between certain Spanish and European cities (ff. 25r-25v) j. Item Sarracenorum (ff. 25v-26r) k. Ingresso Sarracenorum in Spania (ff. 26r-27r) l. Explanatio huius a nobis edita (ff. 27r-27v) 8. Universal Chronicle of Isidore of Seville (fragmentary) (fol. 28r) 9. Ordo annorum breui collectus a beato Iuliano Pomerio (ff. 28r-29r) 10. Pelagian version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III (fragmentary) (ff. 29r-35r) 11. Chronicle of Sampiro (ff. 35r-49r) 12. Chronicle of Pelayo of Oviedo (ff. 49r-55r) 13. Cities whose names changed after the conquest (fol. 55r) 14. De Salomonis penitentia (ff. 55r-55v) 15. Council of León, 1020, or Decreta Aldefonsi (ff. 56r-60v) 16. Chronicon Iriense (ff. 61r-69v) 17. Privilege known as the Votos de Santiago (ff. 70r-74v)

236

Appendix 2.2

Contents of BN MS 1513, known as the Batres Codex

1. Notice of the date of Pelayo’s consecration as bishop (fol. 1r) 2. A list of work undertaken by Pelayo in the cathedral (fol. 1r) 3. Table showing the division of the earth between the sons of Noah (fol. 1v) 4. Pyramid showing degrees of consanguinuity, with accompanying text (ff. 2r-2v) 5. Two versions of the rose of the winds, with central text “Pelagius episcopus me fecit” (ff. 3r- 3v) 6. Liber cronicorum ab exordio mundi (ff. 4r-72v) a. Prologue (fol. 4r) b. Ortographia Iunioris Isidori (ff. 4v-8r) c. Brief sequence of Roman emperors (ff. 8r-19r) d. Biblical genealogy up to Saint Anne (ff. 19r-22r) e. Computation of the time of birth of Christ (ff. 22r-22v) f. Prophetic calculations about the time of the arrival of the Antichrist (ff. 22v-23r) g. Ordo annorum mundi breui collectus a beato Iuliano Pomerio Tholetane sedis archiepiscopo (ff. 23r-24r) h. Cronica Vandalorum regum (ff. 24r-26v) i. Suevorum cronica (ff. 26v-28v) j. Cronica regum Gothorum (ff. 28v-38r) k. Brief continuation of the History of the Goths (fol. 38r) l. Chronica Visegothorum of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, Pelagian version (ff. 38v-52v) m. Chronicle of Sampiro, Pelagian version (ff. 52v-64r) n. Chronicle of Pelayo (ff. 64r-69v) o. Privilegium domini Urbani pape II (ff. 69v-70v) p. Privilegium Pascalis pape II (ff. 70v-71v) q. Privilegium Pascalis [sic] pape II (should read “Calixti”) (ff. 71v-72v) 7. Liber historia francorum of Pseudo-Fredegar (ff. 72v-101v) 8. Cities whose names changed after the conquest (fol. 101v) 9. Decreta Adefonsi regis et Geloire regine (ff. 102r-106r) 10. Decreta Fredenandi regis et Sancie regine (ff. 106r-108r)

237

11. De regularibus canonicis (ff. 108r-114v) 12. Historical descriptions of Toledo, Zaragoza, León and Oviedo (ff. 114v-116r) 13. Alfonso II’s donation to the cathedral of Oviedo (ff. 116r-117v)

238

Appendix 2.3

Contents of the vetustissimus ovetensis, as recorded by Ambrosio de Morales in BN MS 1346

