BODY AND SOUL: THE PRODUCTION AND RECEPTION OF MEDICAL

TRANSLATIONS FROM ARABIC IN THE LONG TWELFTH CENTURY

A Dissertation

Submitted to the Graduate School

of the University of Notre Dame

in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

for the Degree of

Doctor of

by

Brian Long

John Van Engen, Director

Graduate Program in Medieval Studies

Notre Dame, Indiana

December 2015

© Copyright by

Brian Long

2015

All rights reserved BODY AND SOUL: THE PRODUCTION AND RECEPTION OF MEDICAL

TRANSLATIONS FROM ARABIC IN THE LONG TWELFTH CENTURY

Abstract

by

Brian Long

In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, in the Mediterranean was characterized by intellectual ferment and rapid change, characteristics quickened by substantial cross-cultural influences. In the Latin West, for example, translations produced in the long twelfth century (from the late eleventh to the early thirteenth centuries) marked a major shift in medicine’s development into a learned profession and also reshaped understandings of the . This dissertation explores both the cross-cultural circulation of medicine in the medieval Mediterranean and its place in and the

Latin West.

First, it examines medicine in eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantium, both because of its considerable vitality and because Byzantium’s broad influence and prestige make it an essential context for the Latin West. Rather than characterized by newly ascendant medical practitioners, as has been suggested, a divide appears to have existed between the enthusiasm for Brian Long medicine among learned readers and the humbler, often empirical world of

Byzantine medical practitioners. Second, the translations of Constantine the

African are examined, including both the contexts of their production and their connections to the other worlds of Mediterranean medicine. In particular, a detailed examination of Constantine’s Viaticum is undertaken, a translation of the - of n a - azza , with particular attention to its translation methods and terminology. The Viaticum reveals the comp exity of Constantine’s circumstances, where Constantine balanced his personal inclinations against the sensibilities and ideological aims of the monastery at Monte that financed his efforts. Further, the Viaticum’s te mino ogy is examined and systematically compared with both ancient and contemporary Arabic, Latin, and

Greek sources and analogues. In contrast to earlier interpretations, the Latin character of this terminology appears particularly pronounced; this suggests influence from contemporary Salernitan medicine is present, but perhaps also some distance. Fina y, the eception of Constantine’s works is explored in

William of St.-Thierry. Although often seen as highly conse vative, Wi iam’s work on the nature of the body reveals an effort to fuse medical and theological accounts of cognition, with suprising results. In sum, this dissertation reveals much about developments in Mediterranean medicine in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and its broad cultural impact.

uxori carissimae

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ...... v

Introduction ...... 1

Chapter 1: between Intellectual Enthusiasm and Practice, 1000-1150 ...... 22 1.1 Introduction ...... 22 1.2 Precursors of Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Byzantine Medicine ...... 25 1.3 Eleventh-Century Transitions: and Symeon Seth ...... 29 1.3.1 Michael Psellos ...... 32 1.3.2 Practical Medicine ...... 44 1.3.3 Symeon Seth ...... 50 1.4 Twelfth-Century Repercussions ...... 55 1.4.1 The Timarion ...... 57 1.4.2 Michael Italikos ...... 60 1.4.3 The Pantokrator ...... 62 1.5 Conclusion ...... 68

Chapter 2: Constantine's Viaticum in its Cassinese Context ...... 72 2.1 Introduction ...... 72 2.2 Constantine and his Adaptations ...... 78 2.2.1 Translation Shifts ...... 86 2.2.2 Theological Uncertainty in the Viaticum ...... 97 2.2.3 Ambiguities in Constantine's Religious Identity ...... 103 2.2.4 Sex ...... 111 2.3 Authorship and Authority ...... 128 2.3.1 Authority and Plagiarism in Constantine's Prefaces ...... 130 2.3.2 The Implications of the Viaticum Preface ...... 143 2.3.3 The Politics of Memory at ...... 145 2.4 Conclusion ...... 158 2.4.1 Greek and Latin Communities ...... 159 2.4.2 Politics of Memory at Monte Cassino ...... 160 2.4.3 Constantine Himself ...... 161

Chapter 3: The Viaticum and the Contexts of Practical Medicine ...... 164 3.1 Introduction ...... 164 3.2 The History of Mediterranean Medical Terminology...... 170

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3.3 A Terminological Menagerie ...... 182 3.3.1 Greek All the Way Down ...... 183 3.3.2 Greco-Latin Replacements of Arabic Terms ...... 188 3.3.3 Latin Adaptations of the Arabic ...... 200 3.4 Conclusion: Gariopontus and Constantine ...... 206

Chapter 4: Cistercians and Medicine in the Twelfth Century ...... 226 4.1 Introduction ...... 226 4.2 The Two Williams ...... 227 4.3 Cistercians and Medicine ...... 236 4.3.1 Bernard of Clairvaux and Medicine ...... 238 4.4 The Cistercian De anima Tradition ...... 248 4.5 William's De natura corporis et animae ...... 257 4.6 Natural Knowledge in the Twelfth Century and the "Conflict Model" ..... 271 4.7 Conclusion ...... 280

Conclusion ...... 283

Bibliography ...... 300

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Looking back, I have had the great good fortune to incur far too many personal and intellectual debts to enumerate; even though I cannot list them here, it has often been the many small kindnesses I received in the course of my work that have made these last years enjoyable.

This project would have been impossible, however, without the substantial generosity of the scholars who shaped and guided me along the way.

Warm thanks, first of all, to my advisor John Van Engen, who has encouraged this project all the way, even at its hesitant beginnings, and whose knack for subtle insights and probing questions have made this project—and me as a scholar— better in innumerable ways. Warmest thanks to Anthony Kaldellis, as well, who somehow manages to unite intellectual rigor and unstinting generosity, and who made the Byzantine dimension of this project possible. Thomas F.X. Noble has been generous with his time, advice, and support, and his excellence as both a scho a and teache p ovide much to aspi e to. Fina y, Remie Consta e’s deep expertise as a Mediterraneanist, high expectations, and support were crucial to my formation as a medievalist and the early stages of this project, and she is deeply missed at its end.

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Intellectually, this project has benefited immensely from the generosity and expertise of two scholars extremely well versed in medieval scientific and medica texts. The cu ent p oject’s focus on the Viaticum is owed to Charles

Burnett, who gave my research a decisive nudge at an opportune time, shared his immense expertise on questions of translation, and generously agreed to join my committee at a ate date. Simi a y, Monica G een’s ema ka e gene osity— and her willingness to keep me updated about Viaticum manuscripts and the findings of her ongoing twelfth-century medical manuscripts project in particular—have made this project immeasurably stronger. My warmest thanks to both.

Furthermore, I owe much to the warmth and intellectual liveliness of

Not e Dame’s Medieva nstitute. The facu ty, students, and staff of the nstitute have all contributed in countless ways to the successful completion of this project. In particular, the Notre Dame graduate student community was essential du ing ong, da k South Bend winte s. can’t thank you a he e, ut you know who you are. Faculty members at Notre Dame have proven generous and insightful: Hildegund Müller, in particular, generously provided philological expertise and considerable time in matters of Latin text editing. The staff of the

Medieval Institute has been indispensable: Margaret Cinninger and Roberta

Baranowski were always ready with practical advice, help, or encouragement, while Julia Schneider has been an invaluable source of wit and counsel. Also at

Notre Dame, thanks to John Dillon, who jumped in and attentively read multiple drafts at a crucial point.

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Many, many librarians were imposed upon during the course of this project; my thanks to all of them.

This project was generously aided by several funding bodies: an Andrew

W. Mellon Dissertation Completion Fellowship was the essential support for the final year of dissertation writing; a Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst

(DAAD) Graduate Scholarship and the Thomas-Institut of the Universität zu Köln enabled a fruitful year of study and writing. The 2012 NEH Summer Institute on

“Netwo ks and Know edge in the Medieva Medite anean” was of immense he p in the early development of my dissertation. My manuscript research was supported in its early stages by the Vatican Film Library and the Hill Museum &

Manuscript Library, while manuscript research in situ was generously supported by Notre Dame, including repeated grants from the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts (ISLA), the Nanovic Institute for European Studies, and a

Graduate School Professional Deelopment Grant.

Of my friends, warmest thanks go to Anna Larsen, Bretton Rodriguez, and

Belén Vicéns-Sáiz for reading far too many long, meandering drafts and for being a constant source of encouragement and perspective.

Finally, to my wife and family—from grandparents to nephews—for their support, love, and occasional forbearance: you have always made me feel like I was a good bet.

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INTRODUCTION

In his works, the natural philosopher and translator Adelard of Bath insisted that the pursuit of knowledge leads to travel beyond the bounds of one's native land. In his De eodem et diverso, an allegorical discussion of the liberal arts, Adelard makes a plea for this kind of travel, and places this exhortation in the parting words of the allegorical figure Philosophia. Having finished her description of the liberal arts, she explains that not all arts flourish in the same degree in all places: just as the soul delegates some functions to this part of the body and some to that, the same soul (eadem dispensatrix) "established different disciplines in different peoples... so that, what she is not able to effect in one part of the world, she might bring around within the compass of the one world." More concretely, throughout his works Adelard refers to his travels in pursuit of knowledge: rather than persist in the study of the sententie of the schools of northern , for example, Adelard left his native in pursuit of the

"studies of the Arabs" (Arabum studia).1

Adelard typifies, then, two features of intellectual life in the long twelfth century: first, Adelard clearly believed that important answers to his questions

1A e of B th, Conve t on w th H Nephew: ’On the S me n the D ffe ent,’ ’Q e t on on N t Sc ence’ n ’On B ’, ed. and trans. Charles Burnett, Cambridge Medieval ,9 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), at 70-1 and 90-1.

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could only be found by looking outward, beyond the texts already available in

Latin, and by engaging with the learning of other peoples in other places. Second, many of his questions concerned scientific and medical matters. These characteristics are not isolated to Adelard, however: many other thinkers looked beyond the geographical and intellectual boundaries of the Latin West for inspiration or answers, and many other thinkers turned to scientific and medical knowledge for answers to their questions.

As a producer of translations, moreover, Adelard was merely one among many. And indeed, the many translations produced in the long twelfth century exemplify both of the characteristics we can see in Adelard: many attest to a lively interest in scientific and medical questions, and they often illustrate the lengths to which scholars from the period went to satisfy their curiosity by pursuing knowledge outside of the boundaries of the Latin West. Moreover, as

Burnett has recently pointed out, twelfth-century thinkers were alive to the novelty and excitement of what they were doing, and pursued the most recent, up-to-date knowledge: no less a figure than Thierry of Chartres, for example, compiled a "Bible of the liberal arts" in his Heptateucon, in which he synthesized well-established Latin sources of the liberal arts with novel texts, including new translations and texts deriving from Arabic texts in Iberia.2

2For the sense of newness in the in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “The Twe fth-Centu y ,” in The Cambridge History of . Volume 2, Medieval Science, ed. David C. Lindberg and Michael Shank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 365–384. For discussion of the sources of the materials in the Heptateuchon, inc uding texts p oduced o t ans ated y Thie y's students, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “The Contents and Affiliations of the Scientific Manuscripts Written at or Brought to Chartres in the Time of 2

For generations of scholars, of course, both of these characteristics were held to be central to twelfth-century thought. For Charles Haskins in the

1920s, the renaissance he saw in the twelfth century was chiefly concerned with philosophy and science, and he believed that the pursuit of sources and knowledge beyond the boundaries of the Latin West was a central source of the cultural renewal in the Latin West.3 50 years later, even as Benson and Constable broadened and deepened the admittedly preliminary set of questions asked by

Haskins, the "sources of the renaissance" remained one of the six fundamental themes they proposed to investigate in revisiting Haskins' work and the period, and scientific investigations likewise played a significant role in the conference.4

The years after Haskins saw influential formulations by Thorndike, who comprehensively treated a wide range of texts and figures in making a plea for the importance of subjects like magic and astrology; and by Chenu, who considered a broad range of theological and scientific texts to argue for a shift from an earlier, symbolist mentalité to a rational view of the world.5 Building on these advances, the 1970s-1990s saw a rich crop of scholarship on the place of

ohn of Sa is u y,” in The World of John of Salisbury, ed. Michael. Wilks (Oxford: Blackwell, 1984), 127–160.

3For the former point, cf. Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957), 278. For the latter, cf. Charles Homer Haskins, Studies in the History of Mediaeval Science. (New York: Ungar Pub. Co., 1960).

4Cf. Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable, eds., Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), xx.

5Lynn Thorndike, A History of Magic and Experimental Science (New York, Macmillan, 1923) and Marie-Dominique Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society in the Twelfth Century; Essays on New Theological Perspectives in the Latin West (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968).

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the natural world in the twelfth century: to pick only a handful of examples,

Brian Stock's investigation of Bernard Silvestris sought to untangle the literary and scientific dimensions of Bernard's densely allegorical text while also placing him in his contemporary contexts, while Peter Dronke's Fabula ranged widely in showing how deeply Platonic allegory had imbued twelfth-century culture.6

Historians of medicine, by contrast, followed on the pioneering work of Paul

Oskar Kristeller and others by developing and refining their understanding of the boundaries between philosophy and medicine in the long twelfth century.7

In recent decades, research has further revised and enhanced the sometimes sketchy picture set down by Haskins. Andreas Speer has deepened the philosophical insights in Chenu's work by linking the investigation of nature and metaphysics in the twelfth century.8 In this research, Speer has attempted to articulate the philosophical questions that drove the investigation of nature and the production of translations in the long twelfth century.9 Similarly, a wealth of scholarship produced by Charles Burnett has deepened and advanced the

6Brian Stock, Myth and Science in the Twelfth Century: a Study of Bernard Silvester (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1972) and Peter Dronke, Fabula: Explorations into the Uses of Myth in Medieval Platonism (Leiden: Brill, 1974).

7For discussion of the philosophical dimensions of twelfth-century medicine, cf. Mark D. o dan, “Medicine as Science in the Ea y Commenta ies on ’ ohannitius’,” Traditio 43 (1987): 121–145, and o dan, “The Const uction of a Phi osophica Medicine: Exegesis and A gument in Sa e nitan Teaching on the Sou ,” Osiris 6, 2nd Series (1990): 42–61.

8Cf., above all, Andreas. Speer, Die entdeckte Natur : Untersuchungen zu Beg ün ng ve chen e ne “Sc ent N t ” m 12. J h h n e t, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters, Bd. 45 (Leiden; New York: E.J. Brill, 1995).

9Fo this aspect of Spee 's scho a ship, cf. And eas Spee , “Reception-Mediation- Innovation: Philosophy and Theology in the Twe fth Centu y,” in Bilan et perspectives des études mé év e en E ope: Acte p em e Cong è E opéen ’Ét e é év e , Spo eto, 27-29 Mai 1993, ed. Jacqueline Hamesse, 1993, 129–49, for example.

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insights of earlier scholars in countless respects, both large and small. Burnett has, for example, demonstrated the rich, complex geography of the translations that were produced in Iberia.10 More than this, however, Burnett has used careful philological and manuscript research to illuminate the varieties and modalities of Arabic-Latin translation in the Latin West more broadly.11 Monica Green's research, on the other hand, has taken our understanding of women's healthcare in the —once subject to romantic speculation or misogynistic dismissal—and put it on firm footing in work with major implications for the histories of medieval gender and medicine.12 Most significantly for our current purposes, Green's ongoing research on the medical manuscripts of the long twelfth century has demonstrated unambiguously that medical texts were circulating in overwhelming numbers.13 The numbers of medical manuscripts in circulation, then, indicates either a dramatic surge in the number of literate medical practitioners or a major interest in medicine among a much wider swath of readers than has been hitherto recognized. Where Haskins believed twelfth-

10Fo To edo, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “The Coherence of the Arabic-Latin Translation P og amme in To edo in the Twe fth Centu y,” Science in Context 14 (2001): 249–88; for other egions in e ia, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “ ohn of Sevi e and ohn of Spain: A mise au point,” Bulletin de Philosophie Médiévale 44 (2002): 59–78, e.g.

11Fo an ove view of this, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “A a ic into Latin: The Reception of A a ic Phi osophy into Weste n Eu ope,” in The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Richard Taylor, 2005, 370–404, but also Burnett's work on Pisa, , and southern .

12Cf. especially her recent monograph, Monica H. Green, k ng Women’ e c ne Masculine: The Rise of Male Authority in Pre-Modern Gynaecology, 1st ed. (Oxford University Press, USA, 2008).

13For an ea y statement of this esea ch, cf. Monica G een, “Rethinking the Manusc ipt Basis of Sa vato e de Renzi’s Co ectio Sa e nitana: The Co pus of Medica W itings in the ‘Long’ Twe fth Centu y,” 2008.

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century renaissance was philosophical and scientific, Green's research has shown that it was most certainly also medical.

But where Haskins' research had major implications for the scholarly understanding of the thought and culture of the long twelfth century, scientific and medical subjects no longer have the same prominence on the scholarly agenda they once did. Bibliographic databases and conference programs, for example, illustrate the relative neglect of these subjects while recent interpretations of twelfth-century thought give little attention to Adelard and his ilk.14 Some of this shift, of course, is due to new avenues of research and fresh insights, but the reasons for this neglect can sometimes be difficult to fathom.

The seven liberal arts were the cornerstone of education in the Latin West, after all, but in recent years much more time and energy has been expended on the study of the role (educational and otherwise) of the trivium than the quadrivium. This trend has been beneficial, at least in part: historians of philosophy have traced the development of in twelfth-century schools with great subtlety, for example, while literature has been illuminated by greater attention to twelfth-century rhetorical education. The problem with this focus on

14A rough metric of this can be seen in the indices of recent works by authors engaging with twelfth-century culture. Both Alex Novikoff and Willemien Otten, both of whom offer large- scale interpretations of twelfth-century intellectual life, list Anselm of Canterbury many more times than Adelard of Bath, and the trivium many more times than the quadrivium. Cf. Willemien Otten, From Paradise to Paradigm: A Study of Twelfth-Century Humanism (Leiden: Brill, 2004) and Alex J. Novikoff, The Medieval Culture of Disputation: Pedagogy, Practice, and Performance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). Much the same tendency is visible in Thomas F.X. Noble and John H. Van Engen, eds., European Transformations: The Long Twelfth Century (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), which has only a single reference to Adelard of Bath, and where the translation movement is mentioned only once, 101-3 (a tendency noted by Noble, in fact, at p. 6).

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the trivium, however, has been that it has resulted in the marginalization of figures like Adelard, and that both the insights of earlier scholars and new findings have often gone missing from broader discussions. A survey of the

Western intellectual tradition from recent years, for example, casts twelfth- century Renaissance almost exclusively in terms of developments in literature and the trivium.15 Such interpretations fail to give an accurate picture of the educational background of the times, of course, but they also miss the evidence of our texts themselves. Several thinkers, for example, started from the geometrical method of 's Elements and applied it to wider aspects of life and thought: in the Policraticus, John of Salisbury sees lack of belief in the tenets of the faith as just as irrational as doubt in Euclid's axioms, while Nicolas of

Amiens made a similar effort for theology in his De arte catholicae fidei.16

In much the same way, the remarkable flourishing of twelfth-century religious history in the wake of scholars like Leclercq and Constable is surely laudable, but the wild proliferation of the field has sometimes meant that we see religious figures in narrow, even stereotypically religious terms, failing to appreciate the breadth and range that twelfth-century intellectuals often had, whether they worked in cathedral or urban schools, in courts, or indeed in

15Cf. Marcia L. Colish, Medieval Foundations of the Western Intellectual Tradition, 400- 1400 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 175ff. Remarkably, other than speaking of the liberal arts in general terms, Colish does not mention the quadrivium at all in this chapter!

16Fo these figu es and othe s, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “Scientific Specu ations” (Cam idge, [England]; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 151–176, at 163ff.

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monasteries.17 As Constable himself has pointed out, there is no need to argue for twelfth-century religious reformation to the exclusion of concepts of renaissance; rather, the goal should be to describe twelfth-century culture in a way that does justice to the variety of experiences in the period.18 Unfortunately, however, a capacious sense of religious life in the twelfth century has not always prevailed, and the vital importance of natural philosophy and medicine to the intellectual formation of many twelfth-century religious thinkers has often been missed. To pick a single example, the massive influx of medical texts into the

Latin West seen in Green's research appears to have had a similarly outsize influence on the way religious thinkers conceived of illness and the body: monks appear to have been the earliest recipients of the translations of Constantine the

African, and we will see how dramatically they appear to have influenced the thought of William of St.-Thierry in Chapter 4. By the end of the twelfth century, moreover, these influences appear to have been even wider: as we can see in the works of William of Canterbury and Reginald of Durham, miracle collections came to use technical medical details and increasingly medicalized language as the twelfth century progressed.19 As we will see in Chapter 4, even Bernard of

17Cf., for example, the discussion of William of St.-Thierry in the fourth chapter. Cf. as well the way that discussions of Honorius Augustodunensis often focus exclusively on his religious works (like the Elucidarium) rather than his philosophical or natural philosophical works.

18As Constable puts it in arguing for the concept of reformation in the twelfth century, "The point is... that changes in religious attitudes and institutions in the twelfth century justify using the term reformation beside and almost as part of renaissance," in Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 3-4.

19For the medicalization of miracles and hagiography, cf. Sa y C ump in, “Mode nizing St. Cuth e t: Regina d of Du ham’s Mi ac e Co ection,” in Signs, Wonders, Miracles: 8

Clairvaux appears to have felt strongly about and known a considerable amount of medicine, although he appears to have resisted including it in his writings.

Medicine, then, was not merely influential among natural philosophers and medici, but appears to have played a considerable role in the religious history of the long twelfth century as well.

We can see these tendencies crystallized in a single scholar, Richard

Southern, who both exemplifies this shift in emphasis and whose broad influence has also contributed to it. In his Scholastic Humanism, Southern lays out an attractive picture of what he terms "scholastic humanism," which he characterizes as an intellectual effort to assimilate and harmonize a great deal of existing knowledge from law, theology, grammar, rhetoric, and logic, and to apply it to the social order of the Latin West. For those figures whom Southern sees as the greatest exponents of his vision, like Gratian and Peter Lombard,

Southern's account is sensitively drawn and imagined. On the other hand,

Southern believed that little systematic investigation of the natural world figured in this effort (despite, surprisingly, the emphasis he places on nature in twelfth-century thought). In a brief excursus on the "problem of the natural ," Southern contended that the twelfth century lacked adequate sources for the investigation of the natural sciences; that teaching fit awkwardly with the

Representations of Divine Power in the Life of the Church: Papers Read at the 2003 Summer Meeting and the 2004 Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. Kate Cooper and Jeremy Gregory (Rochester: Boydell Press, 2005), 179–91, at 185, and Rachel Koopmans, Wonderful to Relate: Miracle Stories and Miracle Collecting in High Medieval England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 181ff.

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study of the natural world; and, therefore, that such studies could best be carried on in courtly or monastic settings. When the natural sciences began to reappear, he argued, a split occurred between those preoccupied with the natural sciences and those interested in theology, law, and litterae.20 Finally, Southern appears to have been completely uninterested in the role played by medicine in twelfth- century thought and culture, giving no attention to medical influences on Latin culture and barely mentioning medical education.21

Southern's interpretation of the natural sciences in twelfth-century thought merits fuller consideration than we can give it here, but two aspects of his account illustrate broader misconceptions about twelfth-century culture.

First, Southern's dismissive account of the natural sciences in the twelfth- century makes the mistake of giving too much credence to polemic. Just as polemical debates long played an overstated role in our understanding of religious reform, polemical texts appear to have misled Southern about the place of the natural sciences.22 In particular, Adelard—much like Constantine the

African, as we will see—saw his activities and even defined his identity in opposition to the characteristics of contemporary Latin thought. In particular,

Adelard took aim at the "inconstancy" (insecuritas) of the teachings of French

20R. W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of (Oxford, UK; Cambridge, MA, USA: Blackwell, 1995), 35ff.

21Southern mentions the medical schools of and Montpellier exactly once in volume 1 of his Scholastic Humanism, on p. 231.

22For this point with regard to religious reform, cf. Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century.