1. A series of royal geneaologies, prefaced by the text, “Pelagius de Obeto indignus episcopus propria manu scripsit hanc Genealogia.” 2. Biblical geneaologies up to the Virgin and Saint Anne 3. Numerus sedium Hispaniensum, or the Division of Wamba 4. Liber de nominibus successorum Vandalorum, Alanorum et Gotorum, also known as the Liber Itacii 5. First letter sent by Pope John 6. Second letter by Pope John 7. Papal privilege conferring metropolitan status on Oviedo 8. Council of Oviedo 9. Narrative of the Arca Santa 10. Isidore’s Chronicle of the Goths 11. Brief continuation of the Chronicle of the Goths, with a list of the number of years each king ruled 12. Chronicle of Julian Pomerius 13. Chronicle of Sebastian of Salamanca (Chronicle of Alfonso III) 14. Foundation of the church of Santiago (marginalia added by Morales) 15. History of the Franks of Gregory of Tours (this entry is crossed out by Morales) 16. Index of abbreviations in Visigothic script 17. Treatise on the seven liberal arts 18. Diplomatic formulas from Visigothic documents 19. Letters from various Visigothic bishops 20. Sisebut’s Life of St. Desiderius 21. Letter from Sisebut 22. Verse and prose legal defense mounted by a monk before Sisebut 23. Corographia Isidori Iunioris (marginalia added by Morales) 24. Genealogia totius bibliotecae ex omnibus libris veteris namque testamenti

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Appendix 2.4

Description of the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1

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Appendix 3.1

Inscription from the Lid of the Arca Santa

Transcription by Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 62.

The inscription is read beginning in the innermost line of text on the front of the Arca, moving to the innermost line on the right side, and so on in a clockwise direction around the reliquary. Single foreward slashes indicate the next line of text in this clockwise sequence around the reliquary. Double foreward slashes indicate the transition from the inner line of text to the next, outer line. Square brackets contain material supplied by Diego Santos. Parentheses contain letters expanded by Diego Santos from abbreviations, although it should be noted that there are some abbreviations he did not expand; these have been left as they are found in Santos’ transcription.

† Om(n)is conventus populi Deo dignus cat(h)olici cognoscat q(u)orum inclitas veneratur reliq(u)ias intra preciosis(s)ma pr(a)esentis arc(a)e/2 latera, hoc est de Ligno plurimum, sive de cruce Dni de vestimento illius quod per sorte(m)/3 d[on]u(m)493 est de pane delectabili unde in c(o)ena usus est, de sepulchro dnico, eius atque sudario et cruore scisimo de t[erra]/4 sca qua piis calcavit tunc vestigiis de vestimentis v[irginis] Matris eius Mari(a)e, de lacte//5 q(u)oque illius q(u)od multum est mirabile, hi(i)s pariter c[on]iunct(a)e sunt qu(a)edam scorum maxime pr(a)estantes et reliqui(a)e q(u)orum pro ut/6 potuimus hic nomina subsripsimus [sic] [hoc est de sco. Petro] de sco. T(h)om(a)e sci. Bart(h)olom(a)ei, de o(s)s[ibus prophetarum]/7 et de omnibus aplis. et de aliis quam plurimis scis. q(u)oru(m) nomina sola Dei sciencia co(l)ligit, his om(n)ibus egregius rex Adefonsus humili devocione/8 [pr(a)editus fecit] hoc recept[aculum pignoribus scorum.] penitus [insignitum ext]erius adornatum non//9 vi[libus artis oper]ibus p(er) quod post vi[tam eius merea]tur [con]sorcium illorum in c(o)elestibus [scorum] eiusd(em) as(t) † iuvari p[recibu]s/10 H(a)ec quidem s[alutif]er[a ac veneranda mu]nera novit om[nis provincia in] her/11ra sine [d]ubio MaCa atqu[e Xa IIIa per ma]nus et industriam clericorum et pr(a)esulum qui prop[ter]/12 [hco {sic} convenimus cum dicto Adefonso] Principe, cum Germana l(a)etissime Ur//13[raca dicta nomi]ne quibus Redem(p)tor omnium con[c]edat indulge[nciam et suorum pecc]atoru[m veniam]/14 [per h(a)ec scisima pign]o[ra apostolorum et martirum hoc] est de sci

493 d[on]u(m) for d[ivis]u(m): emendation suggested by M. Mulchahey.

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Iusti et Pas[toris]/15 Adriani et Na[tali(a)e Cosm(a)e et Damiani I]uli(a)e Veri(s)simi [e]t Maximi Ger[ma]ni Baudu[li Panta/16leonis Cypri]a[ni et E]ul[ali(a)e Sebastian]i Cuc[ufati Felici]s [Sulpi]ci.