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schools.23 This defiant attitude has led some scholars (and Southern, in particular) to take Adelard at his word, seeing science, medicine, and the pursuit of non-Latin sources as marginal, even provincial, pursuits in the twelfth century.24 But this is clearly a misconception: Adelard's career began in the schools of northern France, and he shares both their literary qualities and

Platonic inclinations. More than this, however, a wide range of twelfth-century thinkers shared Adelard's engagement with medicine and the natural sciences, and likewise sought to supplement available Latin texts with non-Latin knowledge. As we will see in Chapter 4, for example, William of St.-Thierry's De natura corporis et animae made surprising use of Constantine the African's physiological and physicalized account of cognition, despite the tensions between this medical account and Augustine's De trinitate.

More fundamentally, however, Southern's conception of intellectual life in the twelfth century is too restrictive, both geographically and intellectually. In many ways, Southern attempted to reduce the rich tapestry of twelfth-century intellectual life to a narrow patch of northern France, first Laon and then Paris.

Southern frankly misrepresented the school of Chartres, for one; but even in the case of law—which is of unquestionable importance for Southern's attempt to

23For Adelard's disparagement of northern French schools, cf. Burnett, Adelard of Bath, Conversations with His Nephew, 90. For comparable disparagements by Constantine of contemporary medical texts and practitioners, cf. the prefaces of his De urinis, Pantegni, as well as the discussion in Chapter 3.

24Cf. his discussion of the English scientific tradition in R. W. Southern, Robert Grosseteste: The Growth of an English Mind in Medieval Europe, 2nd ed. (Oxford [Oxfordshire]; Oxford, OX; New York: Clarendon Press ; Oxford University Press, 1992), 83ff.

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trace the ramifications of intellectual life for society at large—Southern appears at times to only grudgingly concede the importance of Bologna.25 Fixated on

Paris—"Paris was first, and must come first," he claims—Southern attempted to place the development of law schools at Bologna well after the emergence comparable schools in Paris, a revisionist account with decidedly mixed results.26

Southern's single-mindedness here illustrates a broader dilemma posed by the history of the twelfth century: how can historians account for the broad influence that Paris would (eventually) enjoy while also being attentive to the sheer variation apparent in the twelfth century?

As fields like legal history and twelfth-century literature show, of course,

Southern's account largely misses the remarkable diversity possessed by intellectual life in the long twelfth century and its institutional landscape by confining his perspective to Paris. It was not a mere handful of schools in Paris that shaped twelfth-century thought and culture, in fact, but a rich, complex of competing institutions that thinkers often travelled between. William of St.-Thierry, for example, was trained in the schools of Liège and Reims, spent much of his career as a Benedictine monk, but then lived out the last part of his life as a Cistercian. In much the same way, Adelard began his career in the

25For discussion of Southern's attack on Chartres, cf. the excellent summary in Winthrop Wethe ee, “The Schoo of Cha t es,” in A Companion to Philosophy in the Middle Ages, ed. Jorge J.E. Gracia and Timothy B. Noone, 2002, 36–44.

26Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Europe, 199. For a recent critique of Southern's interpretation of Bologna, cf. Ronald G. Witt, The Two Latin Cultures and the Foundation of Renaissance Humanism in Medieval Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 237ff.

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schools of northern France and ended them in the courts of Normandy and

England. These two men, among many others, illustrate that much about the institutional and intellectual life of the twelfth century was complementary and overlapping, even as it simultaneously allowed for diversity and variation. The twelfth-century was a remarkable period of both-and, where literary proclivities did not exclude natural pursuits, and subjects condemned in one center (like astrology) might be avidly pursued a short distance away.27 Cathedral and urban schools were vital and important, of course, but they jostled with monasteries and other religious institutions for intellectual preeminence. After all, the long twelfth century was not only the beginning of a remarkable flourishing of academic institutions in the towns of the Latin West, but also saw a remarkable period of intellectual vitality in long-established Benedictine houses and other religious institutions. Monastic figures like Honorius Augustodunensis had their fingers on the of twelfth-century thought and culture, and then used this knowledge and the security of their positions to debate, discuss, or promulgate this learning.

In my dissertation, I engage with the vitality and diversity of intellectual life in the long twelfth century by considering one of the most prolific and influential translators of the twelfth century, Constantine the African.

27For literary-cum-natural pursuits of the poets associate with Angers, cf. Gerald A. Bond, The Loving Subject: Desire, Eloquence, and Power in Romanesque France (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 70ff. For astrology, a wide range of attitudes are discussed in oshua Lipton, “The Rationa Eva uation of Ast o ogy in the Pe iod of A a o-Latin Translation ca. 1126-1187 AD” (UCLA, 1978), ut cf. the impo tant ecent wo k of ean-Patrice Boudet, Entre science et nigromance: astrologie, divinat on et m g e n ’occ ent mé év , e- e èc e (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2006).

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Constantine's texts are rich, revealing sources for the history of the late eleventh century, but many unanswered questions about his life, career, and activities remain. The details of his biography, for example, have proven resistant to scholarly efforts to decode them, and we have as yet little consensus about the fundamental facts of his life. Similarly, his relationship to the Arabic source texts that provided the foundation for his translations—which he only rarely mentioned—has also prompted divergent interpretations: some have decried this apparent appropriation of Arabic sources, while others have attempted to explain and contextualize Constantine's decisions. Impeding all of these efforts, however, remains the fact that we have only a handful of modern editions of

Constantine's voluminous corpus, while detailed studies of most of Constantine's texts and their manuscripts (much less his use of his Arabic source texts) remain scholarly desiderata. To contribute to our understanding of Constantine's life and works, then, I have undertaken a comprehensive study of one of

Constantine's major translations, the Viaticum. This work is a practical medical handbook that covers the afflictions of many members of the body, and a work that contrasts in several ways with his better-known, theoretical magnum opus, the Pantegni. Furthermore, the comparison of Constantine's Viaticum to its

Arabic source text will allow us to see Constantine at work, making changes and omissions to his Arabic source. The consideration of Constantine's work on the ailments of the human body, then, will suggest new answers to some of the most longstanding questions we have about Constantine, and will bring him into sharper focus.

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In Chapter 2, I give detailed consideration to the process of translation of the Viaticum, which Constantine produced at the monastery of Monte Cassino.

Constantine's career illustrates the rich intellectual life that Benedictine houses of the period might possess, and the Viaticum appears to have figured in a broader Cassinese cultural program that placed substantial emphasis on the monastery's relationship with the classical past. Furthermore, the Viaticum also illustrates the complexities and tensions that arose in the act of translation: we can see, for example, the way that Constantine made adaptations to the religious and sexual content of his Arabic source text, with implications for our understanding of his audience, but also of Constantine himself. In Chapter 3, moreover, the detailed consideration of Constantine's terminology allows me to show the way that the institutional and intellectual diversity of the period engendered friction and rivalry: by placing Constantine's Viaticum in a wider context of practical medical texts, we can see how he positioned himself among his contemporaries, and how he appears to have seen himself as reacting against—or even in opposition to—the practical medical tradition carried on in the schools of nearby Salerno. Ultimately, then, Constantine's translations represent and perhaps even inaugurate many of the intellectual characteristics of the long twelfth century. His translations were influential among medical thinkers and practitioners, to be sure, but they also spread quickly to monasteries and schools, providing medical lore along with a substantial dose of ancient philosophy and science.28 When Constantine's texts spread across the

28Green's manuscript research is showing, in fact, that Constantine's works may have 15

diverse institutional landscape of the Latin West, they provoked a surprising range of responses. On the one hand, the monks of Hildesheim in the first half of the twelfth century augmented the medical teachings of the Viaticum with moral exhortations, while other readers emended Constantine's text to bring it in line with Latin mores. On the other hand, however, we will see in Chapter 4 that the spread of Constantine's texts might also call established verities into question and open up new avenues of inquiry and speculation, even when these conflicted with existing authorities. Both the production and reception of Constantine's texts, then, allow us to see the intellectual change and innovation that came in the twelfth century of the Latin West.

Even given the diverse, varied landscape of the period, however, we do well to also attend to those aspects of thought and life that might have served to integrate or even unify the Latin West. For one, (and despite Southern's dismissal) we might well see the search for the causes of natural and other phenomena as one such unifying force, a point well made by Burnett in 1988.29

In Chapter 4, I will suggest that interest in the nature of the soul may have been a further characteristic that was shared by thinkers across many regions of the

Latin West. And finally, there are compelling reasons to suspect that the impulse to look for answers beyond the boundaries of the Latin West (which we can see in Adelard) was also a widely shared tendency. The "poverty of the Latins" was

spread even faster to monasteries than to medical practitioners.

29Cf. Bu nett, “Scientific Specu ations.”

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certainly a literary trope, but, especially given the wealth of translations produced in the long twelfth-century, it likely corresponded to contemporary attitudes: Petrus Alfonsi reported, for example, that he had heard of those who were prepared to "wander distant provinces and remove themselves to distant regions" (longinquas parant peragrare prouincias et in remotas secedere regiones) so that they might gain a fuller knowledge of astronomy (ut ad artis astronomice pleniorem possint peruenire notitiam).30 Like Adelard, some were keenly interested in the studia Arabum: despite Constantine's omission of the

Arabic authors of his works, for example, some readers of his texts appear to have been attracted to them by the promise of exotic knowledge.31

It was cultural goods of Greek origin, however, that appear to have possessed the greatest prestige.32 Both explicitly and implicitly, Constantine's works drew on the attraction of Greek texts: his works cited Greek authorities, used Greco-Latin terminology, and occasionally even had Greek names, as we can see in the Pantegni. These aspects of Constantine's texts have rightly received considerable attention. At the same time, however, scholars have barely

30Quoted in Thomas E. Bu man, “Tafsī and T ans ation: T aditiona A a ic Qu ʾān Exegesis and the Latin Qu ʾāns of Ro e t of Ketton and Ma k of To edo,” Speculum 73, no. 3 (July 1, 1998): 703–732, at 703.

31Cf. the attitudes towards Constantine in Henry of Huntingdon, discussed in Winston B ack, “‘ Wi Add What the A a Once Taught’: Constantine the Af ican in No the n Eu opean Medica Ve se,” in Herbs and Healers from the Ancient Mediterranean through the Medieval West: Essays in Honor of John M. Riddle, edited by Anne Van Arsdall and Timothy Graham (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), 153–186.

32This is not necessarily the same as d'Alverny's point that Arabic materials were largely thought of and seen as valuable by commenting on Greek texts, at Marie-Thé èse d’A ve ny, “T ans ations and T ans ato s,” in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. Benson and Constable, 1982, 421–62, 422.

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commented on Byzantium as one of the major avenues of possible Greek influence on Constantine and his contemporaries. In eleventh-century southern

Italy, after all, Byzantine power and influence would have been unmistakable.

When Monte Cassino built a new basilica to showcase its wealth, power, and sophistication, it turned to Byzantine craftsmen. Even after the schism in 1054, the religious worlds of Greek and Latin bishops and monks remained porous in southern Italy, and connections to Byzantium remained prestigious.33 Monte

Cassino's place in southern Italy put it in particular proximity to Byzantine influence: parts of southern Italy and remained Greek-speaking, after all, while Monte Cassino itself enjoyed diplomatic and religious connections with

Byzantium.

In the Latin West more generally, moreover, Byzantium enjoyed a cultural preeminence that is difficult to fathom from a modern perspective, born of its wealth, power, and prestige. In Chrétien de Troyes' romance Cligès, for example, the knight Alexander, son of the emperor, has fantastic amounts of

Constantinopolitan wealth at his disposal. Even fundamental aspects of life like religious observance may have been shaped by Byzantine models: William of

Malmesbury believed that the veneration of and the Virgin Mary had been

33For this point, correcting earlier scholarship that saw the inception of a much more adversarial relationship with the Norman conquests, cf. Graham A. Loud, The Latin Church in Norman Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 494ff. and passim.

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"invited and kindled" (invitavit et accendit) by Greek enthusiasm.34 In a similar fashion, for as much as we (rightly) see the Latin thinkers of the long twelfth century as assertive and innovative, many thought of themselves as overshadowed by Greek giants. Gilbert of Poitiers, for example, played a consequential role in the development of twelfth-century thought and intellectual life as a theologian, philosopher, and teacher. But both Gilbert and his students saw the East as a vital repository of theological insight. In seeking to refute his critics at the Consistory of Reims in 1148, for example, Gilbert made heavy use of Greek authorities, while his students would go even further.

Gilbert's student Hugh of Honau, an ea y eade of A istot e’s Physics, insisted that all wisdom emanated from the (quia a Graecis sapientiae totius fons emanavit).35 Gilbert and his followers were not blindly adulatory of Greek thought—in some cases, they investigated points of doctrinal disagreement with the Eastern church such as the procession of the Holy Spirit—but they seem to have taken a more general interest in the theology of Greek authorities.36 Like

Adelard, Gilbert's disciples appear to have believed that intellectual inquiry

34For a broad survey of possible and actual Byzantine influences, cf. Krijna Nelly Ciggaar, Western Travellers to : The West and Byzantium, 962-1204: Cultural and Political Relations (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 322ff.

35Nicho as M. Hä ing, “The ‘Li e de Diffe entia Natu ae et Pe sonae’ y Hugh Ethe ian and the Letters Addressed to Him y Pete of Vienna and Hugh of Honau,” Mediaeval Studies 24 (1962): 1–34, at 18. Fo Gi e t's inte est in G eek thought, cf. Nicho as M. Hä ing, “The Po etans and the G eek Fathe s,” Mediaeval Studies 24 (1962): 181–209 and d’A ve ny, “T ans ations and Translators,” at 431. Fo Hugh’s inte est in A istot e, cf. Ricklin, Unde Aristoteles in Physicis, (Freiberg, 1995), 11-25.

36Hugh Etherianus, for example, who provided Hugh of Honau with new compilations and translations of Greek materials, drew from a number of Greek works to compile a Christological work titled De differentia naturae et personae.

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required long-distance travel: Hugh of Honau describes Jerome's move to the eastern Mediterranean as having been chiefly inspired by "the love of theology," which was pursued to the highest degree among the Greeks at the time, as well as the desire to study with . However, Jerome is only the first of a list of travelers in pursuit of knowledge he recounts, including ,

Pythagoras, and even the apostle Peter.37 Even Gilbert's judge at Reims, the

Cistercian-turned-pope Eugenius III, sought out the theological insights to be found in Greek texts: he asked for translations of both John of Damascus' De fide orthodoxa and John Chrysostom from Burgundio of Pisa.

Despite the cultural importance of the Greek East, however, much is unclear about Byzantine and Greek influences on the intellectual history of the long twelfth century. Even in southern Italy, where links and influences from

Byzantium and Greek-speaking communities are often clearest, Byzantine and

Greek influences have largely remained obscure. In the case of the medical translations of the eleventh century, in particular, it is well known that

Constantine's patron Alfanus travelled to Constantinople in the 1060s; given

Alfanus' medical interests, it may well have been Alfanus who provided the manuscripts and prompted some of the Greek-Latin medical translations that were produced in the period. How closely Alfanus was involved in these efforts,

37"Nam et Hieronymus Gregorium Nanzanzem amore theologiae cuius inter Graecos sui temporis principatum tenebat, relicta Italia Asiaque peragrata, quaesivit in Graecia ac de fonte suarum disciplinarum et eruditionum saturari meruit... Petrum sane legimus Antiochiae manentem Paulum visitasse." Hä ing, “The ‘Li e de Diffe entia Natu ae et Pe sonae’ y Hugh Ethe ian and the Lette s Add essed to Him y Pete of Vienna and Hugh of Honau,” 16-17.

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however, as well as the degree of Constantine's involvement, awaits closer investigation. The elucidation of these Byzantine influences must necessarily be a work of many hands; my first chapter here, however, explores the medical culture of Constantinople in the eleventh and twelfth centuries as an essential context for and possible influence on Constantine and his southern Italian contemporaries. Similarly, the investigation of Constantine's terminology in the

Viaticum in Chapter 3 allows us to see that, despite the prestige and appeal

Greek medicine had for Constantine, his terminology gives little evidence of direct links with the medicine of either Constantinople or southern Italian Greek communities. Even if we cannot yet clearly grasp the full import of Byzantine influence on the intellectual world of the Latin West, we can begin to trace its contours.

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CHAPTER 1:

BYZANTINE MEDICINE BETWEEN INTELLECTUAL ENTHUSIASM AND

PRACTICE, 1000-1150

1.1 Introduction

In 1059, the emperor Isaac was taken ill with a "cold 'wind'

(ψυχρῷ πνεύματι) in his side" on account of excessive exe tion du ing a hunt.

The courtier and intellectual Michael Psellos came to visit the emperor, not knowing of his illness, and the emperor offered Psellos his hand to take his pulse, knowing that Psellos had "practiced" medicine.38 Psellos, in fact, was such an enthusiast of medicine that he was willing to quite literally try his hand on it, even on the emperor himself, and even when Psellos' identification of the emperor's pulse differed from the emperor's .

As this anecdote illustrates, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, medicine enjoyed a surprising prominence among Byzantine elites. Psellos and other intellectuals pursued medical interests, corresponded with , and even made apt medical jokes. This prominence has not been lost on modern scholars: Margaret Mullett's study of Theophylact of Ochrid sees a "fashionable

38Rema ka y, the text he e does say that Pse os p acticed medicine, "τὴν περὶ τοῦτο τέχνην ἀσκήσαντα," ed. Rénau d, §74.

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interest in medicine" in his letters and, more broadly, a "considerable flurry of activity" in the production of medical texts.39 Paul Magdalino has similarly affirmed the fashionable character of medicine in the twelfth century, particularly after the reign of Alexios I Komnenos.40 Most influentially, in 1984

Alexander Kazhdan set forth a varied body of evidence, from saints' lives to epistolography, to argue that a social shift occurred in the late eleventh century, when medicine attained social and intellectual respectability, and medical practitioners became equal members of "the establishment of functionaries and literati."41

Examined more closely, however, this scene from Psellos' Chronographia suggests an alternate interpretation. Psellos shares the stage, after all, with a medical practitioner who only sketchily figures in the narration. Psellos' relationship to this professional, moreover, is ambiguous: on the one hand,

Psellos calls him "the best of the descendents of Asclepiades" and the physician's diagnosis initially appears more correct than Psellos'. This physician's findings

(and Psellos' respect for him) appear to be called into question by the course of events, however: convinced he is dying, the emperor abdicates, only to recover later, while Psellos hints that he knew what was going on all along. As we will

39Margaret Mullett, Theophylacht of Ochrid : Reading the Letters of a Byzantine Archbishop (Aldershot: Variorum, 1997), at 102 and 111.

40Paul Magdalino, The Empire of , 1143-1180 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), at 361.

41A. Kazhdan, “The mage of the Medica Docto in Byzantine Lite atu e of the Tenth to Twe fth Centu ies,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 38, Symposium on Byzantine Medicine (1984): 43– 51, at 51.

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see, this anecdote is emblematic of Byzantine medicine in the period. Just as this physician is treated by Psellos with condescension, even sly mockery, the physicians of the era seem to have only occasionally come into contact with the literati; rather than being integrated into their ranks, they seem to have been treated patronizingly when they did interact. Moreover, their marginality to the highly verbal world of Byzantine intellectuals is also suggested by their silence: we have remarkably few texts from the period that were produced by medical practitioners themselves. (So few, in fact, that Kazhdan's study entirely neglects the consideration of texts by physicians themselves.) We know most about

Byzantine medical practice when it intersects with the world of Byzantine intellectuals, and we know more about the dilettante Psellos than about the obscure figures who actually practiced medicine in the period. As we will see, there are thus compelling reasons to think in terms of two distinct cultures of medicine in eleventh and twelfth century Byzantium, to see contrasts between the bookish, even rhetorical medical interests of intellectuals and a pragmatic, empirical, and undogmatic approach among medical practitioners that comes through clearly despite our scanty evidence.

Medicine in eleventh and twelfth century Byzantium, moreover, had influences well beyond the boundaries of the Empire. Constantinople, after all, was one of the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful cities in all of western

Eurasia. In the eyes of the Latin West, in particular, Constantinople and the

Empire seemed to be almost unimaginably wealthy and prestigious. In Chrétien de Troyes' romance Cligès, the knight Alexander, son of the emperor, has

24

fantastic amounts of Constantinopolitan wealth at his disposal. When the monastery of Monte Cassino—quite wealthy and powerful in its own right— wanted to adorn its basilica, it made heavy use of Byzantine artisans. When

Latins sought to develop their medical tradition, then, it is unsurprising that they turned to the Greek East and its access to the classical Greek medical tradition.

They did so, in the first instance, by drawing on Greek medical texts and manuscripts: when they needed works on and urines, for example, they turned to Byzantine works by Philaretos and Theophilos. When they sought prestige and authority, as we will see in the next chapter, they did so by applying a veneer of Greek learning. Understanding medicine in the medieval

Mediterranean, then, demands the accurate characterization of the Byzantine

Empire as one of its most prominent sites.

1.2 Precursors of Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Byzantine Medicine

To understand Byzantine medicine in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, we first need to briefly place it in the longer history of the Greek medical tradition. In particular, many features of Byzantine medicine were established in late antiquity: learned readers turned to medicine for insight into the human body, the wealthy and the state patronized medical care, and texts written in late antiquity served as standard medical textbooks throughout the Byzantine period. Between late antiquity and the eleventh and twelfth centuries, however, we have remarkably scanty evidence for medical practice; faced with this paucity of evidence, Kazhdan hypothesized that this period saw a loss of social

25

standing for physicians, where "society became lukewarm and negligent towards medical doctors, hagiography ignored them, and intellectuals did not consider them as their peers."42 Obscure as this period is, however, both late antique and early Byzantine developments presaged the medicine we can see in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in several important ways.

In one sense, Byzantine medicine begins with in the second century

AD, whose works were the essential foundation of the thoroughly Galenic

Byzantine medical tradition. In another sense, however, it begins with his successors, who worked to develop a standardized form of Galenic medicine. For example, Oribasios, in the fourth century, appears to have been the earliest of

Galen's successors to have worked to distill the master's excessively long, discursive, and complex texts down to something more usable in a set of encyclopedic medical handbooks.43 Oribasios and his successors are sometimes thought of as mere compilers, but they played a crucial role in synthesizing the often diffuse—even contradictory—doctrines of Galen into a cohesive system of medical knowledge, a process Owsei Temkin referred to as the "birth of

Galenism."44 These medical writers, moreover, were not merely doctrinaire;

Alexander of Tralles, for example, drew on his own experience as a

42Ibid., 51.

43Vivian Nutton has pointed out as well that there are deep continuities between the kinds of texts circulating in Byzantium and those known have circulated in the ancient world. Vivian Nutton, “Byzantine Medicine, Gen es, and the Ravages of Time,”in Medical Books in the Byzantine World, edited by Ba a a ipse (Bo ogna: Eikasmo s On ine, 2013), 7–18.

44Owsei Temkin, “Byzantine Medicine: T adition and Empi icism,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 16 (1962): 95–115.

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practitioner.45 The encyclopedic works of these writers, then, furnished much of the textual foundation of later Byzantine medicine, but they also exemplify and anticipate longstanding characteristics of Byzantine medical practice: in particular, they reveal a considerable indebtedness to the works of Galen combined, paradoxically, with a willingness to break with Galenic precedent.

Two other features of Byzantine medicine also took influential shape in

Late Antiquity. For one, as Gary Ferngren has argued, it was in Late Antiquity that Christianity's charitable approach towards the care of the ill led to the establishment of both monastic infirmaries and (here probably to be understood as institutions of care rather than medicalized cure), sometimes with imperial sponsorship.46 But the Christian engagement with medicine was not limited to attempts at charitable care: leading Christian theologians and philosophers, particularly in the Greek East, turned to medicine and medical writers to enrich their knowledge of the nature of the human being. Both

Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianzus possessed a considerable background in medicine, while figures such as John Philoponos and Nemesios of

Emesa drew extensively on Galen as a philosophical and a medical authority.47 As

45John Scarborough and Alice-Mary Talbot,"," in The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. Kazhdan, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991).

46Gary B. Ferngren, Medicine and in Early Christianity, (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009).

47Considering philosophical and medical commentators, however, Westerink argued that it was not until around the second half of the sixth century that medicine and philosophy per se ecame c ose y inked. L. G. Weste ink, “Phi osophy and Medicine in Late Antiquity,” Janus 51 (1964): 169–177, 175. Cf. Ma y Emi y Keenan, “St. G ego y of Nazianzus and Early Byzantine Medicine,” Bulletin of the 9 (1941): 8–30 and Ma y Emi y Keenan, “St. G ego y 27

we will see, both these charitable and philosophical impulses would also play prominent roles in the later history of medicine in Byzantium.

In late antiquity, then, we can see that many of the central features of the later Byzantine medical tradition had taken shape. From the seventh to the tenth centuries, furthermore, many of these features appear to have persisted.

Theophilos Protospatharios (ca. 7th-10th centuries) gives evidence for continued philosophical and theological interest in medicine. He composed a work in five books that fused Galen's highly theological but pagan De usu partium with Christian theology to produce a work that illustrated the providential design of the human body. The same theoretical and philosophical impulse can be seen in a work on urines that was apparently also composed by

Theophilos.48

Similarly, the works of the patriarch Photios (ca. 810-after 893) evince a considerable engagement with medicine: in his correspondence, for example, two letters had a physician (iatros) as their addressee, while another discussed

of Nyssa and the Medica P ofession,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 15 (1944): 150–161 for Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazianzus; the translation of Nemesios by Sharples and van Eijk for Nemesios' use of Galen; and Temkin, “Byzantine Medicine,” at 106 for John Philoponos' reverence for Galen.

48For Theophilos' De corporis humani fabrica, cf. ed. By William A. Greenhill, De Corporis Humani Fabrica Libri V (Oxford, 1842). Theophilos' dates have been revised in the past generation, from the 7th-8th centuries (as in Herbert Hunger, Die hochsprachliche profane Literatur der Byzantiner, (Munich: Beck, 1978), at 299) to the 9th-10th centu ies y Weste ink and S evc enko. For some discussion, cf. Timothy S. Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 175ff. (whose attribution of several other works to Theophilos, however, should be treated with caution). For ecent discussion of Theophi os' sou ces in oth texts, cf. Ana gy os Anastassiou, “Un ekannte hippok atische Apho ismen ei Theophi os P otospatha ios’ ‘de U inis’?” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 153, n.s. (2010): 92–107.

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Galen and . In his Bibliotheca, Photios recorded a number of books he read; among these were a number of medical works, some discussed at considerable length. Like many readers in both the Greek and Latin traditions, moreover, Photios saw more than strictly utilitarian value in medical texts: he discusses Galen's literary qualities, and read works such as the Diktuaka of

Dionysos of Aegae, where medical propositions were used as fodder for rhetorical exercises.49 Despite the sophistication of Theophilos and Photios, however, our evidence for medicine in the period is quite scanty, and these two men appear to represent only a sporadic interest in medicine. Moreover, both men give little evidence that they engaged with medicine in a way that went beyond a bookish, theoretical interest: even Theophilos' work on urines, for example, is much more preoccupied with the theoretical side of urinoscopy than its clinical realities.50

1.3 Eleventh-Century Transitions: Michael Psellos and Symeon Seth

As we move into the eleventh century, many aspects of this Greek medical tradition continue: as it had been for Photios and Theophilos Protospatharios, medicine continued to be an object of interest for elite intellectuals. Similarly, the association between care for the ill and Christian charity continued in the

49Photios' medical interests have found little discussion, but cf. Warren T. Treadgold, The Nature of the Bibliotheca of Photius (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Center for , 1980), at 103, who describes Photios' medical knowledge as "practically professional."

50Fo this point, cf. Faith Wa is, “ nventing Diagnosis: Theophi os’ ‘de U inis’ in the C ass oom,” Dynamis 20 (2000): 31–73.

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eleventh century. At mid-century, Emperor Constantine IX attached a hospital to the Mangana palace complex.51 Healing figured in miracle collections, of course, but medical care also served as a model for the holy figures who served as

"spiritual doctors."52 At the same time, however, it seems that the place of medicine in Byzantine culture was changing. Where Photios and Theophilos

Protospatharios appear to represent a merely occasional presence of medicine among the learned, our evidence suggests that a much broader, sustained enthusiasm for medicine developed among the learned in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. This interest remained focused on books of medicine, however, and appears to have been divorced from contemporary medical practice.

The Souda, for example, written perhaps at the end of the tenth century, illustrates the popularity that ancient medical works enjoyed in the period.53 The work is an encyclopedic collection of information interesting to the general elite

51For more on the Mangana hospital, cf. Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire, passim and ch. 8, as we as David Ch istophe Bennett, “Xenonika: Medica Texts Associated with Xenones in the Late Byzantine Pe iod” (PhD diss., Unive sity of London, 2003), ch. 4.

52For the latter, cf. the metaphorical use of autopsy in Symeon the New Theologian, discussed in Kazhdan, “The mage of the Medica Docto in Byzantine Lite atu e of the Tenth to Twelfth Centuries,” at 50.

53The Souda is very difficult to date, but a plausible date is the turn of the eleventh century. The work contains a rant against patriarch Polyeuktos (956-970); despite the fact that "the earliest manuscripts are thirteenth century, the earliest mention is late twelfth century," it seems difficult to imagine a long-dead patriarch arousing such visceral anger. Cf. Paul Magdalino, “Byzantine Encyc opaedism of the Ninth and Tenth Centu ies,” in Encyclopaedism from Antiquity to the Renaissance, ed. Jason König and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 219–231, for a recent, brief discussion of the wo k, and 221 fo a discussion of the wo k’s dating.

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reader, "a primary reference work of names, terms, and meanings that a student with a basic education in grammar would find useful."54 Its entry on Hippocrates suggests a passing familiarity with his works (listing the Oath, Prognostics, and

Aphorisms by name), but clearly displays the prestige that Hippocrates had.

According to the Souda, his works were known to all for their medical know edge (ἐπιστήμη), and we e em aced as though they p oceed f om the mouth of God rather than from any human mouth. Furthermore, the entry recites at length a story that the Persian emperor Artaxerxes sent a letter offering Hippocrates immense quantities of gold and treasure if he would enter his service. The Souda lavishes similar praise on Galen: the work describes Galen as the "most eminent physician," lists all of the emperors he served as a physician at Rome, and, as Galen himself had done, it enumerates the kinds of works Galen had written: "many medical as well as philosophical works, and also grammatical and rhetorical works." Galen's popularity was so widespread, according to the Souda, that his works were "well known to all," making the recitation of any specific works unnecessary. We may detect some bluster in the author's vague pronouncement about Galen and Hippocrates here, but it is no less clear these medical writers and their works were widely respected.55

54Ibid., at 221, where Magdalino reserves for the Souda the now-contested terminology of encyclopedism.

55Suidae Lexicon, ed. Adler (Leipzig: Teubner, 1928), 1:506. It would be immensely heplful to know where this information about Galen and Hippocrates came from, but the sources of these sections have proven remarkably obscure. In her early twentieth century edition of the work, Adler supposed that the entries on Galen and Hippocrates were largely derived from the lost sixth-century Onomatologus of Hesychius of . More recent scholarship has p o ematized this econst uction, howeve . Cf. Vi gi io Costa, “Esichio di Mi eto, ohannes F ach 31

1.3.1 Michael Psellos

Although the Souda attests to the prestige of medicine in Byzantium, in

Michael Psellos (born with the name Constantine) we can clearly trace the medical interests of one of the leading intellectual figures of the eleventh century. During his long career as a courtier during much of the eleventh century, Psellos wrote philosophical and literary works that displayed his deep erudition and rhetorical brilliance. Furthermore, he is well known for his philosophical prominence and influence: apparently unafraid of unconventionality or provocation, he professed his enthusiasm for pagan philosophers (and the Neoplatonist Proclus in particular). Medicine likewise became a major interest of his, though one that has received far less attention than his philosophical inclinations. Psellos composed a range of works with medical content, from learned compilations of medical lore, to discussions of the philosophical ramifications of medical theory, and, finally, to a sustained use of medical imagery and knowledge in his history, the Chronographia, which detailed the careers of a number of emperors in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Like the Souda, the widespread use of medicine in Psellos' works attests to learned enthusiasm for medicine. Despite this enthusiasm, however,

e e Fonti Biog afiche de a ‘Suda’,” in Il Lessico Suda e gli Storici Greci in Frammenti. Atti e ’ ncont o nte n z on e, e ce , 6-7 Novembre 2008, ed. Gabriella Vanotti (Tivoli: Edizioni Tored, 2010), 43–55, along with other works in Gabriella Vanotti, ed., Il Lessico Suda e gli Storici Greci in Frammenti. Att e ’ ncont o nte n z on e, e ce , 6-7 Novembre 2008 (Tivoli: Edizioni Tored, 2010).

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Psellos' works give very little evidence that he had been influenced by contemporary medical practitioners or their texts.

Psellos' knowledge of medicine thus had a bookish, even antiquarian character, even as he clearly found it engaging. This bookishness of his medical interests can be seen in the works he devoted exclusively to medicine. His poem on medicine (De medicina), composed in iambs, condenses substantial portions of Paul of Aegina's Epitome Medicina into verse. Despite a few places where

Psellos appears to have branched out and drawn on specialized works, he is largely content to follow the teaching and terminology of Paul's work.56 Of course, this text was explicitly written with didactic aims: Psellos says that his goal in composing the poem was to make medicine accessible to his fellow intellectuals who would otherwise have only been interested in his verse (ll.

529-538).57 But this consideration does not negate the fact that the work would have been most useful as a medical vade mecum for other intellectuals, not an introduction to contemporary medicine. In a similar , Psellos composed a

56For a recapitulation and paraphrase of much of the work, including the passages in the Epitome of Paul, cf. Robert Volk, Der Medizinische Inhalt Der Schriften Des Michael Psellos, Misce anea Byzantina Monacensia 32 (Munich: nstitut fu Byzantinistik und Neug iechische Phi o ogie de Unive sita t, 1990), 56-102. Pse os’ discussions of exc ement, u ines, and feve s diverge from Paul; cf. ibid., at 56 and 71-78. Volk suggests that Psellos draws here on the work on feve s of “Pa adios;” this may in ea ity e the wo k of Pa adios of A exand ia, Stephanos of , or Theophilos Protospatharios. Cf. Keyser and Irby-Massie, s.v. 'Palladios of .'

57Psellos explains his intentions in ll. 531-536. He describes medicine as a "craft" (τέχνη), which might imp y the p actica use of medicine. His desc iption of medicine as "the most p ecise c aft of the physicians" (τῆς τῶν ἰατρῶν ἀκριβεστάτης τέχνης), howeve , might suggest that Pse os was a so thinking of medicine’s inte ectua and phi osophica att actions (α κρι βεια was a particular ideal of his, in fact). Cf. David Jenkins, "Psellos' Conceptual Precision," in Reading Michael Psellos, edited by Charles Barber and David Jenkins (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 130-151, for further discussion of α κρι βεια in Psellos' thought. Further discussion of this passage can be found in Volk, Der medizinische Inhalt, 52.

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poem on medical terminology. The first half of this poem also draws heavily on

Paul of Aegina (sometimes even in the same words as the De medicina). The second half, by contrast, takes up a wider range of medical terms: from hapax legomena in Greek literary works, to words in ancient tragedians and comedians with medical significance, to obscure terms in the works of Hippocrates, and even to a few genuine rarities that have given even modern lexicographers difficulty.58 The breadth of terminology in this poem underscores both Psellos' engagement with medicine as well as the bookishness of this interest.

In his philosophical works, Psellos applied his medical knowledge to the investigation of philosophical issues. As the De medicina had been intended to serve as an introduction to medicine for the interested reader, Psellos' De omnifaria doctrina was designed to serve as a kind of philosophical compendium, a collection of information on topics of general interest. Several sections of this work take up medical issues, from the relationship between hunger and thirst in the body, to the perception of colors, to conception and procreation. Further, as the De medicina recapitulated Paul of Aegina, the De omnifaria doctrina largely repeats medical information from Psellos' central source, ps.-'s Placita philosophorum.59 This heavy reliance on his sources is perfectly consonant with the stated intention of these works, to provide a brief resumé but not exhaustive consideration of a subject.

58Very little work has been done on this lexicographical work, however; cf. disc. in Volk, Der medizinische Inhalt, 102-115, who is confident in ascribing the work to Psellos.

59Cf. Psellos, De omnifaria doctrina, ed. Westerink, passim, but esp. §§111-119.

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In some cases, however, Psellos delved more deeply into medical theory.

Some parts of his De omnifaria doctrina, for example, do not correspond neatly to ps.-Plutarch's text.60 Likwise, his philosophical Opuscula attest to his medical reading. These Opuscula are short treatments of particular questions, perhaps questions that arose in a pedagogical context or replies to written enquiries.61 In these Opuscula, in particular, Psellos is more willing to branch out and speculate on a particular subject, in contrast to introductory works such as the De medicina and the De omnifaria doctrina. In his treatment of the question of the ensoulment of the human fetus, for example, Psellos dutifully repeats the claims of Christian authorities, but also coyly notes what the "wisest of the Hellenes" had said as well, drawing on Galen's work on the soul's dependence on the body.62

By his own account, Psellos even claimed that medical writers had exerted a substantial influence on his philosophical thought. In his encomium for his friend, Iohannes Xiphilinos, a legal scholar, then monk, and finally patriarch of Constantinople, Psellos made a claim for the superiority of Galen's De usu partium to 's biological works in their treatment of the operation of the

60§115, for example, discusses the human fetus by drawing on a number of texts beyond ps.-Plutarch.

61Michael Psellos, Michaelis Pselli Philosophica Minora, ed. by John M. Duffy, and Dan O’Mea a, Bi iotheca Sc ipto um G aeco um et Romano um Teu ne iana (Leipzig : B.G. Teu ne , 1989).

62Cf. Philosophica minora, 16α (Πότε ψυχοῦνται τὰ ἔμβρυα), ut a so cf. Anthony Kaldellis, The A g ment of P e o ’ Ch onog ph , Studien Und Texte Zur Geistesgeschichte Des Mittelalters 68 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 158, n. 321 on Psellos' interest in this text.

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human body.63 At first glance, this endorsement of Galen over Aristotle appears to be a typically Psellian provocation. Psellos justifies this preference by explaining that Galen's knowledge was based on personal experience while

A istot e's io ogica inqui ies e ied on the findings of othe esea che s (τὰ δέ

γε περὶ ζῴων αὐτῷ συναίρεμά ἐστιν ἀλλοτρίων ἱστοριῶν). Fu the mo e, it is easy to imagine the affinity that Psellos felt for Galen. Both were eclectic, somewhat self-important thinkers and courtiers, and both saw themselves themselves as polymaths who made substantial contributions to multiple fields.

Both had broad sympathy for the Platonic rather than Aristotelian philosophical tradition. It is surprising, then, that Psellos' engagement with and endorsement of Galen has received so little commentary (in comparison with his engagement with Proclus, for example).64

Psellos' intellectual affinity with Galen and the recurrent presence of medicine in his works, however, does not appear to have translated into an engagement with contemporary medical practitioners. This is clearest in his medical terminology. Galen himself had argued against linguistic purism and, even as he called for verbal precision, emphasized the need to follow

63Ed. Sathas, 462, quoted in Vo k, 379. "τὰ δὲ ἀνθρώπων φύσεως ὁ ἐκ Περγάμου ἀσκληπιάδης κάλλιον Ἀριστοτέλους φυσιολογεῖ ἐν τῷ περὶ χρείας μορίων συντάγματι." He exp ains the easons fo this p efe ence thus: "τὰ δέ γε περὶ ζῴων αὐτῷ συναίρεμά ἐστιν ἀλλοτρίων ἱστοριῶν." Fo more on Psellos' criticisms of Aristotle (though without discussing this passage in pa ticu a ), cf. Linos Benakis, “Michae Pse os’ K itik an A istote es und seine eigene Leh e zu ‘Physis’ und ‘Mate ie-Fo m’-P o ematik,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 56 (1963): 213– 227.

64For Psellos' deployment of the classical past more broadly, cf. Stratis Papaioannou, Michael Psellos: Rhetoric and Authorship in Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 166ff.

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contempo a y usage (συνήθεια). Pse os, y cont ast, fo owed centuries-old terminology, even where contemporary usage had moved on. His poem De medicina, for example, simply follows the terminology of Paul of Aegina in discussing materia medica.65 It is difficult to say, however, whether these divergences resulted from a conscious decision on Psellos' part or simply the result of ignorance of contemporary terminology.

Across Psellos' works, more generally, it is difficult to detect any influence from contemporary terminology or recent medical works. This absence raises questions about Psellos' ostensible practice of medicine. In the Chronographia, afte a , Pse os c aimed to have p acticed medicine (τὴν περὶ τοῦτο τέχνην

ἀσκήσαντα). Given the ack of connections etween Pse os and contempo a y medical terminology or works, then, is this claim credible? If Psellos did indeed practice medicine, it seems that he likely did so out of books, with little or no guidance from contemporary practitioners. Regardless of whether he practiced medicine, however, we can also realize how considerable Psellos' commitment to medicine must have been. Medical knowledge, then, must have seemed remarkably valuable and potent to him if he undertook its study entirely on his own initiative.

65We can see a contrast between the terminology in Psellos and that in Symeon Seth's Syntagma de alimentorum facultatibus. Pse os uses the o de τεῦτλον (fo eet) whe e Symeon Seth uses the mo e cu ent σεῦτλον; and Pse os uses νᾶπυ (fo musta d) whe e Seth has σίναπι. Though a modern scholarly edition of Symeon Seth's work is still a desideratum, there does not appear to be manuscript variation for these terms in Psellos.

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We find further evidence of the potency medicine had for Psellos in the

Chronographia. The Chronographia is a history of over a dozen Byzantine rulers from the late tenth through the mid to late eleventh century; the latter parts of the work draw extensively from Psellos' long tenure in the highest echelons of

Byzantine society and politics, and are filled with personal observations. The personal dimension of the book does not make it any less complex, however, and

Psellos' work is encrusted with literary and rhetorical complexity.66 Amid the literary complexities of the work, health and medicine play a central role, both concretely and metaphorically. In Psellos' telling, for example, several emperors suffered from debilitating diseases: Michael IV, for example, suffered from epilepsy and dropsy, which caused complications for the emperor's participation in Byzantine ceremonies. Figuratively, one of Psellos' central metaphors for the

Byzantine state is a grotesque, monstrous patient that none of the emperors are able to cure. Earlier scholars have noted this emphasis on health and medicine:

Jouanno, for example, pointed out that several emperors begin their reigns as exemplars of physical beauty, but end them ravaged by disease. Further, she contended that the illnesses of the emperors in the Chronographia should be read as metaphorical expressions of the decadence of the empire, and an

66For one interpretation of the work's complexities, cf. Kaldellis, The A g ment of P e o ’ Chronographia.

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expression of sadness at the gap between the demands of the imperial office and the unworthiness of the emperors themselves.67

In the reign of Isaac Komnenos, however, health and medical care assume a pervasive role in the narrative. Two metaphors come to his discussion of Isaac's unsuccessful attempt to reform the civil administration:

Isaac as a charioteer, trying to rein in his unruly horses, and Isaac as a physician, attempting to treat a patient in dire straits. These metaphors are employed simultaneously, as Psellos lays out explicitly in chap. 7, §57: "In order that we may consider him, too, in the light of allegory, let us liken his position partly to that of a charioteer, partly to that of a doctor."68 Furthermore, the patient in this case is not a normal human being, but the grotesque, hypertrophied monster of the civil adminstration that Isaac had inherited from his predecessors. Isaac fails to successfully treat the patient and master his horses because his approach is both too drastic and too impetuous (§58). Isaac did not do any preparatory training with his horses, nor did he wait for the opportune moment for surgical intervention. Medical theory gives Psellos' critique here an additional edge, as medical writers were unanimous that surgery was only to be resorted to after milder remedies had been attempted unsuccessfully; Isaac, by contrast, had

"sudden y unde taken su ge y" (§51, ἐπιχειρήσας ἀποτεμεῖν ἀθρόον).69 In some

67Co inne ouanno, “Le co ps du prince dans la Chronographie de Miche Pse os,” Kentron 19 (2003): 205–221, at 217.

68Translations are from Sewter's imperfect translation unless otherwise noted.

69Trans. mine.

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sense, then, Isaac's failure is an unfamiliarity with the principled way of proceeding of a physician. More generally, however, Isaac's metaphorical medical failure is part of his larger inability to act in accordance with the dictates of eason (λογισμός). Pse os d aws a c ea cont ast etween saac, whose fai u e to follow reason destroys his noble spirit, and his successor Constantine X

Monomachos, who does everything in accordance with reason.70

Isaac's medical failings are not merely metaphorical, however, as Isaac's reign ends after a fateful illness. As we saw at the beginning of the chapter, Isaac falls ill while hunting, and asks Psellos' to weigh in on his medical condition, despite in the presence of Isaac's physician. Psellos describes the illness that accompanied the final days of Isaac's reign: suffering from his illness, Isaac returns to the Blachernae palace, where he initially seems to recover. The following day, however, the emperor suffers pains and difficulty breathing. All of

Isaac's intimates are convinced of the gravity and lethality of his illness, and the emperor determines to abdicate, to enter a monastery, and die, and designates

Constantine as his successor. Isaac's abdication and Constantine's ascension follow; after a surprising recovery, however, Isaac regrets his decision to step down in Constantine's favor, but the die had been cast, and he finally submits to entering a monastery. Psellos' narration of the final days of Isaac's reign is simultaneously a case history of Isaac's illness, then, and Psellos implies that

70 saac, 7.62: "ἀλλὰ τὸ ἄφετον, ἀλλὰ τὸ τοῦ ἐπιστατοῦντος ἀπαράδεκτον λογισμοῦ, τὸ γενναῖον ἐκείνου διέφθειρε φρόνημα." Constantine, 7 Const. 4: "ἀλλὰ λογισμῷ ξύμπαντα ἔπραττεν."

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crucial decisions were made on the basis of faulty medical information.

Furthermore, there is a slippage here between Isaac's therapeutic failures in attempting to govern the state and his mistaken diagnosis of his own body, as well as the tacit suggestion that Isaac would have proven a better ruler if he had kept the therapeutic principles of medicine in mind during his rule.71 At multiple levels, then, medicine determines the effectiveness of Isaac's rule: it is not solely that Isaac's failure to follow the dictates of reason means that he metaphorically is unable apply the appropriate remedy to the state; rather, Isaac's unfamiliarity with medicine very concretely means that he makes the wrong medical decision at a crucial moment in his reign.

Even more remarkably, however, Psellos intimates that his knowledge of medicine meant that he alone understood the true state of the emperor's health but that he—perhaps even intentionally, even strategically—withheld this evidence. When the emperor's health appears to take a turn for the worse at the

Blachernae palace, the emperor's unnamed physician determines his pulse to be

"saw-like." Despite the physician's protestations, Psellos checks the emperor's pulse for himself and finds it to be "chained." Bolstered by this evidence, Psellos realizes that Isaac's illness is at its crisis, after which he will recover. Psellos tells no one of this realization, however, leaving the emperor's household in an

71Psellos may even acknowledge this slippage by referring to the "third stage of the disease" (ὁ μὲν τρίτος ἡμᾶς ἀναμεινάτω καιρὸς, §58) that fo ows saac's unsuccessful therapeutics, and this may be Psellos' way of acknowledging that Isaac's failure in dealing appropriately with his own illness is of a piece with his failure to successfully treat the state.

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uproar, and he tacitly allows the emperor's abdication to proceed.72 The reason for Psellos' decisive lack of intervention here—if that is indeed what it is—can likely be found in Pse os’ evident enthusiasm for the consistent rationality

(λογισμός) of saac's successo , Constantine.

Beyond the political level of the narrative here, however, Psellos' account describes an extended contest with the emperor's physician. These interactions, modelled on Galen's case histories, begin when both Psellos and the physician initially diagnose the emperor's fever. The physician initially diagnoses it as an ephemeral fever, while Psellos himself uses the emperor's pulse to determine that it is a tertian.73 In a few days, however, the physician's diagnosis seems to be correct, with the disease having reached its crisis, and Psellos apparently concedes that the physician (whom he significantly refers to as a craftsman,

τεχνίτης) has een co ect.74 When the severity of the emperor's symptoms on the following day calls the emperor's health into question, Psellos' superiority over the emperor's physician is assured: he realizes that the disease was then at its crisis (after which the patient would recover) rather than on the previous day. His victory here is grounded in the superiority of his erudition to the craft of

72For Psellos' narration of Isaac's disease, cf. Chronographia, ed. Rénauld, §73ff.

73At this point, Pse os says that he has dete mined the natu e of the disease, Κἀγὼ ξυμμαθὼν ὅ τί ποτε τὸ νόσημα εἴη, ut this initia y appea s to e cont adicted y the ate course of events.