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Figure 1. The Cámara Santa after the blast of 12 October 1934 (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 1).

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Figure 2. Franco carrying the Cross of Victory, Oviedo, 7 September 1942 (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

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Figure 3. Arca Santa in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

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Figure 4. Cross of the Angels in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

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Figure 5. Cross of Victory in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).

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Figure 1.1. Plan of the Cathedral of Oviedo, with a detail of the area around the Cámara Santa (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 328-29).

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Figure 1.2. Destruction of the cloister near the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 10).

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Figure 1.3. Destruction of the Chapel of Covadonga, also known as the Chapel of San Ildefonso (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 13).

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Figure 1.4. The Arca Santa and the Cross of the Angels in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 16).

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Figure 1.5. The Cross of Victory in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 17.

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Figure 1.6. Plan by Luis Menéndez Pidal of the crypt of Santa Leocadia and nearby buildings (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 4).

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Figure 1.7. Section of the Cámara Santa, looking towards the east (left) and west (right) (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 18-19).

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Figure 1.8. Closing the vault of the crypt, 15 September 1938 (Photo: Hevia, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción,” 38).

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Figure 1.9. Fragments from the exterior of the Cámara Santa, reassembled, 15 May 1939 (Photo: Hevia, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción,” 38).

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Figure 1.10. Exterior of the Cámara Santa with the new opening onto the Pilgrims’ Cemetery (Photo: García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 23).

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Figure 1.11. Plan by Menéndez Pidal for the new grille in the Cámara Santa (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 23).

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Figure 1.12. Map of Franco’s procession (Map: James Liphus Ward).

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Figure 1.13. Ruins of Calle Uria, Oviedo, in the 1930s from the series of postcards, “Oviedo. Ciudad Mártir” (Photo: Biblioteca Ramón Pérez de Ayala, Ast R C 75-6, series 1, nos. 5 and 6).

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Figure 1.14. Víctor Hevia’s statue of Alfonso II in front of the Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

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Figure 1.15. Bust of Alfonso II (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, title page).

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Figure 1.16. Franco in the Cámara Santa, with the Liber Testamentorum in front of him (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).

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Figure 1.17. Fernández Buelta and Hevia’s reconstruction of the Palace of Alfonso II (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 24-25).

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Figure 1.18. The Cámara Santa in the ninth (above) and twelfth centuries (below), as imagined by Víctor Hevia (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 96 and 100).

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Figure 1.19. Ecclesiastical complex of medieval Oviedo, with the individual insitutions labeled as follows: (1) Cathedral of San Salvador; (2) Cámara Santa and crypt of Santa Leocadia; (3) Santa María del Rey Casto; (4) location of the original church of San Vicente; (5) cloister and dependencies of San Vicente; (6) San Pelayo; (7) cloister of San Pelayo; (8) archaeological remains between the cathedral and episcopal palace (Photo: Carrero Santamaría, “La ‘Ciudad Santa,’” fig. 1).

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Figure 1.20. View of the walled up doorway between the Tower of San Miguel and the Chapel of Covadonga (Photo: author).

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Figure 1.21. Plan of the basilica of Santa Eulalia de Mérida (Photo: Mateos Cruz, La Basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida, 51).

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Figure 1.22. Plan of the archaeological site at Es Cap des Ports (Photo: Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 167).

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Figure 1.23. Menéndez Pidal’s plan of the Pilgrims’ Cemetery, noting location of tombs and the portico (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 26).

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Figure 2.1. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.2. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.3. Miniature of Julian Pomerius and Wamba, BN MS 1513, fol. 38v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.4. Miniature of Sebastian and Pelayo, BN MS 1513, fol. 43v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.5. Miniature of Sampiro, BN MS 1513, fol. 48v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.6. Miniature of Pelayo and Bermudo, BN MS 1513, fol. 64r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.7. Alfonso VI sends envoys to Rome, BN MS 1513, fol. 67v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.8. Pope Urban II with envoys, ACO MS 1, fol. 79v-80r (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.9. Pope John and the messengers Siderius and Severus, ACO MS 1, fol. 5v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.10. Papal privileges, BN MS 1513, ff. 70v-71r, 71v-72r, and 72v-73r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.11. Letter of Paschal II, ACO MS 1, ff. 83r and 83v, details (Photo: author and Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis).