74The later course of events suggests that Psellos dissimulates here in conceding defeat. The Greek says that the apparent crisis of the illness with the coming of the third day indicated that the physician was co ect and Pse os was inco ect. Ἧκεν οὖν ἡ τρίτη τῶν ἡμερῶν, καὶ βραχύ τι παραδραμὼν τὴν περίοδον ὁ καιρὸς τὸν μὲν ἀπεδείκνυ τεχνίτην, ἐμὲ δὲ διημαρτηκότα τοῦ ἀκριβοῦς· Ed. Rénau d, §75.

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the workmanlike physician: "sawlike" pulses were described in introductory works on the pulse like Galen's De pulsibus ad tirones, while the "chained" pulse

(the σφυγμός δεσμώτης) was much a e . Pse os' na ative he e offe s a c ose parallel to many of the case histories in Galen's works, where Galen's mastery of medicine and medical theory dramatically proves him correct. In particular, the pulse serves Galen as a clear index of the patient's health, and his mastery of the pulse is what often allows Galen to dramatically illustrate his superior knowledge of the illness, to the astonishment of an audience often comprised of the patient's household.75 In Psellos' account, however, the final outcome is a clever inversion of Galen's case histories: instead of revealing his understanding of the illness, Psellos withholds this knowledge. Psellos bests the emperor's physician, but it is a victory that plays out in the long course of events and in his text rather than with a dramatic medical intervention. The resemblance of this narrative to Galen's case histories, therefore, encapsulates much about interest in medicine in the period: the hold that medicine had over thinkers, for one, but also the bookish, insular quality of that interest and its snobbery towards medical practitioners.

In sum, then, medicine plays a substantial, often surprising role in the works of Michael Psellos. He compiled didactic medical poems, traced down

75For discussion of Galen's narratives of healing, cf. Susan P. Mattern, Galen and the Rhetoric of Healing (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008). For discussion of the dramatic, even prophetic role played by the pulse, cf. Tamsyn Barton, Power and Knowledge: Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine Under the , (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2002), at 152ff.

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obscure medical terminology, turned to Galen for philosophical and medical knowledge, and investigated medical subjects in his Opuscula and his philosophical compendium, the De omnifaria doctrina. Medicine and health are a recurrent theme in the reigns of the emperors in the Chronographia; in the case of Isaac Komnenos, Psellos even seems to suggest that a lack of medical knowledge (and even learned medical practitioners) was central both to Isaac's failings as a ruler and the course of events during the last days of Isaac's reign.

But, as Psellos concedes in the Chronographia, he was no medica τεχνίτης. His knowledge of medicine derived from medical books, and the Chronographia suggests a certain distance, even snobbery, towards medical practitioners who did not share his bookish and intellectual approach to medicine. Psellos was a single, exceptional individual; but as we will see in discussing the twelfth century, both Psellos' enthusiasm and his distance from contemporary practitioners appear to have persisted.

1.3.2 Practical Medicine

By contrast, medicine was not primarily a potent metaphor or intellectual plaything for the medical practitioners in Byzantine society, who were more engaged in the care of patients than literary production. They were apparently so uninterested in textual production, in fact, that we have little evidence for

Byzantine medical practice that can be reliably dated to the eleventh and twelfth centuries. The obscurity of practical medicine has led some scholars to despair:

Herbert Hunger memorably described Byzantine practical medical texts as a

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"jungle." Nevertheless, we can tentatively describe the distinctive ethos of practicing Byzantine physicians. Strikingly, moreover, much of this ethos bears little resemblance to the bookish interest in medicine we can see in intellectuals like Psellos.

For example, Psellos' approach contrasts with one of our central sources for Byzantine medical practice, the handbook of practical medicine produced by

Theophanes Nonnos. Like Psellos, Theophanes may have made a name for himself at the imperial court.76 While Psellos followed the findings of ancient medical authorities, however, Theophanes' compilation made changes and additions to the findings of ancient authorities. In other practical medical texts, too, this grounding in empirical therapeutic efficacy appears to have been widespread, where treatments are given as having been proven "by experience"

(διὰ πείρας).77

Furthermore, the approach to language in Theophanes' text contrasts with the importance of language for Byzantine intellectuals as a whole.

Byzantine intellectuals, after all, were deeply invested in—or perhaps even defined themselves by—their relationship to a particular, Atticizing form of the

Greek language. Medical practitioners, by contrast, seem to have preferred to use

76 oseph A.M. Sonde kamp, “Theophanes Nonnus: Medicine in the Ci c e of Constantine Po phy ogenitus,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 38 (1984): 29–41 maintains that Theophanes was active at the court of Constantine VII Porphyrogenitos. This relies, however, on manuscript evidence recently shown to be untenable. Cf. disc. below.

77This phrase appears in a number of iatrosophia, but also in the hospital treatments ists discussed in Bennett, “Xenonika."

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terms in everyday use, even though they were aware that these terms might not conform to the linguistic purism of their contemporaries. Theophanes' preface, for example, apologizes for the work's use of "words and phrases that carry the odor of the market and the street," but contends that this was in order that the work might be comprehensible to all of its readers.78 This text remains a revealing source of the ethos of Byzantine medicine, even though the circumstances of its production remain remarkably obscure; recent research on the many dozens of manuscripts of the work, for example, has uncovered no fewer than three different recensions, none of which can be dated with any certainty.79

Beyond Theophanes' text, two other types of evidence confirm the empirical, pragmatic orientation of Byzantine medical practitioners. First, we have a set of (often brief and humble) practical medical texts or recipe collections called iatrosophia. These texts vary widely in approach and sophistication.80 Some texts are purely naturalistic, while others include superstitious or magical remedies. Some texts justify their findings or ground

78Fo Theophanes' wo ks, cf. Sonde kamp, “Theophanes Nonnus.” and oseph A. M. Sonderkamp, nte ch ngen e efe ng De Sch ften De Theoph ne Ch o nte (Sog. Theophanes Nonnos), Poikila Vyzantina 7 (Bonn: R. Habelt, 1987). For the work's preface, see Sonde kamp, “Theophanes Nonnus,” 34.

79Barbara Zipser, personal communication. This contrasts with the findings of Sonderkamp a generation ago, who believed he had found a single recension that could be traced back to the court of emperor Constantine Porphyrogenitos in the tenth century. A quick search for Theophanes' manuscripts in the Pinakes database (s.v. Chrysobalantes Theophanes) turns up 79 fragmentary or complete manuscripts of the Epitome de curatione morborum, and almost 80 additional manuscripts of works attributed to him.

80For an introduction to iatrosophia, cf. Anna Maria Ieraci-Bio, “Testi medici di Uso st umenta e.” Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 32 (1982): 33–43.

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their therapeutic recommendations in humoral theory or classical texts, while others are simple lists of remedies. A treatise on the humoral qualities of different foods and drinks that can be dated to the end of the seventh century, for example, frames its findings in terms of Galenic humoral theory, and further claims that the qualities of different substances can be discerned by taste (a position going back to Galen's De medicinis simplicibus).81 Other texts, by contrast, simply list remedies without any pretense at theoretical justification.

All of these iatrosophia, however, appear to be closely connected to medical practice and focused on therapeutic efficacy.

Like Theophanes' text, the language of the iatrosophia tends towards the utilitarian. Some were written in a form of comprehensible prose adapted to practical usage, what Horrocks describes as "a written language poised between the constraints of ancient written precedent and contemporary spoken norms."82

A few texts attempt elevated language and literary polish, while others are orthographically and grammatically rough. In general, however, most of these texts tend to comprehensible, contemporary language and terminology, lacking the sophisticated allusiveness and wordplay to be found in works such as those of Psellos.

81Ed. Ermerins, pp. 223-75; Ieraci-Bio, "Testi medici," 37 also notes the connection to Galen.

82Geoffrey Horrocks, Greek: A History of the Language and Its Speakers, 2nd ed. (Malden, Mass: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 222.

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These iatrosophical texts suggest, then, substantial diversity among medical practitioners, in their variable theoretical sophistication and even their levels of education.83 All the same, they do not approach the highest levels of literary and intellectual refinement. Some practitioners did have a background in the principles—and even the theoretical underpinnings—of Galenic medicine, but few iatrosophical texts combined literary and philosophical refinement with the practice of medicine, as can be seen in figures such as Galen himself or

Ioannes Aktouarios (13th-14th c.). Despite the diversity of iatrosophia writers, then, they largely contrast with the bookish approach we can see in Psellos.

But we cannot simply assume, however, that surviving iatrosophia give us an accurate picture of medical practice in its totality. After all, scholars of these works have pointed out that they appear to have served practitioners who were unable to draw on learned medical works.84 A more rounded picture can be gleaned from the admittedly lacunose Byzantine manuscript record, which nevertheless serves to confirm our general impression of the ethos of Byzantine medicine. Some medical manuscripts preserve therapeutically oriented texts with few literary, philosophical, or theoretical pretensions. David Bennett, for example, points out that the surviving manuscripts that preserve hospital treatments (such as the treatment list for the Mangana hospital in BAV MS Vat. gr. 299) are almost purely empirical, with very little grounding in humoral

83For further discussion of these texts, cf. the works of Anna Ieraci-Bio.

84Cf., for example, Ieraci-Bio, “Testi medici di Uso strumentale,” 33.

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theory.85 On the other hand, even deluxe medical manuscripts often retained a connection to medical practice. The format and many illuminations of the surgical compilation of Niketas, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana MS 74.7, which was produced ca. 900, suggest that it was produced as a display manuscript. By contrast, however, the manuscript did not make a show of its connection to the learned authorities of the Greek medical tradition, but contains a large number of obscure surgical texts.86 This manuscript, in particular, suggests that medical practitioners remained close to medical practice even when their worldly success allowed the commissioning of deluxe manuscripts.

Across our textual evidence for Byzantine medical practice, then, we have evidence for a diverse group of medical practitioners: from those who noted down their experiences in humble iatrosophia or added simple remedies to hospital treatment lists, to those such as Theophanes Nonnos and the surgeon

Niketas, who appear to have had considerable success. Surprisingly, however, we have only scanty evidence for interactions and influence between intellectuals and even the most successful Byzantine physicians. The most striking aspect of Byzantine medicine to modern readers, its overwhelmingly empirical approach, seems to have made little impression on learned contemporaries. Even Psellos, who was interested in medicine and willing to

85Cf. disc. in Bennett, “Xenonika," ch. 7.

86Some discussion of this manuscript can be found in Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire (Supplement to the Bulletin of the History of Medicine); Miller, however, contends that this manuscript was intended for medical practice, which does not really correspond to the manuscript's format and illuminations, a point originally made by Nutton. Further information about this manuscript can be found in Bennett, “Xenonika,” 448f.

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break with conventional attitudes, appears to have had little interest in or knowledge of the medicine practiced by his contemporaries.

1.3.3 Symeon Seth

One intellectual contemporary with Psellos, however, may have had a more substantial connection to contemporary medicine. Possessing linguistic facility in Arabic as well as Greek, the courtier and intellectual Symeon Seth appears to have originally come from Antioch, and his works attest to travel around the Eastern Mediterranean. Like Psellos, his works display considerable versatility: he wrote compendia of natural philosophy for the emperor Michael

VII (1071-1078), translated beast fables from Arabic for Alexios I

Komnenos (1081-1118), and may have even served as an astrologer to the court.

His most substantial engagement, however, appears to have been with medicine and medical texts (and his medical texts, in turn, became quite popular).87 He compiled a dietary treatise for Michael (who had a broad interest in philosophy and science), wrote a critique of Galen, and, as Hélène Congourdeau has convincingly argued, was the likely translator of Al-Ra z 's treatise on smallpox into Greek.88 What is more, some aspects of Seth's medical works suggest an affinity with medical practitioners, while other dimensions of his works imply

87Seth's dietary treatise is represented by 78 partial and complete copies in the Pinakes database. Given the occasional miscataloguing of his works, additional copies may well appear.

88Marie-Hé ène Congou deau, “Le t aducteu g ec du t aité de Rhazès su a va io e.” n Storia e Ecdotica dei Testi Medici Greci: Atti del II Convegno Internazionale, Parigi 24-26 Maggio 1994, edited y Antonio Ga zya and acques ouanna (Nap es: M. d’Au ia, 1996), 99–111.

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that he, too, was aware of and frustrated with the stubborn traditionalism evinced by contemporary medical enthusiasts.

The first striking feature of Seth's works is his use of contemporary terminology, which contrasts with what we have already noted in Psellos. Even though Psellos dedicated an entire work to the intricacies of medical terminology, as we saw, his poem De medicina used the centuries-old terminology of Paul of Aegina. Symeon Seth's dietary treatise, by contrast, seems to have been much closer to the language of contemporary medicine. The Greek word for beet, for example, had shifted over the centuries; Psellos followed Paul of Aegina in using τεῦτλον, whe e Seth used the ate fo m σεῦτλον, which a so seems to have been the orthography common in contemporary medical texts.89

Nor was this an unconscious choice on Seth's part: in words that echo

Theophanes Nonnos' preface, Seth apologizes for the work's unrefined language, explaining that he had opted to use "more common" and "more well-known"

(κοινωτέροις καὶ γνωριμωτέροις) voca u a y athe than the customa y exp essions of the ancient physicians (ἡ [συνήθεια] τῶν παλαιῶν ἰατρῶν).

In fact, his use of this terminology would seem to raise questions about his connections with medical practice. Does his use of contemporary medical terminology suggest that he himself practiced medicine? The haphazard

89The anonymous text περὶ χυμων, βρωματων, και ποματων, ed. de e , vo . 2, V uses σεῦτλον, fo examp e (p. 260, . 28), and the wo d occu s seve a times in Pau of Nicaea's Liber Medicus, and appears repeatedly in the tenth-century Berlin compilation of horse medicine texts. It is also the form found (sixteen times) in the tenth-century agriculture compilation Geoponika.

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arrangement of some of the entries in his dietary treatise might suggest that the work was compiled for his own use, and only later repurposed for presentation to the emperor, and this compositional history could be taken to imply medical practice. On the other hand, Seth gives no positive indication that he himself had practiced medicine; his dietary work is largely a synthesis of pre-existing texts, not a consideration of dietary substances in light of empirical experience.90

Either way, his use of contemporary terminology clearly displays an openness to medical knowledge that went beyond authoritative classical pronouncements.

Seth displays both boldness and hesitation in his use of Arabic sources, providing an intriguing parallel with Constantine the African. The preface of his dietary treatise, for example, makes a plea for the worth of medical learning that did not derive from the Greek tradition. It is not only among the Greeks, Seth says, but also among the "Persians, Hagarenes (Muslims), and Indians" that valuable things have been written on foodstuffs.91 In fact, Seth seems to have been particularly well-acquainted with the Arabic medical tradition, and the works of A u Bak Muh ammad i n aka ya al-Ra z in particular, who was quite explicit about his efforts to critique and improve on Galen's findings.92 But Seth was tentative in displaying the degree of influence of Arabic texts on his works:

90Whe e Byzantine p actica medica texts justify emedies expe ientia y (διὰ πείρας), Seth does not. Likewise, Seth nowhere speaks from his own medical experience (which many medical writers did, both East and West).

91Cf. Symeon Seth, Simeonis Sethi Syntagma de alimentorum facultatibus, ed. Bernhard Langkavel (Leipzig: Teubner, 1868), 1.

92In Seth's dietary treatise, for example, he refers (once) to "the Persian," retai ing info mation that appea s to de ive f om Ra z 's Kita a -H a w .

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the foreign sources referred to in his preface are nowhere cited by name—or at all—in the body of his dietary treatise. His likely translation of Ra z 's work on smallpox was apologetic, while his critique of Galen nowhere mentions any

Arabic analogues or precedents for the work.

Despite his reluctance to openly name these works, however, Seth's works nevertheless display a consciousness of the limitations of Greek medicine that apparently derives from his command of the Arabic tradition. The Greek translation of Ra z 's work on smallpox, a work most likely produced by Seth, explains that it was necessary to translate this work from Arabic because of

Galen's unsatisfactory treatment of the disease, which had been uncommon in his day. Seth was most explicit about Galen's limitations in his Critique of Galen

(ἀντιρρητικός πρὸς Γαληνόν). This work also appears to have been inspired by a work of Ra z 's (his Kita a -Shuku k a a a nu s), even though the direct influence of Ra z 's work on Seth's text is unlikely.93

What is most remarkable about Seth's Critique of Galen for our present discussion, however, is that this critique of the most prominent physician in the

Greek tradition was likely not directed at medical practitioners at all. In this text,

Seth describes the wide popularity of Galen: Galen is "on almost everyone's tongue" (ἐπὶ γλοττῆς σχεδὸν πάντων κείμενον), which might imply a wider reading public than practitioners alone. Furthermore, he notes, there are those

93Ra z 's work is a wide-ranging and penetrating analysis of a wide range of problems with Galen's works; Seth's is a brief, somewhat tendentious diatribe against a few problems in Galen's work, and Galen's De naturalibus facultatibus in pa ticu a . The cont ast etween the wo ks makes it un ike y that Seth composed his opuscu um with Ra z 's work at hand.

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who e ieve Ga en to e something divine (θεόν τι χρῆμα). But this g oup of

Galen-wo shippe s a e nowhe e desc i ed as physicians (ἰατροί). Mo eove , it seems hard to square this uncritical devotion to Galen with the pervasive willingness of medical practitioners to empirically revise the ancient physicians, as we have seen in this chapter. Finally, although the work is a critique of Galen, its argumentation is less medically inflected than one might expect. Seth argues, for example, that Galen had run afoul of Aristotle by claiming that there were separate alterative and formative virtues.94 One has to think that this line of attack would have found more purchase among the educated (for whom

Aristotle was the basis of philosophical learning) than among medical practitioners (who might have had a very scanty background in Aristotle—or even in medical theory—at all). As we have seen, Psellos had also contrasted

Galen and Aristotle as biological authorities, and it was readers like Psellos (or perhaps even Psellos himself) who Seth must have had in mind.

Despite Seth's critique of his limitations, however, Galen appears to have only gained in popularity in the course of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. By contrast, Symeon Seth's openness to both non-Greek (and especially Arabic) medicine and contemporary terminology appears to represent a road not taken by Byzantine intellectuals with an interest in medicine. Instead, in the following century and a half, Psellos' bookish, antiquarian approach to medicine appears

94For the text and discussion of this work, cf. now Petros Bouras-Vallianatos, "Galen's Reception in Byzantium: Symeon Seth and his Refutation of Galenic Theories on Human ," Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 55 (2015), 431-469. Aristotle had insisted that formative forces are necessarily alterative.

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to have been the dominant approach to medicine by Byzantine intellectuals; as we will see, this bookish approach and distance from medical practitioners may have determined the outcome of some of the signal medical efforts in

Constantinople in the twelfth century.

1.4 Twelfth-Century Repercussions

In the first half of the twelfth century, a rich body of texts illustrates the hold that medicine had on educated thinkers, allowing us to see that medicine became even more pervasive in Byzantine texts. Anna Komnene followed on

Psellos' complex usage of medical care and medical metaphor in historical writing in her account of her father's reign, the Alexiad.95 Similarly, the historical accounts of John Kinnamos and Niketas Choniates both discuss the medical treatment of emperor John II prior to his death in 1143. Before his death, moreover, John II also famously founded the Pantokrator monastery and detailed the provision of medical care there. These examples could be multiplied, but taken together, this evidence unambiguously illustrates the pervasive presence of medicine among Byzantine intellectuals.

The most striking thing about this medical evidence, however, are the gaps and absences in it. For one, much as we saw in Psellos, the presence of

95For the Alexiad generally, cf. Warren Treadgold, The Middle Byzantine Historians (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), and Neville, forthcoming. For the use of medicine in the wo k, cf. G en Coope , “Byzantium Between East and West: Competing He enisms in the Alexiad of Anna Komnene and He Contempo a ies,” in East Meets West in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period, ed. Albrecht Classen and Marilyn Sandidge, Fundamentals of Medieval and Early Modern Culture 12 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2013), 263–87.

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medicine in literary texts nevertheless reveals an enthusiasm for medicine that was bookish and out of date. Conversely, however, medical practitioners seem not to have striven to make their profession more intellectual or textual in light of this enthusiasm. For example, the twelfth century saw a remarkable flourishing of the production of sophisticated commentaries, including commentaries on works of Aristotle and Homer. The length and complexity of

Galen's works would seem to make them natural objects of commentary and explication (as they have been in other times and places), and yet, we have almost no evidence that his works—or any medical works—received commentaries in this period.96 Law furnishes a close parallel for medicine; but while legal texts such as the Basilica underwent systematization and received commentaries, medical texts appear to have received no comparable attention.97

This absence of commentaries holds, moreover, despite at least two well- documented appointments for the teaching of medicine in the twelfth century

(as we will discuss shortly).

Moreover, this textual silence exists even though we have unambiguous evidence for a small group of physicians who broke into the highest levels of society: the letters of figures like Michael Italikos and the poems of the satirist

Theodore Prodromos attest to the prominence of physicians like Nicholas

96For surviving commentaries, cf. Sibylle Ihm, Clavis Commentariorum Der Antiken Medizinischen Texte (Leiden: Brill, 2002). A handful of the commentaries Ihm discusses have dates that may fall in the eleventh or twelfth centuries (nos. 38, 174, 236, 300); others are anonymous, yet appear in manuscripts dating to the eleventh and twelfth centuries (nos. 292, 299).

97Cf. the discussion of law in Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 356ff.

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Kallikles and Michael Lizix; Kallikles even rated a favorable mention in the

Alexiad of Anna Komnene for his attentions to the dying Alexios. And yet, even these physicians do not appear to have produced a single work of medicine: when Kallikles put pen to paper, in fact, he composed literary epigrams, despite his substantial reputation as a physician. Arguments from silence are always tricky, but this silence is deafening. A few brief considerations will show that, like this argument from silence, our evidence for twelfth century medicine makes much better sense when we see it as marked by a substantial divide between medical practitioners and elite intellectuals. Even the signal achievement of twelfth century Byzantine medicine, we will see, the hospital of the Pantokrator monastery in Constantinople, furnishes clear evidence for a divide that earlier scholars have missed or explained away.

1.4.1 The Timarion

The Lucianic satire of the Timarion, for example, written sometime in the late eleventh or early twelfth century, confirms this picture even as it implies a learned audience with a keen interest in medical matters.98 The text tells the

98 Cf. the ed. by Romano, Timarione: testo critico, introduzione, traduzione, commentario, e lessico (Nap es: Unive sita di Napo i, Cattedra di Filologia Bizantina, 1974); and the translation by Baldwin, Timarion (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1984), who has a tendency to over- medicalize some of the language. For commentary on the poem, cf. Dimitris Krallis, "Harmless satire, stinging critique: Notes and suggestions for Reading the Timarion," in Power and Subversion in Byzantium, edited by Dimiter Angelov and Michael Saxby (Aldershot: Ashgavte Variorum, 2013), 221-246. For the medical content of the work, cf. Karl-Heinz Leven, “La médecine byzantine vue à travers la satire Timarion (X e sièc e),” in e , mé ec ne et oc été : pp oche h to e po e p é ent: Acte e co o e ’h to e p é ent, ed. F ancois-O ivie Touati (Pa is: L’Ha mattan: Histoi e au p e sent, 1993), 129–35 and Evangelos Konstantinou, “Die yzantinische Medizin im Lichte de anonymen Sati e ‘Tima ion’,” BYZANTINA 12 (1983): 161–181. The date of the Timarion has been an object of debate; it places 57

story of a pilgrim Timarion who travels to Thessalonike for the festival of St.

Demetrios. During his return trip, he becomes ill and is carried to, as it turns out, a pagan underworld by two medically inclined psychopomps. Both in the world of the living and the underworld, the anonymous author offers satirical commentary on recent events and figures, while often using medical knowledge to comedic effect.99 Like the Souda and the works of Psellos, however, the

Timarion reveals a connection to medical books far more than to contemporary medical practice.

For one, the anonymous author is far more interested in scoring satirical points than accurately reflecting the contemporary understanding of medicine, as can be seen in the two psychopomps who come to collect Timarion after he has suffered a "most terrible" case of diarrhea during a tertian fever. In a nice combination of medical and scatological humor, these devils argue that because he's entirely lost his "elemental bile," he cannot, in fact, be alive, a principle for which they cite Aesculapius and Hippocrates (§13). We should not overestimate the medical sophistication of these spiritual intermediaries, however. Their talk of "elemental bile" (στοιχειώδης χολή) sounds sophisticated, but the term does not appear in Galen, and may betray an uncertainty about medical theory.100

Theodore of Smyrna in the underworld, who had died in 1112, but it is not necessarily the case that the work postdates his death. For reasons of space, I cannot discuss debates about the work's authorship; the suggestion, however, that it derives from the circle of Prodromos, Kallikles, et al., mentioned above, seems entirely reasonable.

99For discussion of the work's satirical and political aims, cf. Krallis, "Harmless satire."

100A more careful discussion would clearly recognize the distinction between the four elements that make up all physical substances and the humors that are the fundamental 58

Caution is clearly merited in drawing historical significance from these figures: they are clearly being satirized as medically misinformed blowhards, especially given that their flawed medical knowledge leads them to bring Timarion to the underworld before his death!

Similarly, the author of the Timarion uses the work's trip to the underworld to lampoon the dominant authorities of the medical tradition. He mocks the length of Galen's works, noting that even in the underworld, Galen is still refining and adding to his book on the differences between fevers, producing an edition that will outstrip the already lengthy work (§29). Hippocrates, on the other hand, speaks with the gnomic impenetrability of the Aphorisms (§28). The work even gives a satirical spin to centuries-old medical controversies. In the voice of Theodore of Smyrna, for example, he lambastes the theoretical failings of , even though the Hellenistic physician had been dead for almost fourteen hundred years (and exhaustively taken to task by Galen, to boot). These references presume an audience well versed in medical texts, who would have to be familiar with the style of the Aphorisms or Galen's interminable prolixity to get the jokes. As Krallis aptly puts it, the Timarion is populated not by "quaint inventions of a writer aiming to entertain," but "characters from the readings of educated Byzantines, subjects of controversy and discussion in the courtly

constituents of the human body. It is worth noting, however, that Galen does make a few references to "elemental humors" (στοιχειώδης χυμός) in his works, most notably in the De elementis ex Hipp. and the In Hipp. de nat. hom.; and does refer to "elemental parts" (μόρια) of the body when talking about homoiomerous members; but these demonic figures seem to miss these distinctions.

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salons of Constantinople."101 The jokes and references in the Timarion, then, further underscore the bookishness of the work's medical knowledge.

1.4.2 Michael Italikos

Beyond the Timarion, several of the central pieces of evidence for medicine in the twelfth century give further evidence of elite enthusiasm, but only limited information about the broader world of medicine in the period. In his contention that physicians rose to social respectability, Kazhdan offered

Michael Italikos as a central example. Italikos taught medicine and corresponded with physicians, as two of the thirty five letters in his letter collection show.102

Upon closer examination, however, Italikos provides less firm evidence for

Kazhdan's interpretation than initially appears.

First, the presence of letters to physicians in his correspondence may tell us less about contacts between the literati and more about the production of letter collections. As we have seen, elite enthusiasm for medicine in the eleventh and twelfth centuries is indisputable. The presence of letters to physicians in contemporary letter collections, therefore, may imply that enthusiasm for medicine had reached such a pitch that letter collectors included letters to physicians that might not have merited inclusion in an earlier period.103 The

101Krallis, "Harmless satire," at 223.

102Cf. the discussion of Kazhdan above.

103But cf. Ho den's dismissa of this possi i ity, Pe eg ine Ho den, “How Medica ised We e Byzantine Hospita s?” in Hospitals and Healing from Antiquity to the Later Middle Ages, 2008, I: 45–74, at 56.

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presence of these letters, then, may not provide reliable evidence about the changing social status of physicians at all.

Furthermore, one of these two letters of Italikos suggests that, contrary to what has previously been suggested, Italikos may not have thought particularly highly of medical practitioners. The single letter of his (32) to a named physician, the otherwise unattested Leipsiotes, emphasizes how literate Leipsiotes was in contrast to other physicians, calling him "the first and only most literate one among the physicians" (σὺ δὲ πρῶτος καὶ μόνος ἐν ἰατροῖς ὁ γραμματικώτατος).

On the one hand, this bit of flattery makes clear the respect Italikos had for

Leipsiotes. On the other hand, however, it may well indicate that Italikos had found Leipsiotes' physician colleagues less literate than he expected or desired.104 It is wise not to press this point too hard, but it is striking that Italikos' dismissive attitude towards contemporary physicians finds a parallel in

Theodore Prodromos' well-known satire on an incompetent dentist: at the end of the poem, Prodromos singled out his friends Michael Lizix and Nicholas

Ka ik es as maste s of medica know edge (ἐπιστήμη) a out human odies, contrasting them with a much larger body of undistinguished physicians.

Evidence from Italikos' biography, finally, raises further questions about the relationship between medical practitioners and the literati. Italikos, after all, was appointed to e the "teache of the physicians" (διδάσκαλος τῶν ἰατρῶν).

104Michael Italikos, Lettres et Discours, ed. Pau Gautie (Pa is: nstitut F an ais d’E tudes Byzantines, 1972), ep. 32.

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According to Gautier, however, he did not come to this position from a background in medical practice. Rather, Italikos' background beforehand had been in rhetoric and philosophy.105 If medical practitioners were so well integrated into Constantinopolitan high society, why wasn't a medical practitioner (such as his correspondent Leipsiotes) tapped for this position rather than Italikos? We may detect a certain condescension—or perhaps even, as we will see, a conscious effort to exert control—in the appointment of a philosopher and rhetorician to instruct physicians. In sum, then, both Italikos' biography and his letters provide less certain evidence of the successful integration of physicians into Byzantine polite society.

1.4.3 The Pantokrator

Finally, reframing Byzantine medicine as marked by a divide between intellectuals and practitioners even helps to explain several features of what is the most well-known and puzzling medical phenomenon in the twelfth century, the xenon attached to the Pantokrator monastery. (Xenon originally meant

"house for foreigners," but seems to indicate something like a hospital in the case of the Pantokrator.) In the founding typikon of the monastery, which was established in 1136, Emperor John II laid out detailed regulations for the medical care in the hospital: the number of beds, the provisions for different types of patients, and even the schedule of the physicians and other attendants at the xenon. The typikon is a prescriptive document, however, and our evidence of

105Italikos, Lettres et discours, ep. 5.

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how these regulations were implemented is relatively thin, despite its prominence. All the same, Robert Volk has drawn attention to three sources that supplement the typikon, which Timothy Miller has augmented with a poem from the Mangana codex. These scraps of evidence have often served as ammunition in the debate between maximalist and minimalist interpretations of Byzantine hospitals: Miller has contended that this evidence attests to a xenon that operated as a site of medicalized cure—even a center of medical excellence— while Miller's many critics have argued that his expansive interpretation misrepresents our modest evidence.106 My goal here, however, is to suggest that both the typikon and these other sources come into sharper focus when seen as a part of a disconnect between learned medicine and medical practice in the period.

Two of these pieces of evidence flesh out the construction of the

Pantokrator. First, a dedicatory poem for the whole Pantokrator complex describes the beauty of the buildings and praises the architect Nikephoros. More than this, however, it makes clear both the charitable and medical aims of the xenon. First, it alludes to the name of the xenon by describing the beds set up for the eception of st ange s (εἰς δοχὴν ξένων) and expatiating on the c imatic virtues of the xenon's site on a ridge overlooking the city, explaining that its airs

106An important early critique can be found in Vivian Nutton, “Review Essay,” Medical History, 1986; the est, most tho ough ecent discussion can e found in Bennett, “Xenonika," ut cf. as we Pe eg ine Ho den, “A ms and the Man: Hospita Founde s in Byzantium,” in The Impact of Hospitals, 300-2000, ed. John Henderson, Peregrine Horden, and Alessandro Pastore (Bern: Peter Lang, 2007), 59–76 and Ho den, “How Medica ised We e Byzantine Hospita s?”

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"d ive out diseases of oth men and women" (ἀνδρῶν γυναικῶν ἐκτρέποντας

τὰς νόσους/ χύσεις ἔχοντας ἀέρος τὰς εὐκράτους).107 Similarly, the life of the empress Eirene, preserved in several synaxaria manuscripts, gives the empress much of the credit for the construction of the Pantokrator complex, and echoes many of the dedicatory poem's praises for the facility.108 Neither of these texts clarify the provision of medical care at the xenon, however, and most of their attention is focused on the physical structures of the complex.

To uncover the plans for medical care at the xenon, then, we must turn to the typikon itself; its exhaustive provisions suggest an emperor who was deeply invested in caring for the ill and sought to regulate the operation of the hospital in minute detail.109 One of the most striking features of the hospital, in fact, is the substantial number of medical practitioners who were to be employed in its operation. These included two chief physicians for the whole facility

(protomenitai), several appointed to the wards (primikerioi), and a number of lesser healers and carers. Further, the physicians in service of the hospital were to be divided into two groups, so that they could trade off in caring for the patients.

107Robert Volk, e n he t we en n Woh t t gke t m Sp ege e z nt n chen Klostertypika, Misce anea Byzantina Monacensia 28 (Munich: nstitut fu Byzantinistik und Neug iechische Phi o ogie de Unive sita t, 1983), 188ff.

108Ibid., 190ff.

109For the edition of the typikon, cf. Pau Gautie , “Le Typikon du Ch ist Sauveu Pantoc ato ,” Revue des Études Byzantines 32 (1974): 1–145; the text has been translated by Robert Jordan, in John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero, eds., Byzantine Monastic Fo n t on Doc ment : A Comp ete T n t on of the S v v ng Fo n e ’ T p k n Te t ment , Dumbarton Oaks Studies 37 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library; Collection, 2000), 2:725-781.

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Two striking features of the regulation of these physicians, however, are their pay and the effort to regulate their education. As scholars have noted, these physicians were not highly compensated for their service to the hospital; moreover, §54 of the typikon sought to explicitly forbid them from undertaking other work. This point has been noted by other scholars, who have suggested various ways that these physicians might compensate for such a low income.110 A simpler explanation, however, is that physicians simply may not have been well paid by the standards of Byzantine elites; they were seen, perhaps, as craftsmen

(τεχνίται, to use Pse os' te m) athe than educated p ofessiona s, and we e remunerated accordingly.

The paternalistic concern evinced by the typikon to educate these physicians further suggests their subordinate status. §55 makes provision for a teache o p ofesso (διδάσκαλος) to give inst uction on matte s of medica know edge (τὰ τῆς ἰατρικῆς ἐπιστήμης).111 This teacher is explicitly designated to teach medical know edge (ἐπιστήμη); this might simp y suggest p ofessiona knowledge, but may here imply theoretical knowledge in contrast to mere technica p oficiency (τέχνη). Despite his duty to teach physicians (τοὺς παῖδας

τῶν ἰατρῶν), it is nowhe e stated that this teacher himself is to have a background in medical practice. If Michael Italikos is any indication, it may well

110Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire (Supplement to the Bulletin of the History of Medicine), xiii, suggests that the physicians might work during those months when they we e not on duty; Ho den, “How Medica ised We e Byzantine Hospita s?” 54, y cont ast, suggests that these payments were essentially honoraria for physicians who were already well established and invited to serve in a prestigious monastery.

111Ed. Gautier, l. 1313ff.

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have been normal to appoint philosophically educated non-physicians to teach medicine. To go from the pay scale, moreover, the typikon implies that this figure was better regarded than the physicians who actually worked in the xenon: the highest-ranking physicians and surgeons were to receive seven and a half nomismata and a food allowance, while the teacher of medicine would receive pay equal to the infirmarian who oversaw the hospital, at the rate of eight nomismata and a larger food allowance. Moreover, this teacher was forbidden from doing anything other than teaching (including, perhaps, medical practice); teachers found to be doing so would be deprived of their food allowance and replaced with a more obedient instructor. Modern scholars have sought to explain away these features of the Pantokrator typikon to bring it into accord with Kazhdan's interpretation of the social rise of physicians in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.112 It is more parsimonious, however, to take the evidence at face value: as the typikon suggests, physicians were seen as in need of thorough instruction, and were simply not terribly well regarded or paid.

A letter from the poet and historian John Tzetzes to the superintendent of medica ca e (the νοσοκόμος τοῦ ἰατρειοῦ) at the Pantok ato fu the einfo ces our impression that many intellectuals viewed medical practitioners with a sense of superiority. Tzetzes' Letter 81 is entirely devoted to disabusing this leading physician of the belief that Galen lived at the time of Christ. Given that

Galen was quite happy to name-drop by recounting his cures of the Antonine

112Cf. Miller, Birth of the Hospital, 54.

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emperors—and that these imperial connections were one of the most famous aspects of his life, as we have seen in the Souda—we can infer that this physician's knowledge of Galen's texts was likely as shaky as his command of

Roman history. In setting his correspondent straight, Tzetzes is not entirely harsh, but treats the physician with no small measure of condescension.

Tzetzes' letter, then, further adds to the evidence that elites in the

Komnenian period made a paternalistic effort to re-educate a class of physicians that lacked the broad learning and literary background shared by members of

Byzantine polite society. More than this, it corresponds to a broader effort by the

Komnenoi to assert control, in what Paul Magdalino has described as an effort to secure "lordship over the professional classes."113 One final piece of evidence, turned up by Timothy Miller, further illustrates the sponsorship of this kind of medicine by Komnenian elites. Poem 59 of the Mangana poet is addressed to his patron, the sebastokratorissa Eirene, who was the sister-in-law of Emperor

Manuel I. After describing the illness of Eirene, the poem describes her care at the Pantokrator xenon. She is treated by three physicians, an older practitioner and two younger physicians. The poem emphasizes the rational training and efficacy of the younger physicians; by contrast, however, the poem disparages the older practitioner's use of leeches in the sebastokratorissa's treatment.

Rather than reflecting the operation of the xenon, this poem seems intended, at

113For Magdalino's original formulation of this, cf. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, at 220, with further discussion of medicine at 361ff. Horden has also seen the Pantok ato as pa t of this attempt to secu e cont o , cf. Ho den, “A ms and the Man,” at 65.

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least in part, to show the right and wrong way to practice medicine, likely echoing the sentiments of the Mangana poet's patroness towards medical care. If it does describe medical care at the xenon, however, the poem suggests that the xenon continued to operate in accordance with its founding ideals (and in fact, this poem is one of the few pieces of evidence attesting to the continued operation of the xenon after its founding). More than this, however, it neatly illustrates the divide between the older, empirical, unschooled tradition of

Byzantine medical practice and the rational (even modern) sort of medicine the

Komnenoi sought to foster. If a generational divide was beginning to open up in the twelfth century, as this poem suggests, with young, rationally trained physicians in opposition to the empirical practitioners of the older tradition, we have little evidence that it outlasted the Komnenian dynasty: this younger generation appears to have had little textual output, and even surviving texts from hospitals are both scanty and empirically oriented.114 In its humble way, then, it appears that the unlettered tradition of Byzantine medical practitioners resisted a concerted effort to remake it by the Komnenoi.

1.5 Conclusion

In the eleventh and twelfth centuries, then, Kazhdan was right in suggesting that changes in medicine were taking place. Rather than a wholesale

114The poem is mentioned in Appendix I of Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, at 497, and discussed in depth in Miller, The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire (Supplement to the Bulletin of the History of Medicine), xxi-xxii. To my knowledge, this poem has not yet een pu ished. Fo discussion of hospita texts, cf. Bennett, “Xenonika."

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assimilation of medical practitioners within the elite, however, we have members of an elite that was engaging ever more avidly with medicine: including medical knowledge and imagery in an increasingly diverse body of texts; corresponding with physicians, at least to some extent; concerning themselves with the provision of medical care and medical teaching; and striving to give the impression that they had mastered the nuances of medical theory.

Some well-educated physicians such as Michael Italikos' correspondent

Leipsiotes must have parlayed their education and medical learning into elite social respectability, but we know only a handful of such cases. In fact, it may have been the prospect of a class of physicians, newly assertive as a result of this widespread interest in medicine, that pushed the Komnenoi to attempt to institutionalize and regulate the teaching and training of physicians. As in other areas of learning and professional practice, the Komnenian dynasty sought to remake medicine in a way that better accorded with its own interests: physicians who had been trained in a xenon or taught by a centrally appointed

"teacher of physicians" might be more liable to centralized control than a diverse, even anarchic body of practitioners with varying levels of education and training. Considered in this light, both the typikon of the Pantokrator and a number of other texts from the period take on a different significance. Rather than an effort to benevolently foster medical care, therefore, some of this interest in medicine among Komnenian elites may have been part of an effort to remake medical education and co-opt medical practitioners. Where Psellos had been largely content to snipe at medical practitioners in his Chronographia, the

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interest in and visibility of medicine in this later period coincided with the rise of an imperial effort at regulation and perhaps control.

Whatever the social and political dynamics of medicine in the twelfth century, however, we have little evidence to suggest that the apparent

Komnenian effort to regulate or control medicine was effective, and little as well that any thorough-going or lasting social rapprochement between physicians and intellectuals took place. In particular, to gauge from surviving texts, we have few indications that practitioners adopted the textual, theoretical approach favored by intellectuals or vice versa. Both of the two foundations from this period, for example, the Mangana and Pantokrator xenones, have only meager textual remains, and—although the twelfth century was a period of remarkable literary flourishing—we have little record that physicians participated in the literary production of the period.115 Whatever teaching or patronage took place, it did not result in new commentaries on Galen or Hippocrates, as it did on

Aristotle. Despite Ga en’s evident popu a ity, then, his career as both a medical practitioner and a philosophically and literarily sophisticated writer found few followers in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

Given the persistence of these two divisions, then, it seems that we are dealing with two distinct social and cultural groups, perhaps even two cultures of medicine in eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantium. On the one hand, elite

115The literary production of Nicholas Kallikles, who did not in fact produce medical texts, seems to confirm this tendency.

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intellectuals were concerned with literary and linguistic cultivation, and seized upon the potential of medicine as a sign of intellectual sophistication and a source of metaphorical possibility. (Many of the same characteristics can be seen in Photios' interest in medicine, in fact.) On the other hand, actual medical practitioners tended to be less refined and more pragmatic: in their language, which had developed and changed from its ancient roots; and in their therapeutic techniques, which sometimes diverged from authoritative classical texts and often drew on empirical findings. Furthermore, it seems that Byzantine medical education had only a tenuous connection to book-learning.

It may have been that medicine was transmitted by an apprenticeship system, and that medical practitioners were organized into something like a guild. These characteristics, furthermore, might help to explain the scantiness and the rough state of the textual remains for Byzantine medicine: rather than setting down their trade secrets in books, Byzantine physicians might have tended to transmit them orally.116 Even despite the changes we can see in this period, then, there is also substantial evidence for continuity in the persistence of these two, divided worlds of Byzantine medicine.

116Miller (in The Birth of the Hospital in the Byzantine Empire) has indeed spoken of Byzantine practitioners in terms of a guild. It should be noted, however, that we have no evidence that physicians were legally arranged as a guild; they do not appear in the tenth- century Book of the Eparch.

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CHAPTER 2:

CONSTANTINE'S VIATICUM IN ITS CASSINESE CONTEXT

2.1 Introduction

Constantine the African is a central figure in the history of thought and medicine in the high medieval Latin West; as we will see, the medical texts he produced circulated in substantial numbers, and among a surprising range of readers. Because of his accomplishments and influence, stories long circulated about Constantine, detailing his life, travels, and travails before he arrived at the monastery of Monte Cassino in Italy. Three centuries after his life, these narratives and his texts had sufficient staying power to merit repeated, ambivalent mention in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales: Constantine is included in a list of venerable authorities in the General Prologue, but, in the Merchant's Tale, he is described as "the cursed monk, daun [master] Constantyn," whose De coitu was the source of an extensive list of aphrodisiacs.117 For centuries after his life, in fact, Constantine has frequently aroused contradiction and ambivalence.118

Even our earliest biographical sources retail problematic and contradictory

117Geoffrey Chaucer, The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Larry Dean Benson (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1987), p. 161, ll. 1810-11.

118For discussion of the medieval myths surrounding Constantine, cf. now Charles Bu nett, “The Legend of Constantine the Af ican,” in The Medieval Legends of Scholars and Philosophers, ed. Agostino Paravicini Bagliani, Micrologus 21 (Florence: SISMEL, 2013), 277–94.

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accounts of his life, and these have given rise to intractable debates about a number of aspects of his life.

Our earliest biographical sources for his life, for example, give conflicting evidence about his religious origins. The two earliest biographies say nothing about his religious origins, while a later source claims he was a Muslim merchant. This evidence has given rise to varied interpretations: some have plumped for a Muslim origin, while others have placed his origins in the

Christian communities of North Africa. As we will see, close investigation of the religious language of his translations suggests a reluctance to use religious language, but even this evidence remains frustratingly difficult to parse.

Similarly, scholars have also been divided about Constantine's merits: many have seen his translations as valuable contributions to medical learning, while others have seen his texts—which overwhelmingly conceal their Arabic sources and omit citations of Arabic authorities—as marred by deceit and dishonesty. Even about the reactions that Constantine has aroused, then, there is a rich story to be told.119 In this chapter, however, I will argue that these contested features of Constantine's translations are not merely the expressions of the predilections or psyche of a single man. In fact, we will see that some of the obscurity surrounding Constantine arises because his texts demand further contextualization: the politics of memory at Monte Cassino, the monastery

119For an extensive review of the historiography of scholarly reactions to Constantine, cf. Heinrich Schipperges, Die Assimilation der arabischen Medizin durch das Lateinische Mittelalter (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1964), 17ff.

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where he worked, played a significant, largely unnoticed role in shaping the final form of his works, with the result that, in works patronized by the monastery,

Constantine emphasized his proximity to the sources of the classical past.

On the other hand, much of the obscurity and contradiction that attends

Constantine's works is intentional, and across his works, Constantine cultivated ambiguity and uncertainty. For example, medieval writers were frequently preoccupied with auctoritas (authoritative status) and thought in terms of a clear divide between auctores (who were seen as endowed with prestige and worthy of attentive reading and commentary) and other writers.120 Constantine, by contrast, was intentionally vague about both the authoritative status of his works and his role in producing them. In the preface to his Pantegni, for example, Constantine suggests that the work might merit authoritative status, and hints that he might count as an auctor, but then undercuts these claims by labeling himself a mere compiler (coadunator).121

Constantine's works are liberally salted with passages like this: evasions, feints, sly assertions, and ambiguities, frequently mixed with a tendency towards

120For more on medieval theories of authorship and authoritative status, cf. Alastair Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010), 9ff.

121"Nomen auctoris utile est scitu ut maior auctoritas libro habeatur. Est ergo Constantinus Affricanus auctor, quia ex multorum libris coadunator." Cambridge, MS Trinity R.13.34. A near-contemporary discussion of Constantine's attempt to appropriate authorship can be found in Stephen of Antioch's preface to his retranslation of the Pantegni, who contends that Constantine was really a translator rather than a writer (interpretem pocius quam scriptorem). The text is edited in Cha es Bu nett, “Antioch as a Link Between A a ic and Latin Cu tu e in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centu ies,” in Arabic into Latin in the Middle Ages, 2009, IV, p. 27, §14, and discussed fu the in Bu nett, “The Legend of Constantine the Af ican.”

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brassy self-promotion. His works are so unforthcoming with personal information and clues about their production that the order and date of his works has remained frustratingly vague, leaving modern scholars with little firm idea about the duration of his activity, his possible contemporaries, and even the date of his death.122 Constantine's works are similarly evasive about their sources. The preface of his De stomacho, for example, details the laborious efforts Constantine made to compile a work on the stomach for his patron

Alfanus, archbishop of Salerno, even though every indication we have suggests that Constantine had in fact translated a preexisting Arabic work.123

As one of the first figures to adapt Arabic medicine for a Latin audience and as a crosser of linguistic and cultural boundaries, Constantine's rhetorical nimbleness (and perhaps even his tendencies towards deception) was surely valuable: it allowed him, for example, to give readers an impression of immediate access to the medical texts of Greek antiquity while also retaining a hint of the exotic and foreign.124 His intellect and linguistic skills, moreover, must have also helped him gain the attention and patronage of southern Italian elites, including those at Monte Cassino, where he spent the majority of his career. The rhetorical sensibility we can see in Constantine's texts, then, appears to have

122In particular, it is impossible to tell from his works whether any were composed after the death of Abbot Desiderius, who had played a prominent work in Constantine's career. For discussion of this, cf. Newton, “Constantine the Af ican and Monte Cassino," 20ff.

123Though we currently lack a systematic study of Constantine's De stomacho, the work appears to be a translation of n a - azza 's wo k on the stomach. Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Le en und We k von Constantinus Af icanus,” Deutsches Archiv 59 (2003): 121–152, 147.