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Figure 2.12. Privilege of Paschal II, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 17 (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.13. Privilege of Urban II, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 7 (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.14. Decree of Alfonso V and Elvira, BN MS 1513, fol. 102r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.15. Decree of Fernando I and Sancha, BN MS 1513, fol. 106r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.16. Cross from the vetustissimus ovetensis, BN MS 1346, fol. 1v (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.17. Pelayo at Covadonga, BN MS 2805, fol. 23r (Photo: BN).

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Figure 2.18. Pelayo at Covadonga, RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 16v (Photo: RAH).

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Figure 2.19. Alfonso II praying in the Cámara Santa, ACO MS 1, fol. IIIv (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.20. Ordoño I and Mummadonna, ACO MS 1, fol. 8v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.21. Alfonso III and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 18v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.22. Ordoño II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 26v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.23. Fruela II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 32v (Photo: Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis).

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Figure 2.24. Bermudo II and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 49v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.25. Alfonso V and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 53v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.26. Bishop Martin, ACO MS 1, fol. 74v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.27. Bishop Pelayo and two canons, ACO MS 1, fol. 78v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.28. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 14 (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.29. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO MS 1, fol. 99v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.30. Crucifixion with donors, Pantheon of the Kings, San Isidoro, León (Photo: Martin, Queen as King, plate 96).

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Figure 2.31. Archbishop Adulfus, ACO MS 1, fol. 3v (Photo: author).

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Figure 2.32. Successive royal signatures, León Cathedral Archive, no. 2 (Photo: Millares Carlo, Tratado de paleografía española, vol. 2, plate 110).

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Figure 3.1. Arca Santa, general view (Photo: Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” fig. 1).

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Figure 3.2. Detail of the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 53, no. 84495).

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Figure 3.3. Detail of the Crucifixion from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 57, no. 25255).

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Figure 3.4. Detail of Dimas, the good thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 55, no. 84497).

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Figure 3.5. Detail of the angels atop the crucifixion of Dimas, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, folder 14, photo 54, no. 84496).

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Figure 3.6. Detail of Gestas, the bad thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 64, no. 84503).

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Figure 3.7. Front of the Arca Santa, before its restoration (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 32, no. 84478).

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Figure 3.8. Right side of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 47, no. 84490).

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Figure 3.9. Left side of the Arca Santa with the Infancy narrative (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 41, no. 84484).

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Figure 3.10. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.11. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(A) (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.12. Detail of the monogram of Urraca, ACO series B, folder 2, number 9(A) (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.13. Detail of monograms, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.14. Account of the Arca Santa in the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 1r (top) and 1v (bottom) (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.15. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v (Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).

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Figure 3.16. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 3r (Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).

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Figure 3.17. Casket of Arias (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. O4).

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Figure 3.18. Gundisalvus Diptych, open (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).

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Figure 3.19. Gundisalvus Diptych, closed (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).

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Figure 3.20. Casket of St. Eulalia (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 69, no. 84476).

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Figure 3.21. Casket, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid, acq. no. 50867 (Photo: Maravillas de la España medieval, vol. 1, cat. no. 21).

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Figure 3.22. Casket, San Isidoro (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47).

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Figure 3.23. Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, now lost, formerly located in the right corner of the image (Photo: author).

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Figure 3.24. Four painted relief panels in the Cathedral Museum of Oviedo (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. nos. E29, E30, E31, and E32).

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Figure 3.25. Panel with Sts. Eulogius and Vincent and the arms of Charles V (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E31).

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Figure 3.26. Panel with Sts. Eulalia and Lucretia and the arms of Bishop Cristóbal de Rojas y Sandoval (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E32).

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Figure 3.27. Panel with Alfonso II and the archangel Gabriel (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E29).