124A theme I will return to in my conclusion.

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allowed him to play the game of Latin litterae and made him a valuable asset to his patrons. This rhetorical complexity, however, has often entangled—or even confounded—Constantine's later readers, who have often seen his work as pervaded with dishonesty and deceit. In recent decades, scholars have seen

Constantine's texts more sympathetically, but at the expense of their rhetorical complexity.

In this chapter, we will undertake a detailed investigation of the production of Constantine's Viaticum. In its size and comprehensive coverage of medical conditions, this text was clearly one of Constantine's major works.

Beyond its prominence in his output, however, the Viaticum is particularly valuable for the way it reveals Constantine's aims and contexts: the theoretical complexity of the Pantegni amply demonstrates Constantine's interest in medical theory, but the Viaticum allows us to see Constantine playing a particularly active role in shaping the work, apparently in order to bring it in line with his interests and preferences. Constantine's theoretical bias, for example, can be seen in the excisions and omissions Constantine made to the practical contents of his Arabic source. Beyond his theoretical inclinations, however, his shaping of the Viaticum raises substantial questions about Constantine's religious identity, his attitudes towards sex, and his place in the world of eleventh-century southern Italy.

Before we can locate the Viaticum in these contexts, however, we must attend to the text itself. First, an overview of the Viaticum will give us a basic grounding in the text. We will consider its rhetorical complexities and audience,

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and compare it to several of Constantine's other works. Next, we will investigate the adaptations that Constantine makes in translating the Viaticum, those points where his Latin text contrasts with its Arabic source. Constantine's treatment of religious and sexual matters will prove particularly revealing. On the one hand,

Constantine seems to have been reluctant, or even uneasy, in translating religious language, and these striking shifts shed new light on longstanding questions about his religious identity. On the other, Constantine's treatment of sexual matters is complex: he toned down some sexual passages and language, but some passages of this translation suggest a lack of concern for the moral quibbles of his Latin readers. Finally, we will examine long-standing questions about authorship and authority in light of Constantine's translation of the

Viaticum. We will see that, in line with hoary critiques of him as a plagiarist,

Constantine's works did indeed serve his self-interested ends: they underscored his personal efforts in creating his works, they bolstered his connections to his patrons and associates, and they hinted at his knowledge of foreign, unknown subjects. More than this, however, Constantine's works display a persistent effort to speak to the preoccupation with the classical past current at Monte

Cassino. Beneath their surface, however, close attention to this effort reveals the uncertainties and anxieties in Constantine's acts of cultural mediation. Even given his reputation for deception, then, Constantine's translation of the

Viaticum is surprisingly revealing.

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2.2 Constantine and his Adaptations

Before delving into the details of the Viaticum, it is necessary to give an overview of the work and its character. Stated briefly, Constantine's Viaticum was a handbook of practical medicine: as the title suggests, it was a work that could be used as a brief compendium of medicine for the traveller. But this brief description does not do justice to the complexities of the work. The work contains moral exhortation and brief theoretical disquisitions along with the enumeration of symptoms and therapies; at the same time, moreover, the

Viaticum is marked by a tension between the work's practical nature and

Constantine's theoretical inclinations. The complexity of the work's rendering into Latin, then, is matched by the character of the work itself.

Beginning with its preface, the Viaticum reveals a certain tension between

Constantine's ambitions for the work and its likely practical use. Constantine describes several contrasting approaches to the study of medicine; further, he suggests that the Viaticum was composed out of condescending pity for those unable or unwilling to engage with medical learning for its own sake.

Quoniam quidem ut in rhetoricis ait Tullius, omne inquit expetendum uel propter se uel aliud uel propter utrumque expetitur. Quidam uero medicinam propter sese expetendam autumant, utpote qui principaliter expetunt theoricam. Quidam etiam propter aliud, ut qui artem non propter artem sed propter secularem dignitatem insectantur. A quibusdam studentibus sibi propter utrumque in ea allaboratur. Unde ego Constantinus Africanus montis cassinensis monachus communi utilitati inseruiens, studui unicuique horum ad uelle suum satagere; propter se enim et propter utrumque artem querentibus, litteratioribus et prouectioribus, liber pantegni a nobis est

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prepositus in quo primi theoricam secundi theoricam et practicam habeant.125

[Because, indeed, as Cicero affirms in his rhetorical works Cicero, [he says] that each subject that merits investigation is so for its own sake (propter se), on account of something else, or on account of both itself and something else. But certain people affirm that medicine is to be investigated on its own merits, namely those who principally pursue theory (theoricam). But certain people [affirm that it is to be investigated] on account of something else, namely those who do not pursue it for the sake of the medical art but on account of worldly status. Certain students toil away on the subject because of both. Wherefore, I, Constantine the African, a monk of Monte Cassino, in service of the common good, have sought to satisfy each kind of student according to his wishes. For those who pursue medicine for its own sake and for both [its sake and something else], those more literate and advanced, we have produced the "book of the whole art" (Liber pantegni), in which the first [books] have theory and the second [books] have theory and practice.]126

In his rhetoric, Constantine notes, Cicero (following Aristotle) had explained that each thing is to be sought after (expetendum) either for its own sake, for the sake of something else, or for both its own sake and the sake of something else, drawing a contrast between abstract, theoretical knowledge and knowledge that is obtained for the sake of something else. In making this

125Cf. the Lyons ed of Constantine's works, Omnia opera Ysaac, (Lyons: Bartholomeus Trot in officina Johannis de Platea, 1515), f. 144r.

126Puzzlingly, Constantine is clearly distinguishing here to both the theoretical first ten books of the Pantegni (the Theorica Pantegni) and the more practical second ten books of the Pantegni (the Practica Pantegni), even though we have little evidence that the second set was comp eted in Constantine's day. Cf. Monica G een, “The Re-C eation of ’Pantegni, P actica,’ Book V ,” in Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 121–160 and Ma y Wack, “ A ī Ibn Al- A ās A -Magūsī and Constantine on Love, and the Evo ution of the P actica Pantegni,” in Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 161–202. It seems likely that, with his characteristic bluster, Constantine was prematurely claiming that both works were already fully complete.

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distinction between abstract and applied knowledge, Constantine explains that he had written the Liber Pantegni (a Greek title meaning "book of the whole art") both for those seeking theoretical knowledge and for those seeking theoretical and applied knowledge. This work, which we will return to, and which has been studied in greater depth than the Viaticum, is an often theoretical synthesis of medical knowledge.127 Constantine himself explains the difference between his two major works by suggesting that the Viaticum is intended for those unable or unwilling to engage with the complexity or magnitude of the Pantegni:

Uerumetiam propter aliud ad proficuum questus festinantibus, quia in illius magnitudine forsan tediosi esse uidentur, huiusmodi compaciens quoquo modo me uix exinanitum formam serui accipiens simplicitatis. Qui tamen si huic libro studiose acquieuerint non male succedet eorum exercitiis. Infirmitates enim hic primitus diffiniuntur, signa eorum postmodum adhibentur, curationes ilico subsequentur.128

[Nevertheless, for [those pursuing medicine] for the sake of something else, hastening to advance their trade and gain (ad proficuum questus),129 because the magnitude [of the Pantegni] might perhaps seem wearisome, I have, with sympathy for this kind of person as well, almost emptied out myself, taking on the form of a servant of simplicity (Phil. 2:7). Nevertheless, whosoever studiously applies themselves to this book will do well in their activities (exercitiis). For illnesses are here first defined, their signs (signa) are then displayed, their cures (curationes) follow thereupon.]

127For the Pantegni, cf. above all the studies in Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, eds., Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A -Magū ī : The P ntegn n Re te Text , Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: Brill, 1994).

128Lyons ed., 144r.

129Constantine may here be playing on the dual sense of questus as able to mean both "profession" and "profit" or "gain".

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Those eager for progress might be put off by the magnitude of the

Pantegni, he notes; and, sympathizing with them, he "put on the form of simplicity" to produce the Viaticum; if they studiously apply themselves

(acquieuerint) to the book, they will not perform badly in their endeavors

(exercitiis). In pursuit of this end, the Viaticum furnishes definitions for the illnesses described in the work, gives their symptoms (signa), and follows with cures. Indeed, many chapters of the work follow this arrangement, covering a wide range of ailments across the seven books of this substantial text.

Beginning with the head, the work describes the ailments of the body in a capite ad calcem order, going from head to toe. More concretely, the Viaticum's first book begins with a discussion of alopecia and concludes with the feet by discussing gout at the end of Book VI. Finally, the work's seventh book consists of discussions of ailments that might affect the entire body, including the different kinds of fevers, trauma, apostemes, pustules, and scrofula.

Even though the chapters of the work often do follow the definition-signs- cures pattern laid out in the preface, the discussion of many of the work's ailments often focuses on medical care. Much of each chapter of the work is given over to therapeutics; similarly, discussions of symptoms can be extensive, particularly when different symptoms have divergent therapeutic implications.

The "definition" of the causation and etiology of each disease is more variable, however. Many of these definitions are brief; on the other hand, some of the disease categories used in the text are complicated, and the work gives

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occasional explanations of the physiological mechanisms and the theory behind the illnesses. The discussion of coughing, for example, explains how the animate and natural forces (virtutes) of the body combine in coughing to expel superfluities.

This limited theoretical content explains one of the puzzles of the

Viaticum; namely that, in a characteristically Constantinian complexity, however,

Constantine's preface displays a condescension, or perhaps even disdain, for the readers for whom Constantine composed the work, whom Constantine envisions as overly hasty to practice medicine (perhaps, as he mentioned earlier, out of a desire for secularem dignitatem—worldly success) and unwilling to engage with the complexities of medical theory:

Sapientiam igitur inter perfectos loqui destinauimus, lac enim suggentibus; fomentula non crustam subministramus.130

[Therefore we have determined to speak wisdom among the perfect, but [to provide] milk to the suckling; we furnish bits of nourishment131 rather than the crust.]

His condescension here towards the "suckling" readers of the Viaticum, however, raises a central question about the work: just who was this handbook of practical medicine intended for?

130Lyons ed., 144r.

131Constantine here plays on the double sense of fomentum; the word means both nourishment—the primary sense here—and poultice.

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It seems likely that one audience for the Viaticum was those medical practitioners who, as Constantine insists, rated professional advance, status, and even money over a thorough knowledge of medical theory: the Viaticum’s preface strongly suggests that the work is intended for these (apparently lay) practitioners. As the next chapter will discuss, however, Constantine's work appears to have been slow to reach the Salernitan medici in Constantine's vicinity. By contrast, however, the circulation and reception of the Viaticum (and

Constantine's texts more generally) raises the possibility that monastic readers may have formed one of the major constituencies that Constantine envisioned for his work: a group of monks at Hildesheim are the earliest, identifiable readers of the Viaticum, while research by Monica Green has shown that

Benedictine houses were privileged avenues for the dissemination of

Constantine's texts.132 The wealth and influence of Monte Cassino surely played a role in spreading these texts along these monastic networks, and it therefore seems plausible to suppose that one of Constantine's audiences was the monks at Monte Cassino itself. Furthermore, it is easy to imagine that the comprehensive treatment of illnesses in the Viaticum might be well suited to monastic infirmaries. As with so many aspects of Constantine, however, little is ever simple, and we will see that shifts between Constantine's Arabic source and

132For the monks of Hildesheim, cf. the copy of the Viaticum in Vatican, BAV Pal. lat. 1158. For an early statement of Green's findings, cf. Monica H. G een, “Sa e no on the Thames: The Genesis of Anglo-No man Medica Lite atu e,” in Language and Culture in Medieval Britain: The French of England, c.1100-c.1500, 2009.

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the Viaticum raise questions about how attuned he was to the needs of his monastic readers.

Like monastic infirmaries, moreover, which may have needed a text that gave a comprehensive discussion to a wide range of illnesses, lay readers untuto ed in medicine may we have fo med pa t of the wo k’s ta get audience.

Constantine explains that the wo k’s title was chosen to signal its utility for the t ave e : “Uiaticum intitu aui . quia p o pa uitate sui neque a o iosus neque tediosus est itine anti.” This hearkens back, in fact, to the tit e of Constantine’s

Arabic source the - of n a - azza . But where n a - azza ’s text was unambiguously intended for an audience of lay readers, the tergiversations of Constantine’s p eface comp icate attempts to clearly delineate his audience.

Beyond monks, medical practitioners, and lay readers, in fact, we may well ask whether Constantine had one final group of readers in mind for the

Viaticum. The Viaticum, after all, contrasts with many of Constantine's other works by the absence of a named dedicatee: the Pantegni was addressed to

Desiderius, the abbot of Monte Cassino, while his De stomacho was addressed to

Alfanus, archbishop of Salerno. Given the size of the Viaticum and the effort that must have gone into its production, the absence of a dedicatee is particularly striking. All the same, we may well imagine that the preface of the Viaticum was written with readers like Desiderius and Alfanus in mind. In the Pantegni and the

De stomacho Constantine clearly anticipates an interest in medical theory on the part of these high-profile readers—especially when it derived from Greek authorities. By using his preface to disparage medical practitioners, Constantine

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signals to these potential readers that he too shared the contemporary enthusiasm for theoretical, Greek-inflected medicine, even as he produced a work that might not have been up to those standards.133

Constantine's disparagements of the Viaticum's deficiencies do characterize the modest amount of theory and natural philosophy to be found in the Viaticum. The Viaticum lacks the lengthy disquisitions on Aristotelian natural philosophy encountered periodically in the Pantegni. On the other hand, some brief theoretical discussions can nevertheless be found: the beginning of Book

VI, for example, explains the providential intent behind the divine creation of sexual pleasure; and the chapter of Book IV on disgust (fastidium, IV.ix) briefly discusses the many ancient philosophers who insisted on restraint in eating

(abstinentia).

As the preface cited Cicero, the Viaticum's discussions of illness are likewise bolstered by authoritative statements on particular ailments. Galen and

Hippocrates are often cited or quoted; in some cases, for example, they supply brief or notable case histories. The discussion of menstrual retention in Book

VI.ix, for example, includes a discussion of a case of prolonged menstrual retention that Galen was able to remedy by means of phlebotomy. Other

133The complexities here suggest that, like other monastic writers, Constantine sometimes may have produced texts without a single, obvious audience in mind. In particular, the works of Honorius Augustodunensis offer suggestive parallels with Constantine's texts. Like the Viaticum, Honorius offered condensed overviews of Christian theology and natural philosophy in his Elucidarium and Imago mundi, respectively, apparently for lay readers; but his Clavis physice was a distillation of Eriugena's Periphyseon. Are we really to imagine that the Clavis was intended for lay readers?

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authorities such as Rufus of are cited, as well, though with less frequency, perhaps because of their unfamiliarity.134

The preface of Constantine's Viaticum makes clear his concern that the work was a shortcut to medical practice for the ambitious, avaricious, or even the traveler, and was thus less satisfactory than more theoretically comprehensive works such as the Pantegni. The Viaticum thus serves as a handbook of medical practice, but we may also suspect that the work might also serve as a primer on some aspects of medical theory, as can be seen in the discussions of physiology in the work and the authoritative citations that appear with some frequency. We will see that, in translating the work from Arabic into

Latin, Constantine made adaptations that well accord with this ethos: he translated theoretical content faithfully, while practical material was often shortened or compressed.

2.2.1 Translation Shifts

In much the same way that, as Thomas Burman has eloquently described,

Qur'an translators in Latin Christendom had to mediate between polemical and philological demands, Constantine's effort to translate a set of medical works from Arabic into Latin presented him with a set of similar translational quandaries. Constantine's terminology, as we will see in the next chapter,

134 Jacqua t, “Note su a t aduction atine du Kita a -Mansu i de Rhazes,” Révue ’H to e e Texte (1994): 359–74. These less unfamiliar authorities often saw their names garbled in transmission: Rufus was frequently corrupted to "rursus," while the scribe of Egerton 2900 (or its source), apparently perplexed by the work's citation of Diophantus in VII.xi, substituted 's name.

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rendered the concepts of Galenic medicine from Arabic into Latin. More substantially, the Viaticum allows us to see the way that, in some cases,

Constantine made adaptations in rendering his source text into Latin: to draw attention to his role in the creation of the text, for example, but also in treating sensitive subjects like religion or sex for a Latin audience.

In discussing such adaptations, however, it will be helpful to introduce a concept from translation studies. In attempting to systematically describe the complexities of translation, translation studies has introduced a welter of conceptual frameworks and terminologies.135 Many of the findings of translation studies are contested, but translation shifts are one of the most helpful concepts to have arisen in the field. A translation shift, simply put, is a case where change can be discerned between part of a source text and its translation.136 A translation shift can be anything from an outright mistranslation—when a translator misreads a word or translates an idiom incorrectly—to subtle shifts in meaning or connotation. The English word "home," for example, has an affective and connotative depth that words for dwellings in many other languages lack: a translation of "home" in an English source text as French "maison" or German

"Haus" would thus represents a shift in the meaning of the translation. As we

135For a critical and skeptical take on translation studies, cf. George Steiner, After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).

136For discussion of shifts from source text to target text, cf. Jeremy Munday, Introducing Translation Studies: Theories and Applications (London: Routledge, 2012), chapter 4, for some introductory discussion, as well as the more technical discussion in Gideon Toury, Descriptive Translation Studies– and Beyond, Revised. (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2012), 32ff. and passim.

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will see in Constantine's case, translations that omit information from or compress their source texts illustrate another kind of translation shift.

Before we can discuss the Viaticum itself, we must also briefly touch on

Constantine's Arabic source text, the - of n a - azza . From a medical family, n a - azza (d. ca. 1004-5) belonged to the prominent group of physicians active in ninth- and tenth-century and was a student of the

Jewish physician sh a q n Su ayma n a - s a . Furthermore, the - was one of the most famous of n a - azza 's works.137 Given the proximity of

North Africa and Italy and the work's popularity, it is perhaps unsurprising that the work moved across the Mediterranean; it is remarkable, however, that it appears to have done so twice: in addition to Constantine's Viaticum, the -

was also translated into Greek in the heavily Greek southern Italian province of Calabria as the Ephodia in the eleventh or twelfth century.138 In investigating Constantine's translation of the Viaticum, we will occasionally

137For more on n a - azza , cf. F. Micheau, “La connaissance d’ n A -G azza , médecin de Kai ouan, dans ’O ient a a e,” Arabica 43 (1996): 385–405; for discussion of the Zad al- Musafir among n a - azza 's other works, cf. the introduction of Gerrit Bos, ed., Ibn Al-Jazzar on Sexual Diseases and Their Treatment : A Critical Edit on, Eng h T n t on n nt o ct on of Book 6 of A - W -Qūt A - (Provision for the Traveller and the Nourishment of the Sedentary) (London: Kegan Paul, 1997).

138We can localize the production of this translation with such specificity ecause of the su viva of an impo tant ea y manusc ipt in a distinctive sc ipt, Vatican, BAV MS Vat. g . 300. Fo discussion of the manusc ipt, cf. Pau Cana t and Santo Luca , Co c ec e ’ t me on e (Rome: Retablo, 2000), no. 30 at 85. For further discussion of the Ephodia, cf. Alain Touwaide, “Kidney Disfunction f om the A a ic to the Byzantine Wo d in 11th and 12th Centu y Southe n ta y,” Journal of Nephrology 22 (2009): S12–S20, A ain Touwaide, “Medicina Bizantina E A a a Alla Co te Di Pa e mo,” in Medicina, Scienza e Politica al Tempo di Federico II. Conferenza Inernazionale, Casteollo Utveggio, Palermo, 4-5 Ottobre 2007, ed. G. Bellinghieri N.G. De Santo (: Istituto Italiano per gli Studi Filosofici, 2008), 39–55, and Alain Touwaide, “Magna G aecia te ata: G eek Medicine in Southe n ta y in the 11th and 12th Centu ies,” in Medicina in : The Roots of Our Knowledge, ed. A. Musajo Somma (: University of Bari, 2004), 85–101; much work remains to be done on this translation, however.

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compare its translation shifts with parallel passages in the Ephodia. As we will see, where Constantine paraphrased his source text and often made omissions, the Ephodia was much more literal, and its translator appears to have made fewer adaptations in rendering n a - azza 's text into Greek. The contrasts between these two translations will allow us to gain a clearer picture of the decisions Constantine made in translating the Viaticum, but perhaps also to compare the attitudes and mores of the Greek and Latin communities in southern Italy.

The breadth of the Viaticum and its source text allows us to see a large variety of translation shifts, but we will focus exclusively on those that are most significant for our understanding of Constantine and his contexts.139 In particular, some of the most pervasive translation shifts in the Viaticum are the substantial adaptations to and compressions of much of the practical content of

n a - azza 's text. In the entry on gout in Viaticum VI.xix, for example, we can see the way that Constantine took an eminently practical work of Arabic medicine and compressed it considerably. n a - azza , for example, had given a remedy for pills to treat gout. He explains that these pills alleviate pain, and gives a thorough discussion of the proper means of their preparation

("pulverized and sieved... dry them in the shade... store them in a vessel");

139For closer analysis of a broader range of translation shifts in Constantine's work on fevers, cf. Raphaela Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen: Ein Beitrag zur Rezeption arabischer Wissenschaft im Abendland (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2003).

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Constantine, by contrast, laconically says to temper the preparation with wine and make pills.140

We saw that the preface of the Viaticum attests to an interest in medical theory propter se, and this interest offers the likeliest explanation of this translation shift. Constantine's translation was not completely inimical to the practical use of this remedy: he lists the substances given in n a - azza 's recipe for gout pills and their quantities (and this appears to be his practice more generally). On the other hand, his compressions must have complicated the use of the Viaticum as a practical handbook; in the case of this remedy,

Constantine omitted the Arabic's dosage instructions from his translation.

Moreover, such compressions of practical material occur frequently throughout his translation. The discussions of medical theory in n a - azza 's text, by contrast, tend to be translated faithfully and fully. In VI.xix, Constantine renders the detailed account of the etiology of gout in n a - azza 's text in comprehensive detail, explaining how cold or hot humors cause gout (and the signs of each kind), the kinds of people who gout affected (those who eat excessively and have a lot of sex, so eunuchs and boys tend not to suffer from

140Furthermore, it does not seem to be the case that this compression derives from variation in the work's manuscript tradition, as Bos' edition of this chapter makes clear. There are actually only a few, small variations in the Arabic manuscripts of this remedy, and none of them would have lent themselves to Constantine's compressions here.

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gout, but women tend not to be afflicted by it, either), and even gives a statement from Galen about seasonal differences in gout.141

Moreover, this emphasis on the theoretical content of the work appears to have corresponded to the interest of his patrons. In particular, Alfanus of

Salerno (archbishop from 1058-1085) appears to have had a particularly keen interest in medical theory: he was the dedicatee of Constantine's De stomacho. but he also translated Nemesios of Emesa's heavily medical work of theological anthropology as the Premnon Physicon. Much remains unclear about Alfanus and his role in the translations of the late eleventh century, but his substantial interest in medical theory is fairly clear.142 A growing body of scholarship, moreover, is illustrating the importance of Monte Cassino itself as a flourishing site of medical learning; it may well have been the case that the emphasis on

141A handful of small translation shifts in this chapter are nevertheless interesting: as a group who gout afflicts), and the month of ,.الملوك ,Constantine omits a reference to kings Nisan is translated as uer.

142In addition to his activity as a writer and translator, Alfanus played a major role in the history of southern Italy in the eleventh century. The new translation of Hippocrates' Aphorisms, destined to become a standard textbook in the Latin West, appears to have been translated by one of Alfanus' students, and may have even been done from a manuscript Alfanus brought back from Constantinople. For a recent discussion of Alfanus' activity, cf. Giles Gasper and Faith Wallis, “Anse m and the A tice a,” Traditio 59 (2004): 129–174. Gasper and Wallis are likely incorrect in their suggestion that Alfanus personally translated the Aphorisms into Latin himself; the Greek particles in the Aphorisms are translated very differently from the Premnon physicon, likely ruling out Alfanus' authorship. Other similarities between the Premnon physicon and the Aphorisms, however, make Kristeller's suggestion that one of Alfanus' students translated the work quite reasonable.

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medical theory in Constantine's texts was influenced by an interest in medical theory among the monks of Monte Cassino.143

The intentional compression of practical medical material in

Constantine's Viaticum is not the only possible explanation, however. This is because we have little firm evidence about the process of composition of

Constantine's translations. In particular, Constantine may have produced some of his translations with the help of the two named students to whom he dedicates his works. The first figure, Johannes Afflacius, was the dedicatee of fully four of Constantine's works (the Megategni, Liber oculorum, Liber urinarum, and Liber febrium), and may have played a role in spreading Constantine's works among the medical practitioners and writers at Salerno. Furthermore, Johannes was apparently a Muslim convert, knew Arabic, produced his own works

(including those which drew from Arabic), and may well have had a role in completing Constantine's works after Constantine's death. Finally, the prefaces to Constantine's works make clear the warmth of the relationship between the two men.144

143Little of this scholarship has made its way into print as yet, but for an early fo mu ation, cf. Monica G een, “Rethinking the Manusc ipt Basis of Sa vato e de Renzi’s Co ectio Salernitana: The Corpus of Medical W itings in the ‘Long’ Twe fth Centu y,” 2008.

144Fo discussions of ohannes and Constantine, cf. Rudo f C eutz, “De Cassinese ohannes Aff acius Sa acenus, ein A zt aus ’Hochsa e no’,” Studien und Mitteilungen des Benedikterordens 48 (1930): 301–324, Herbert Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages (Cam idge, MA: Ha va d Unive sity P ess, 1986), 1:102ff., Newton, “Constantine the Af ican and Monte Cassino," 24ff., Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Le en und We k von Constantinus Af icanus,” 137ff. His role in later redactions of Constantine's works (and the Practica Pantegni in particular) was originally suggested by Valentin Rose, Valentin Rose, Verzeichniss der lateinischen Handschriften, vol. 2, Die Handschriften-Verzeichnisse der königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin 13 (Berlin: A. Asher & Co., 1905), 1060-1065, echoed by Schipperges (Die Assimilation der 92

But where diligent investigation has clarified Johannes' role, the role of

Constantine's second student (whose name is given alternately as "Azo," "Adto," or "Atto") has remained frustratingly obscure. Azo (to use the spelling used by

Constantine himself) was a chaplain of empress Agnes and then a fellow monk of

Monte Cassino.145 Furthermore, Azo was the dedicatee of Constantine's translation (from Arabic) of Galen's commentary on the Hippocratic Aphorisms, which Constantine claims was translated in response to Azo's repeated requests to translate a work of Galen's from Arabic. Beyond this, however, our knowledge of Azo becomes very much murkier. Our final piece of evidence about him comes from Peter the Deacon, who composed his Cassinese works multiple decades after Constantine's life and—as we will see—whose information about

Constantine is not always to be trusted. Peter's notice about Azo in the De viris illustribus claims that Azo was an auditor (student, perhaps) of Constantine's, who "put (descripsit) those things that the aforementioned Constantine had translated (transtulerat) from diverse language with elegant style (coturnato

arabischen Medizin durch das Lateinische Mittelalter, 36-7), developed in considerable detail in G een, “The Re-C eation of ’Pantegni, P actica,’ Book V ," and cf. now Raphae a Veit, “A - Magusi’s Kitab Al-Malaki and its Latin Translation Ascribed to Constantine the African: The Reconst uction of ’Pantegni, P actica,’ Li e ,” Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 16 (2006): 133– 168. For discussions of Johannes in his own right as the author of the Liber Aureus and possibly the Liber de heros morbo (which appears to include material newly translated from Arabic) cf. Ma y Wack, “The Liber de Heros Morbo of Johannes Afflacius and Its Implications for Medieval Love Conventions,” Speculum 62 (1987): 324–44, Wack, “ A ī n A - A ās A -Magūsī and Constantine on Love, and the Evo ution of the P actica Pantegni,” at 173f.; and now Raphae a Veit, “Le Liber Aureus de ohannes Aff acius et ses appo ts avec d’aut es textes sa e nitains,” in c o me c e n t n : to e te t : Convegno nte n z on e, n ve t Deg St D Salerno, 3-5 Novembre 2004, ed. Danielle Jacquart and Agostino Paravicini Bagliani (Florence: Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2007), 447–64.

145For basic orientation on Azo, cf. Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 1:104 and 1:135-36.

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sermone) into the Roman language."146 At first glance, this text appears to suggest that Azo may have played a role in the sometimes eloquent, sometimes pretentious Latinity of Constantine's translations, and this is the interpretation advocated by Newton; Newton takes this passage to mean that Azo took texts that Constantine translated and refined their Latin.147 Such an explanation might account for the contrast in Latinity between the Isagoge and the rest of

Constantine's translations.148 Surprisingly, however, this interpretation has found only sporadic acceptance and, in fact, many of the scholars who have studied Constantine's translation practices have instead defended Constantine's

Latin abilities, even suggesting that his knowledge of the language began from a background in Latinate communities in North Africa.149 Likewise surprising is the fact that another possible interpretation of this notice might ascribe an even greater role to Azo, but has received little attention: the description of Azo as

Constantine's auditor who put into Latin those things (ea que) Constantine had

146T ans ation adapted f om Newton, “Constantine the Af ican and Monte Cassino," 24. In full, the text reads: "Adto, Constantini Africani auditor et Agnetis imperatricis capellaneus, ea que supradictus Constantinus de diversis linguis transtulerat, coturnato sermone in Romanam linguam descripsit." Drawing on Peter's autograph, Bloch gives the text at Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 135, where he rightly dismisses the unlikely possibility that the passage refers to poetic French versions of Constantine's works.

147Newton, “Constantine the Af ican and Monte Cassino,” 24.

148For discussion of the contrast between the Isagoge and Constantine's other works, cf. the discussion in the next chapter.

149Jacquart and Micheau, for example, defend Constantine's knowledge of Latin, insisting that its weaknesses derive from the limitations of existing medical Latin, at 99. To my knowledge, Veit has not discussed this passage from Peter the Deacon, but contends that it is likely Constantine possessed some knowledge of Latin before arriving in Italy, Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Leben und Werk von Constantinus Af icanus,” at 136. Both inte p etations thus eject the testimony given by M. Matheus F.'s clearly problematic account that Constantine only began to learn Latin upon his arrival in Salerno; for discussion of the problems in this account, cf. below.

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translated from diverse languages strikingly parallels our evidence for pairs or teams of translators elsewhere in the long twelfth century, where one translator translated verbally from Arabic (for example) into a shared vernacular, and then a second translator Latinized the vernacular translation.150 This passage from

Peter the Deacon, then, might be taken to support an interpretation along these lines, which would make the final form of Constantine's texts the result of a much more substantial process of collaboration between Constantine and Azo.

On the other hand, however, other considerations create difficulties for (or, at least, raise questions about) such an interpretation. For one, Peter the Deacon's information often consists of a tangled mixture of plausible and implausible information, and his notice about Azo is no exception.151 In this case, his claims about Azo's role seem plausible, but, given the scholarly consensus that

Constantine translated exclusively from Latin, his description of Constantine's translations "de diversis linguis" is suspect, and raises questions about whether

Peter had any privileged knowledge of the process by which Constantine's translations were produced.152 Furthermore, if Azo and Constantine were partners in the considerable effort to produce the final form of Constantine's translations, we have little evidence that it produced much affection;

150For these pairs or teams of translators, cf. Marie-Thé èse d’A ve ny, “Les T aductions à deux inte p ètes: D’a a e en angue ve nacu ai e et de angue ve nacu ai e en atin,” in Rencontres de culture dans la philosophie médiévale (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1989), 193–207.

151For more on Peter, cf. disc. below.

152However, as I will discuss more fully below, Constantine certainly strove to give the impression that he was drawing directly on Greek texts.

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Constantine dedicated only his translation of Galen's Aphorisms commentary to

Azo, and Veit has even suggested we can detect a certain reserve in its dedication. (Constantine's relationship with Johannes Afflacius, by contrast, was possessed of a much more obvious warmth.153) Of course, productive collaborative relationships need not always engender personal warmth; as I will suggest below, we do well to attend to the institutional and ideological motivations of Monte Cassino in fostering Constantine's translations, and it is easy to imagine a situation in which Constantine and Azo were strongly encouraged to combine their respective talents to produce the final form of the translations. For the moment, we must simply accept Constantine's texts in the form they have come down to us. Several avenues of research might shed light on the composition of Constantine's works: further investigation of the manuscripts of his works and the close examination of his prose, for example, may shed light on the genesis of his works.154 In investigating the translation shifts in Constantine's Viaticum, however, we will do well to bear these questions about the work's composition in mind: are the translation shifts we see likely to have arisen from a process of collaborative translation, or do they make better sense as decisions made solely by Constantine himself?

153Cf. Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Le en und We k von Constantinus Af icanus,” 137. Bloch also noted that Constantine addresses Johannes "like a beloved son" in the dedication of the Liber febrium, Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 1:103.

154The forthcoming collection on just these questions by Newton and Kwakkel is eagerly awaited.

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2.2.2 Theological Uncertainty in the Viaticum

The translation of religious language in the Viaticum, for example, might promise broad insight into the process of composition of Constantine's works, his intended audience, and even the religious identity of Constantine himself. As we will see, in the Viaticum and across his translations, Constantine appears to have had a consistent tendency to omit religious language. In some cases, this is in line with the practice of a number of other translators. In other cases, however, Constantine's omission of religious language seems distinctive, raising questions about what we know—and what we think we know—about

Constantine's religious background.

In details both great and small, Arabic books were constructed differently from Latin books, as Arabic and Latin book cultures had largely developed in isolation until their meeting in the high Middle Ages. We will see in the next section that sexual mores in the Islamic world may have been somewhat more permissive than in the Latin West. In book production, however, Arabic books were much more overtly pious than Latin books, with frequent invocations of

God and divine epithets that were given when mentioning God. By contrast, and despite the often religious contexts of book production in the Latin West and

Byzantium, these features were not part of Latin or Greek book production.

Translators from Arabic, therefore, were confronted with a series of choices about how to respond to these religious elements in their source texts, and responded to these religious elements in a surprising variety of ways. (A fascinating irony attends the translation of these elements, in that translators

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had to decide whether to suppress unusual pious religious sentiments, and perhaps to allay suspicions of religious contamination.155)

At the very beginning of Arabic texts, in fact, translators were confronted with just such a decision, about whether to translate the basmala. The basmala is the Arabic phrase bismi- h - ḥm n - ḥīm , often translated "in the name of

God most compassionate, most merciful." It begins the Qu ān, and is employed in a variety of religious and mundane contexts in Islamic lands, such as the recitation of each sura of the Qu ān. Given its place at the inception of a wide variety of significant activities, it came to be used at the beginning of books, by both Christian and Muslim authors.156 In the earliest manuscript of the -

, for example, the basmala is placed at the beginning of each book as well as at the beginning of the work as a whole.

Translators of works from Arabic were thus confronted with the decision whether to include the basmala in their translations. There is nothing obviously offensive to Christian sensibilities in the basmala, but it is rather unusual for

Latin and Greek texts. The overwhelming decision of translators in the Latin

West and Byzantium was in fact to eschew such a conspicuous break with the expectations of their audience, and only a handful of translators preserve the

155This contrasts with the professions of faith sometimes seen by authors trying to allay suspicions of religious contamination or impiety.

156Fo gene a discussions of the asma a, cf. Wi iam A. G aham, “Basma a,” 2001 and Hamid A ga , “Besma ah: n Exegesis, u isp udence, and Cu tu a Life,” 1985. The p esence of the basmala at the beginning of almost all types of writing, following prophetic precedent, is discussed in Algar, at 175, col. 2.

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basmala.157 It is unsurprising, then, that Constantine omitted the basmala from his Viaticum, as did the translator of the Ephodia.158 It is tempting to interpret this omission expansively and speculate on the basmala's connotations, but it may have been that it was simply too far outside the norms of Latin texts for translators to include it.

This was not the only religious feature of Arabic texts that translators had to contend with, however, as mentions of God and Muhammad in Arabic texts provided the occasion for religious epithets. Like the basmala, these were a regular feature of Arabic texts. By contrast, translators treated this kind of religious invocation more variably. Some translators rendered or adapted these passages. Stephen of Antioch, for example, rendered such divine epithets into

Latin. Many Iberian translators likewise included these passages. Constantine's approach to these passages provides an intriguing contrast.

In the case of the - , Book VI (chiefly taken up with sexual problems and ailments of the genitals) begins with a discussion of the providential reasons for the existence of sex:

When the Creator, to Whom belong glory and greatness, wanted [to ensure] the survival of the species of animals, He created procreative organs for all of them, which he

157Several Mozarabs do, presumably because of their assimilation of Arabic literary style. Outside of Iberia, Stephen of Antioch preserves the basmala in an interesting fashion in his Liber Regalis. Stephen included the basmala—perhaps out of a desire to render the text as faithfully as possible—but gave it a Trinitarian veneer: "In nomine summi dei qui cum trinus sit personis unus est essentia a quo et ad quem omnia." Cf. Liber Regalis, ed. Michael de Capella (1523), f. 5r.

158Moreover, the manuscripts of both works give little suggestion that the basmala ever formed a part of these texts.

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provided with an innate power, characteristic to them and creating delight (trans. Bos).

Of course, for Christian readers, the phrase "to Whom belong glory and

would not be theologically problematic, and the Bible (ع زّّوج لّ .greatness" (Ar certainly contains invocations of both God's glory and greatness. However, translators would have known well that the enumeration of God's attributes were regular features of Arabic texts. Including this invocation would have kept the text closer to the Arabic and might have made the text seem unusual.

The Greek translator of this passage kept with his source text in describing the sublimity of God in this passage, stating that God, "the highest and g eat" (ὕψιστος καὶ μέγας) c eated sex and the sexua o gans in o de to ensu e the perpetuation of species. In preserving the religious force of the epithets of the original, however, the translator performs an interesting act of mediation. He

and (ع زّ) renders an Arabic phrase that most literally refers to God's might

with "highest and great." "Highest" (ὕψιστος), an epithet of God (ج لّ) exaltation in the Septuagint, certainly captures the notion of loftiness; "great," however,

Rather, this word here .ع زّ does not reflect the idea of might in the Arabic verb seems to derive from the Orthodox liturgy, and perhaps the Orthodox responsorium form in particular. Rather than translating the literal meaning of his source text, then, the Greek translator of the text rendered the epithets of the

Arabic original in a way that was resonant with the Greek tradition.

Constantine, by contrast, simply excised this phrase entirely. This passage in Constantine simply explains that God wanted to ensure the continued

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existence of the species of the animals, but simplifies the reference to God from what both the Arabic and Greek text had done: "Deus ad animalium genera existenda creauit membra unde essent procreanda." (Plut. 73.18, f. 59v)

Constantine has both removed the divine epithets, and even flattened out the

the Creator) to "deus." In both n a - azza and) البارئ description of God, from the Ephodia, this passage is effusive about the wonder in God's creation of sex and the sexual organs, and both n a - azza and the Ephodia give epithets for

God. There's no hint of disapprobation in Constantine's translation—the generative members "could not be made better for their task" (ad opus suum neque meliora possent esse), and the enjoyment of sex is "admirable" (et in coitu ammirabilem dedit delectionem)—but the tone of Constantine's discussion here is subdued by comparison.

Constantine's translation of the discussion of epilepsy in I.xxii is similarly striking. Beginning in classical , epilepsy was thought of as a divine affliction, and this conception persisted for centuries.159 n a - azza 's -

fir explains, however, that while the most prominent among the ancients

popular conceptions ,(المرضّالعظيم) called it the "great" or "formidable" disease

on acccount of its (المرضّالكامن) "differed. The people called it the "hidden disease secrecy and the secrecy of its causes. Constantine renders much of this into

Latin: he explains that the ancients called it the "pessimum morbum," but that

159For an introduction to the history of epilepsy, cf. Owsei Temkin, The Falling Sickness: A History of Epilepsy from the Greeks to the Beginnings of Modern , 2nd ed. (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994).

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the people (vulgus) called it the hidden (occultatum) disease. The following passage, however, makes omissions to n a - azza 's text. Constantine tersely notes that the people also believe epilepsy to be the wrath of God (iram dei) before moving on to the authoritative definition of the disease. n a - azza 's text, however, treats popular conceptions more expansively than Constantine.

The people, he says, say that, when God grows angry with someone, He strikes them with this disease. As elsewhere in the text, his reference to God is supplied with epithets referring to God's blessedness and exaltation

n a - azza 's text, furthermore, seems to contain an implicit .(تباركّوتعالى) theological rebuke to these popular conceptions of epilepsy, taking aim at the idea that God, the exalted, would grow angry with, literally, a part of His creation

Constantine's translation preserves the minimal sense of this passage by .(خلقه) referring to the "ira dei," but has dramatically altered the force of the passage.160

As we have noted, there is nothing surprising about the fact that

Constantine omitted the basmala from his translations. The omission of divine epithets by Constantine is more interesting, however. For translators from

Arabic into Latin or Greek, there seems to have been no standard way to translate such divine epithets; they might be translated literally, or they might be omitted entirely. Nevertheless, this dimension of Constantine's translation merits closer attention. For one, these omissions raise questions about

Constantine's audience. After all, we have noted that Constantine's texts

160Fo the A a ic, cf. n a - azza , -m , 1986 ed., p. 86-7.

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circulated shortly after his life among monastic communities. If he were writing with them in mind, however, would the inclusion of pious descriptions of God have made his texts more acceptable, or aroused suspicions?

2.2.3 Ambiguities in Constantine's Religious Identity

There is evidence, however, that these omissions may be part of a larger pattern in Constantine's translations, and this de-emphasis of religious themes in his translations may even imply religious uncertainty. To be clear, Constantine gives no overt indication that he is anything other than a Christian. His works contain occasional biblical allusions, for example. In his preface to the Viaticum, as we saw, Constantine explained that the work was intended as milk for those not ready for the solid food of medical theory that could be found in the

Pantegni, a clear allusion to 1 Corinthians 3:2. The preface to his work on urines, moreover, says that he undertook the work for the sake of his soul (ut de labore premium animae adipiscerer). These references appear to come exclusively in his prefaces, however, and might well have been aimed at monastic readers.161

Beneath the surface of his texts, however, there are hints that the approach to religion in Constantine's texts is more complex than it appears at first glance.162 As we have seen, he omitted divine epithets from the body of the

Viaticum. Similarly, the beginning of the Pantegni contains a discussion of the

161Moreover, the process of composition and Azo's possible role in it (discussed above) further complicates the interpretation of these passages.

162Surprisingly, Constantine's religious identity has merited relatively little discussion, perhaps because of the complexity of the question. Cf. discussion below.

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relationship between medicine and different branches of philosophy. Jacquart pointed out two decades ago, however, that this discussion replaces an invocation of God and a discussion of medicine's value to humankind.163 A thorough study of the treatment of religion in Constantine's translations remains a scholarly desideratum, but this existing evidence is already quite suggestive. As we will see, this evidence suggests Constantine's religious identity is less secure than has often been assumed; before we can come to this conclusion, however, we must make a brief digression to discuss the sources for Constantine's biography.

Our evidence about Constantine's biography is contradictory and tangled, which has led to a variety of scholarly interpretations.164 Some scholars, with less sophistication about minority religions in North Africa, simply assumed that

Constantine was originally a Muslim.165 A few scholars have believed Constantine

163 acqua t, “Note su a t aduction atine du Kita a -Mansu i de Rhazes,” at 73-4.

164Monica Green's works, for example, have been attentive to the difficulties of our sources for Constantine's biography; cf. her lucid summary of these difficulties in Monica H. Green, 2005, but also earlier discussions of Constantine and religion in Monica H. Green, “Constantinus Af icanus and the Conf ict Between Re igion and Science,” in The Human Embryo: Aristotle and the Arabic and European Traditions, ed. by G.R. Dunstan (Exeter, Devon: University of Exeter Press, 1990), 47–69, focusing on Constantine as transmitting Islamicate medicine to the religiously charged circumstances of eleventh-century Latin cultures and the claims of religion and science, realizes the difficulties in tracing Constantine's religious identity; cf. esp. n. 48. Jacquart and Micheau are similarly non-commital about Constantine's religious identity: cf. Danielle Jacquart and Françoise Micheau, mé ec ne e et ’occ ent mé év (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 1990), 99. Discussions by non-specialists have unfortunately often muddled the issues; Catlos' recent synthesis of Muslims in the Latin West states unequivocally that Constantine was an "apostate monk" (258) and "Tunisian refugee and convert" (337) in Brian A. Catlos, Muslims of Medieval Latin Christendom, c. 1050-1614 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

165This seems to be what's going on in Bloch's interpretation of Constantine's religious identity, in Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 1:98.

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to be a convert for more sober reasons, including McVaugh.166 Other scholars, by contrast, have noted the evidence for North African Christian communities precisely in Constantine's day, and maintained that Constantine was born a

Christian in one such community.167

To unpack the question of Constantine's religious identity, however, we must briefly discuss our earliest surviving biographies and what they say about his religious origins. We have three central biographical accounts of

Constantine's life.168 The two earliest of these accounts are closely associated with Monte Cassino, while the third may derive from mid-twelfth century medical teaching at Salerno. The first two are associated with the Cassinese librarian and archivist Peter the Deacon; furthermore, these two Cassinese accounts preserve lists of Constantine's texts that have played a major role in efforts to determine Constantine's oeuvre.169 The first account of Constantine's

166Cf. Michae McVaugh, “Constantine the Af ican,” Dictionary of Scientific Biography, 1971. In his pioneering research, Creutz only had Peter the Deacon's account, and believed Constantine to have een o n a Ch istian, as in Rudo f C eutz, “De A zt Constantinus Af icanus von Montekassino: Sein Leben, sein Werk, und seine Bedeutung für die mittelalterliche medizinische Wissenschaft,” Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benedikterordens und seiner Zweige 47 (1929): 1–44, at 3. Later, upon the discovery of Magister Mattheus F.'s account, Creutz came to believe Constantine's birth as a Muslim mo e ike y. Cf. Rudo f C eutz, “Die Eh en ettung Konstantins von Af ika,” Studien und Mitteilungen zur Geschichte des Benedikterordens und seiner Zweige 49 (1931): 1–44, at 41.

167Cf., fo examp e, Anette Hettinge , “ u Le ensgeschichte und zum Todesdatum des Constantinus Af icanus,” Deutsches Archiv 46 (1990): 517–529, at 522. For discussion of these Christian communities, with whom Gregory VII corresponded, cf. Christian Courtois, “G égoi e V et ’Af ique du no d. Rema ques su es communautés ch étiennes d’Af ique au X e sièc e,” Revue Historique 195 (1945): 193–226.

168I here omit discussion of the much later Iberian tradition.

169Fo discussion of these ook ists, cf. Veit, “Que lenkundliches zu Leben und Werk von Constantinus Af icanus.”

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life can be found in Peter's work De viris illustribus, where he sought to give an account of the most renowned and accomplished members of the Cassinese congregation. It may date to shortly after 1131, as Veit suggests, when Peter returned to Monte Cassino to serve as the librarian and archivist. In the version of his biography in this text, Constantine was born in Kairouan (Carthago), travelled to Cairo (Babilonia), and there mastered a wide range of disciplines, including the seven liberal arts, medicine, and necromancy. These disciplines were those of the Chaldeans, Arabs, Persians, and Saracens. During travels in

India, Ethiopia, and Egypt, moreover, he mastered all of their knowledge as well

("eorumque... studiis" (of the Indians), "Ethiopicis disciplinis," "omnibus

Egiptiorum artibus ad plenum").170 Upon his return to North Africa after 39 or 40 years of studies, however, his compatriots were nonplussed and plotted to kill him.171 Fleeing to Salerno, he was compelled to assume a disguise of poverty until he was recognized by the brother of the "Babylonian" king.172

The second Cassinese source for Constantine's biography is the Chronica

Casinensis. This account is clearly related to the version in the De viris illustribus.

It gives a briefer account of Constantine's life, and some—but by no means all—

170Veit has made the intriguing suggestion that the travels related in Constantine's biography actually echo a persistent theme in Arabic biographical collections, where travels in search of knowledge were perhaps even de rigeur. We may wonder, then, when he arrived in southern Italy, did Constantine frame his biography in a manner borrowed from Arabic biographica texts?

171Both Veit and Green have suggested that this account of personal envy of Constantine may actually reflect contemporary upheaval in North Africa.

172The text of this version has been edited in Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages.

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of the fantastic elements of Constantine's biography have fallen away (for example, he is no longer reputed to have studied necromancy).173 Peter the

Deacon is clearly behind the similarity of the two versions of this biography; some scholars have supposed that Peter wrote both versions of Constantine's biography, but Newton argues that the Chronica version was written either by

Leo Marsicanus, the original author of the chronicle, or his student Guido.