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Figure 3.28. Panel with Alfonso VI and the Virgin Mary (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E30).

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Figure 3.29. Anonymous photograph of the Cámara Santa with the four panels in situ (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/3).

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Figure 3.30. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso VI (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/33).

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Figure 3.31. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso II (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/32).

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Figure 4.1. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.2. Simon and Judas Thaddeus, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.3. Thomas and Bartholomew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.4. Peter and Paul, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.5. James and John, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.6. Andrew and Matthew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.7. James the Lesser and Philip, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.8. Diagram showing the disposition of the sculptural iconography in the Cámara Santa (Diagram: James L. Ward).

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Figure 4.9. Christ in Majesty surrounded by the apostles, capital above Andrew and Matthew (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.10. Three Marys at the tomb of Christ, front of the capital above Peter and Paul (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.11. Holy Family and unidentified figures, left face of the capital above James and John, Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.12. Annunciation with a scene of the Virgin and the prophet Isaiah, and the boar hunt, front of the capital above James and John (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.13. Harrowing of Hell and the boar hunt, right face of the capital above James and John (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.14. Section, plan, and details of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Amador de los Ríos, Monumentos arquitectónicos de España, unnumbered plate).

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Figure 4.15. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Parcerisa, Recuerdos y bellezas, 45).

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Figure 4.16. Cámara Santa, photograph from around 1898/1899 (Photo: Archivo Provincial de Asturias, Comisión Provincial de Monumentos, box 83735/3).

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Figure 4.17. Santiago and John, Cámara Santa (Photo: Archivo Mas).

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Figure 4.18. Apostles on the floor of Víctor Hevia’s workshop after the explosion of 1934 (Photo: Alejandro Ferrant, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 11, photo 73).

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Figure 4.19. Restored apostles of the Cámara Santa (Photo: La Nueva España, 7 September 1942).

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Figure 4.20. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the figures of Simon and Judas (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.21. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the staff of James (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.22. Plan of the cathedral and cloister (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, unnumbered plan).

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Figure 4.23. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of Simon and Judas Thaddeus (right) (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.24. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of Paul (right) (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.25. Entry to the chapter house, with reliefs of Peter and Paul above the doorway (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.26. Photograph showing the location in the chapter house where two of the relief panels now in the cloister were found (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 161).

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Figure 4.27. Cloister relief, Peter (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.28. Cloister relief, Paul (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.29. Cloister relief, Nicholas of Bari (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.30. Cloister relief, unidentified female figure (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.31. Cloister relief, unidentified male figure (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.32. Cloister relief fragment, unidentified male figure (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, cat. no. 67).

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Figure 4.33. Figure of Santiago, Santa Marta de Tera (Zamora) (Photo: Enciclopedia del Romanico en Zamora, 141).

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Figure 4.34. Series of relief panels from the Romanesque Cathedral of León (Photo: Boto Varela, La memoria perdida, figs. 26-29).

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Figure 4.35. Apse with column figures, San Martín, Uncastillo (Aragón) (Photo: Julia Perratore).

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Figure 4.36. View of the carved pilasters between the apse and ambulatory, Santo Domingo de la Calzada (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.37. Apostles in the apse of La Seo de Zaragoza (Photo: Iñiguez, “El ábside de La Seo de Zaragoza,” fig. 1).

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Figure 4.38. Apostles from the apse of San Juan in Alba de Tormés (Salamanca) (Photo: Enciclopedia del Románico en Castilla y León: Salamanca, 76).

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Figure 4.39. Column figure from the apse of San Martín, formerly in Fuentidueña (Segovia) (Photo: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, acc. no. L.58.86).

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Figure 4.40. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María de Lebanza, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 98).

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Figure 4.41. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María la Real, Aguilar de Campoo, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 97).

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Figure 4.42. Detail of the microarchitecture on the pedestals in the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.43. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).

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Figure 4.44. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Chapel of Santa María del Rey Casto (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 92).

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Figure 4.45. St. George, stucco head and painted body, Saint-Chef-en-Dauphiné (Isère) (Photo: Sapin, Le Stuc, 206).

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