(Newton allows, all the same, for the possibility of modest editorial intervention by Peter in the text.)174 On Newton's interpretation, then, the account in the De viris illustribus was Peter's expansion of a pre-existing account.

The third account of Constantine's life comes from a gloss by "M. Matheus

F." (perhaps the Salernitan physician Magister Matheus Ferrarius) on

Constantine's translation of sh a q n Su ayma n a - s a 's Diaetae universales.175

The account in M. Matheus F.'s gloss is somewhat less marvelous at first glance.

Constantine is a Muslim merchant who travels to southern Italy in the course of his travels; during a discussion of medicine with a physician examining urines, he is struck by the paucity of Latin medical books. He returns to Africa to study

173Cf. disc. in Veit, 125-6.

174Cf. F ancis Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe A a ic Cu tu a nf uences in Southern Italy at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2),” in Between Text and Patient: The Medical Enterprise in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Florence Eliza Glaze and Brian K. Nance (Florence: Sismel, 2011), 25–55, at 51.

175For discussion of this identification with Magister Matheus Ferrarius, beginning with Va entin Rose, cf. Hettinge , “ u Le ensgeschichte und zum Todesdatum des Constantinus Af icanus,” 519 and n. 16.

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medicine for three years; on his return voyage to southern Italy, however, he is shipwrecked and loses some of the books that he had sought to bring over.

All of these accounts are at least partly problematic, albeit for different reasons. The first is simply chronological: M. Matheus F.'s account was produced almost a century after Constantine's life.176 By contrast, the two Cassinese versions were closer in time and might preserve information from monks who had known Constantine personally (though this is impossible to confirm).

Furthermore, much of the material in these accounts seems fishy. On the one hand, much of M. Matheus F.'s biographical information can easily be explained as narrative embellishments of information in Constantine's texts: the inception of Constantine's project is attributed to an encounter with a physician examining urines who bewailed the lack of reliable medical information in Latin—a suspiciously close parallel to the beginning of Constantine's translation of Isaac

Israeli's De urinis.177 A number of scholars have been inclined, therefore, to see M.

Matheus F.'s account as little better than a rumor.178

The Cassinese accounts are no less problematic, however. For one, Peter the Deacon—who may have had a hand in the final versions of both Cassinese

176Green has entertained the possibility, all the same, that M. Matheus F.'s account reliably conveys information about the creation of the Practica Pantegni; cf., e.g., G een, “The Re- C eation of ’Pantegni, P actica,’ Book V ,” at 122.

177Fo discussion of this and othe examp es, cf. Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Le en und We k von Constantinus Af icanus,” 127ff.

178Other scholars, however, have been inclined to see this account as preserving a kernel of e ia e o a t adition; cf. Hettinge , “ u Le ensgeschichte und zum Todesdatum des Constantinus Af icanus,” 519-20.

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accounts—was a notorious forger. Moreover, there are reasons to doubt the veracity of both Cassinese versions. Constantine's extensive travels and studies, for one, seem hyperbolic: he is reputed to have studied the physica and the seven liberal arts of the Chaldeans, Arabs, Persians, Saracens, and Egyptians. Both

Cassinese versions retail biographical elements that seem fabulous: Constantine fled northern Africa, was compelled to lay low in Salerno as an apparent pauper

(sub specie inopis) until he was discovered by the brother of the king of

"Babilonia." What is more, some of these biographical details seem to echo both the plot and the language of the Chronica's earlier biography of Paul the Deacon, a point that has been scarcely discussed since Hettinger drew attention to it over

20 years ago.179 Even more crucially, however, these Cassinese accounts were hardly dispassionate: both works gave the official version of Monte Cassino's history and sought to contribute to its prestige. Especially given Peter's involvement, it would be unsurprising if these accounts downplayed or omitted details that reflected poorly on Monte Cassino.

In interpreting these accounts, then, scholars are compelled to privilege one of two unsatisfactory accounts: do we attempt to sift the bits of truth from the apparently embellished Cassinese accounts, or does M. Matheus F.'s more humdrum but late account ring more true? It is a vexed undertaking, and more than anything it may suggest that Constantine was a cipher—to those a few generations after him, but perhaps to his contemporaries as well. After all,

179Both Constantine and Paul were forced to flee jealous rivals, for example. For this point, cf. Hettinger, "Zur Lebensgeschichte," 521.

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Constantine's works are filled with strategic elisions and dissimulations. Even if the Cassinese accounts faithfully transmit what Constantine's contemporaries knew about him—a significant concession—is it unreasonable to suppose that

Constantine might not have been forthcoming about himself with them, either?

With these doubts in mind, we can return to the question of Constantine's religious identity. First, it is clear that Constantine must have overtly been a

Christian to enter Monte Cassino. Beyond that point, our evidence is trickier to interpret: M. Matheus F. claims that Constantine was a Muslim, where the

Cassinese accounts say nothing of the sort. But the proximity of the Cassinese biographies to Constantine is no guarantee of accuracy in this question: in attempting to emphasize the prestige of Constantine and the monastery, they might well have been disinclined to mention religious conversion. We are left, then, with the omission of divine epithets in Constantine's works. These omissions are suggestive, but also difficult to gloss in an entirely satisfactory manner. They could reflect the uneasiness of a convert, on the one hand, but they could equally be the uneasiness of an immigrant from a North African Christian community. They could simply be attempts at concision by a translator uninterested in pious sentiment; or, most dramatically, they might even be the strategic silences of a crypto-Muslim, who nominally converted for reasons of expediency (entry into Monte Cassino, in Constantine's case) but who remained conflicted about his religious identity. Rather than endorse any of these disparate interpretations, our scraps of evidence leave us with little firm ground from which to interpret Constantine's religious identity.

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Finally, we must return to the question of whether the translation shifts in the Viaticum's religious language have any implications for our understanding of the work's process of composition, or its intended audience. On the one hand, it is hard to see any clear implications about the work's composition in these translation shifts: it seems likeliest that it was Constantine who played a crucial role in these translation shifts, but they could have equally happened in any way that the work was composed.180 The implications of these omissions of religious language for our understanding of the work's audience is likewise inconclusive, but far more suggestive: we can imagine personal reasons that Constantine might have omitted religious language from his translations, but would he really have done so if monks were his immediate audience? The consideration of

Constantine's treatment of sexual subjects is similarly complex, but may bring us closer to an understanding of the Viaticum's process of composition and intended audience.

2.2.4 Sex

In much the same way that the ambiguities of Constantine's religious identity have prompted intensive speculation, Constantine's engagement with sexual and gynecological materials has also played a major role in shaping his reputation. Chaucer's Merchant's Tale, mentioned above, envisions "daun

[master] Constantyn" as a libertine, an uninhibited purveyor of aphrodisiacs and

180Constantine could have omitted these passages while translating orally to Azo or while writing out his translation just as easily if he was solely responsible for the production of the translation.

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sexual information. More soberly, however, modern scholars have seen

Constantine's works as posing a serious challenge to the sexual mores of the

Latin West. As we will see, however, close attention to the shifts in Constantine's translation of n a - azza 's text suggests the limitations of such interpretations, even as they raise questions about the intentions represented by Constantine's text.

In their influential discussion of sex and medicine, Jacquart and

Thomasset saw Constantine's De coitu (and translations from Arabic more broadly) in terms of a medicalization of sexuality, which presented sexual activity almost exclusively in terms of physiological function. Further, they saw this physiological account as in tension with other, more normative discourses like theology, but saw the influence of this medical discourse in works of romantic and erotic literature.181

In several important respects, Jacquart and Thomasset's findings were soon refined by Joan Cadden's Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages.

Despite their often subtle elucidations of medieval texts, Jacquart and Thomasset had a tendency to treat the different intellectual traditions monolithically.

Cadden, by contrast, is much more attuned to the give and take of scholastic discussion, and her work illustrates that it is especially problematic to see scholastic thought—a scholarly and cultural tradition centered on debate and

181Danielle Jacquart and Claude Alexandre Thomasset, Sexuality and Medicine in the Middle Ages (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988). Jacquart and Thomasset likewise appear to have seen this tendency in 's Canon.

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questioning—as monolithically presenting any single position. In the case of

Constantine specifically, Cadden sees Constantine as involved in the mediation of learned, theoretical medical and scientific ideas about sex to a wider audience of towns, schools, and courts. At the same time, she contends that his works were indebted to their monastic context, even interpreting the form of his De coitu, a single work on a particular topic, as indebted to monastic medicine. (She is compelled to wonder about the "oblique" relevance of a work on sex and reproduction for communities of celibate monks, however, and speculates that some of the reproductive issues treated by Constantine, like nocturnal emission, would indeed have had relevance for monastic audiences—a contention we will have occasion to revisit.).182

In a 1990 article, by contrast, Monica Green asks whether we can justly see Constantine as a figure who mediates between reason and science. In the suppression of a chapter on abortion in the Viaticum, for example, she contends that Constantine's text represents a break with a long Latin "tradition of acceptance... of medical discussions of abortion." The suppression of the De aborsu chapter was anomalous, she thus suggests, one of the few cases where we can see the influence of Christian orthodoxy on medical discourse. (She speculates as well that n a - azza r's own condemnation of abortion may have influenced Constantine.) Further, she contends that, at a more fundamental level,

182Joan Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages: Medicine, Science, and Culture, Cambridge History of Medicine (Cambridge; New York, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 54ff.

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Constantine's texts illustrate a case of cross-cultural encounter, a (perhaps unwitting) importation of Islamic sexual ethics into a Christian, Latin milieu

(albeit an importation enthusiastically supported by the monastery of Monte

Cassino).183

In her work on lovesickness, Mary Wack saw Constantine (and Viaticum

I.xx in particular) in a similar light, as transmitting novel, perhaps even problematic ideas about lovesickness to the Latin West. She suggested that these ideas originated in the classical world, but had been augmented during their passage through the Islamic world. Furthermore, just as Green's 1990 article raised questions about whether Constantine was aware of the moral challenge his work represented, Wack explores similar issues. She notes that Viaticum I.xx represents a shift in focus from n a - azza 's text: Constantine appears to have toned down the Neoplatonic, philosophical dimension of this kind of love in the

- , restricting it instead to human objects. She notes the endorsement of therapeutic sex in Constantine's text, and also raises the point that that the account of the origins of lovesickness in Constantine's text might appear to endorse a reductive and materialistic conception of human emotions, one more radical than even pagans like Galen had been willing to endorse. But

183G een, “Constantinus Africanus and the Conflict Between Religion and Science."

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like Green as well, Wack is unsure how much intentionality we should impute to

Constantine's apparent articulation of such a radical position.184

Two aspects of these studies of Constantine merit emphasis here. First, it is striking that almost all of these interpretations see Constantine's translations as part of a distinctly medical discourse, in contrast to religious and other discourses. Jacquart and Thomasset's formulation on this question is perhaps the most emphatic, but much the same sentiment is echoed by all three other scholars as well. Second, the investigations of Wack and Green illustrate the complexity in teasing out a unitary meaning from Constantine's translations: as we will see, while we can describe translation shifts in Constantine's works, the meaning we should ascribe to them is often unclear, particularly when we compare several apparently contradictory translation shifts.

Of course, at the outset we should echo Cadden in noting that

Constantine's treatment of sexual and gynecological matters raises a central, fundamental question about his works, and has significant implications for our understanding of his intended audience: why did Constantine, producing his translations within a monastery, treat sexual and gynecological matters at all?

The simplest possible answer, of course, would be that Constantine's works were not intended for monastic consumption at all, but rather that Constantine's translations were intended for lay use. As we will discuss in greater detail in the

184Mary Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages: The Viaticum and Its Commentaries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1990).

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following chapter, this is surely part of the answer; for some of Constantine's texts—and the De coitu in particular—it seems unlikely they could have been intended for anything but lay use. (This suspicion finds confirmation in the fact that the book list that accompanied Constantine's biography in the official chronicle of Monte Cassino, the Chronicon cassinese, omits the De coitu.185)

Whatever Constantine's intended audience might have been, however, his works did circulate, rapidly, to monastic houses that were spread throughout the Latin

West.

Furthermore, the Viaticum does furnish several examples where

Constantine appears to have toned down the sexual content of his work, apparently as concessions to his audience. First, as Green pointed out, the most substantial concession Constantine appears to have made to his monastic readers is a chapter on abortifacient substances that Constantine omitted entirely from the Viaticum. Ostensibly no libertine himself, n a - azza claims to have included this chapter in the - because he wanted to ensure that women did not make use of them, perhaps by accident.186 But even this appears to have been too much for Latin readers, and Constantine simply omitted the chapter from his translation. (Later readers may have been aware of

185Cf. the discussion of this point in G een, “Constantinus Africanus and the Conflict Between Re igion and Science.”

186For more on n a - azza 's mo a st ingency, cf. Micheau, “La connaissance d’ n A - G azza , médecin de Kai ouan, dans ’O ient a a e.”

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this omission and a few manuscripts include a chapter 'De aborsu' at the end of

Book VII—covering miscarriage rather than abortifacients, however.)187

Similarly, Constantine omitted or compressed some passages in his translation of the - where sexual activity itself came into clear focus. At the end of his discussion of remedies for impotence or deficient sexual desire, n a - azza notes that he (in according with the teaching of Polemon's

Firasa) has found additional ways to augment sexual activity and lust, including

"affectionate words, showing passion, kissing the cheeks, fondling with the hand, licking with the tongue, joy over the sight of the beloved, expressing one's devotion to the beloved and refraining from dwelling on grievances" (trans. Bos, 248-9).

This catalog would apparently have been too much for the Latin readers, and no trace of this passage is to be found in Constantine's translation.188 These omissions of sexual content might suggest a monastic audience, though they could just as well have been tailored to the sensibilities of a lay audience.

On the other hand, Constantine may not have had an infallible sense of his readers. For example, Constantine may not have been sensitive to attitudes

187G een, “Constantinus Af icanus and the Conf ict Between Re igion and Science.” provides the basic discussion of this chapter. Marie-Hé ène Congou deau, “À p opos d’un chapit e des Éphodia: ’avo tement chez es médecins g ecs,” Révue des Études Byzantines 55 (1997): 261–277 suggests that Constantine's omission of this chapter derives from a rigorist interpretation of Hippocrates; she contends that Arabic and Byzantine authors who discussed abortion were also fully in the Hippocratic tradition.

188This passage is given in the Arabic manuscript closest to Constantine's translation, Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Huntington 302. This passage also appears to be in the Greek translation Vat. gr. 300, f. 170r. An alternate explanation may be that in compressing the list of remedies at the end of the chapter, Constantine simply skipped over this passage altogether.

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towards homosexuality in the Latin West. Same-sex attraction appears to have been treated rather differently in the Latin West than in the Islamic world, where homosexual acts were prohibited, but homosexual desire was not censured to the same degree.189 Furthermore, as a monk at Monte Cassino,

Constantine was at one of the centers of ecclesiastical reform, and an institution where Peter Damian's shrill, explicit protestations that homosexual acts were incompatible with clerical purity may well have found an audience.190

Whatever their contexts, the - makes occasional reference to homoerotic desire and attraction, and Constantine apparently felt no need to omit these passages. The discussion of lovesickness in I.xx, for example, explains that one way of alleviating lovesickness was to walk or "pass the time" (spatiari seu deducere) with males or females of beautiful appearance (cum femina seu maribus pulchre persone), and the likeliest explanation for this passage is simply that Constantine did not think much of it at all.191

189For discussion of same-sex attraction and acts in Islamic lands, cf. Kathryn Babayan and Afsaneh Najmabadi, eds., Islamicate Sexualities: Translations Across Temporal Geographies of Desire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), Joseph Andoni Massad, Desiring Arabs (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), and Khaled El-Rouayheb, Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World, 1500-1800 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005).

190For the text of Peter Damian's Liber Gomorrhianus, cf. Kurt Reindel, ed., Die Briefe Des Petrus Damiani, 4 vols. (Munich: Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 1983), no. 31. For Peter's connections with Monte Cassino, cf. H.E.J. Cowdrey, The Age of Abbot Desiderius: Montecassino, the Papacy, and the Normans in the Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), 34ff. and passim. Green has also pointed out Constantine's place near centers of ecc esiastica efo m; cf. G een, “Constantinus Af icanus and the Conflict Between Religion and Science," 51-2.

191"Deducere" might have a sexual connotation (although the formulation here is not the usual way to express a sexual liason), but the homoerotic connotations of the passage are clear in any case. So clear, in fact, that one later reader of Oxford, Corpus Christi College 189 apparently felt compelled to emend the passage to read "maioribus." Wack also noted this reading: Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages, p. 190, l. 38. 118

In these scraps of evidence, then, we appear to confront Constantine as a translator who made some efforts to tone down the sexual content of his works, but who may well have been stymied in these efforts by his lack of familiarity with the sexual mores of the Latin West. We might thus see this evidence as supporting Green's contention that Constantine was, in some sense, the unwitting transmitter of the sexual ethics of Islamic lands to the Latin West. The detailed consideration of a final example, however, will illustrate the difficulty of capturing Constantine's complex acts of mediation in a single, univocal formulation. This example may even suggest, in fact, that Constantine was simply indifferent to the ethical implications of the medical subjects he treated, in contrast to thinkers in the Latin West, but—perhaps surprisingly—in contrast to the ethical concerns given voice in n a - azza 's text as well.

In chapter VI.iv, Constantine's Viaticum turned to the consideration of an issue that was particularly pressing for monks in an era of increased focus on clerical and monastic purity, nocturnal emissions (pollutio). To briefly recapitulate the history of a complicated subject, seminal emission had been identified as a source of ritual impurity already in the Pentateuch, but in the

West, particular attention had been given to nocturnal emissions by John Cassian

(who also appears to have been influential in using Latin pollutio to describe nocturnal emissions). Cassian saw nocturnal emission as a sign of lustful and sinful tendencies persisting in a monk, and many ecclesiastical writers followed

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him in holding that sexual dreams and nocturnal emissions were a sign of spiritual ill health.192

Constantine's text, however, gave an account of nocturnal emission in sharp contrast to these moralizing interpretations of nocturnal emission. His chapter begins, in effect, by describing the physiological background of nocturnal emissions, noting that boys (pueri) do not suffer nocturnal emission, because their vessels (uene) are narrow and filled with humidity, and their bodily heat is imperfect. When his body has reached maturity, however, the boy is moved by nature (mouetur natura) so that it might expel the increased seminal material, and it is emitted in sleep by overflowing (cum ebullitione).193

The chapter continues, however, by pointing out that pollutio which results from abundance of sperm (ex habundantia spermatis) is not the same as that which occurs from the desire of the soul (ex concupiscentia anime). In the latter case, the soul (anima) imagines that its beloved (amata) is nearby; for this reason,

[his] nature is moved to sex (coitum) so that it causes a nocturnal emission.194

192For Cassian's use of pollutio, cf. Blaise, Dictionnaire latin-français des auteurs chrétiens, s.v. pollutio. Collationes 23, 7, 2 discusses nocturnal emissions in particular, with the phrase turpium somniorum pollutio For Cassian's position on nocturnal emission and his influence, cf. James A. Brundage, Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 109f. Further discussion of nocturnal emission as an object of early medieval monastic concern can be found in Lynda L. Coon, Dark Age Bodies: Gender and Monastic Practice in the Early Medieval West (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 124ff.

193"Pueri non patiuntur pollutionem . quia uene eorum stricte . et humiditate sunt plene neque calor est perfectus . Sed cum ueniat ad etatem . generatur materia spermatia . quia perfectior et augmentatior est calor eorum . uene etiam sunt largiores . Unde mouetur natura . ut materiam augmentatam expellat . et eam cum ebullitione in sompno emittat." Oxford, Corpus Christi College MS 189, f. 55r.

194"Sed tamen hec pollutio que uenit ex habundantia spermatis . non est similis ei que ex concupiscentia anime succedit . In ea enim que ex concupiscentia est . imaginatur anima amata 120

Sometimes, the text continues, a man sees a woman and desires her; when he sleeps, he imagines to himself that he sleeps with her (quam cum dormiat . imaginatur sibi . quasi cum ea dormiat) and pollutio then arises. Initially, then,

Constantine's text appears to establish a divide between nocturnal emission which occurs as a result of a superabundance of seed—which is only discussed in connection to boys reaching puberty—and nocturnal emission as a result of desire. It is thus tempting to see these categories as demarcating a natural phenomenon from one that results from moral weakness. In the next breath, however, the Viaticum begins a discussion of the connections between bodily constitution and dreams. People (or perhaps men in particular) see many things in dreams when the humors of their bodies multiply: it is as if they are carrying grave burdens (quasi in collo sarcinas portant graues). If they are emptied of humors (humoribus... exinaniti), on the other hand, they seem to fly or walk

(uolitare uel ambulare). A final comment notes that nocturnal emission is nothing other than the elongation of sleep, when bodies sweat (Pollutio non est aliud . quam cum somnus elongetur et corpora sudent). This section, confused as it is, appears to back away from the moral disapprobation hinted at in the discussion of nocturnal emission resulting from desire: rather, by linking sexual dreams to bodily condition and comparing it to sweat, this passage appears to

[this word is rather garbled in a number of the MSS] quasi sit uicina . unde ad coitum mouetur natura . ut pollutio faciat." Largely following Oxford, Corpus Christi College MS 189, f. 55r-v, which reads "adamata," however.

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naturalize sexual dreams and nocturnal emissions and see them as a result of one's bodily condition.

When we compare Constantine's passage with his Arabic source, moreover, several translation shifts illustrate the way that Constantine shaped the final form of his text. On the one hand, Constantine's language here was more euphemistic than his Arabic source: Constantine's text says that the sleeper imagines that he "sleeps with" the woman he desires (quasi cum ea dormiat),

.(يُجا ِمعها) where the Arabic unequivocally says that he has intercourse with her

This would appear, then, to be a concession to the sensibilities of Constantine's readers.195

More substantially, though, this chapter also contains a translation shift that implies Constantine may have sought to avoid giving a moralizing interpretation of the medical phenomena he described. In particular, n a -

azza appears to take a dimmer view of nocturnal emissions resulting from overindulgence than Constantine: where Constantine's text describes the complexional situation of the body in impersonal language and as a neutral phenomenon (cum in corporibus multiplicentur humores), n a - azza 's text presents it as something harmful to the soul.196 (In fact, the disparagement of

195Constantine's language here is more euphemistic than usual; in other passages, Constantine uses the word coitus for intercourse (as in the discussion of gout in VI.xx, for example).

وذلكّأنّتخي لّالنفسّ 196The textual situation here is fairly complex, however: Bos' text reads with no , دائماّيكونّعلىّماّعليهّحالّالبدنّحتىّأ نهّقدّيتخي لّاألنسانّفيّنومهّماّكانتّالنفسّمنهّقدّتأ ذتّبثقلّكثرةّاألخالط in Bos' text (تأذ ت) variation that significantly changes the meaning of the passage.A single word gives the passage its negative connotation. Given the late date of our Arabic manuscripts, it is 122

overeating and overindulgence appears to have been a theme in n a - azza 's

for example, disparages overeating, and (فيّالتُ َخم) elsewhere in his text: IV.ix begins with a discussion of the ancient authorities who disapproved of overeating and advocated dietary moderation.) The translation shift in

Constantine's discussion of nocturnal emission, then, appears to suggest that

Constantine sought to moderate the moralizing tone of n a - azza 's discussion.

Furthermore, this translation shift seems to be consistent with the materialism and "moral determinism" Wack suggested might be implicit in Constantine's ambiguous description of the causes of lovesickness.197

Moreover, Constantine's attitude here clearly contrasts with contemporary canon law on nocturnal emission. Where the Viaticum's discussion appears to conflate several different causes, canonists clearly distinguished between the different causes of nocturnal emission and their moral (and ritual) implications. A half century or so after Constantine, Gratian

(drawing on the significantly earlier Responsa Gregorii) would summarize these discussions, dividing nocturnal emission into three categories: like Constantine,

Gratian's text conceded that some nocturnal emissions were purely natural,

"from abundance of [the seed's] nature, or illness" (ex naturae suae superfluitate

difficult to know whether this word appeared in Constantine's manuscript. As we have noted, Constantine's translation does not have any such negative connotation. Moreover, the earliest manuscript of the Greek translation of the passage gives no help: on the one hand, the Greek text nowhere explicitly mentions the harm to the soul; on the other hand, the verb it uses (ἐπιβαρύνηται) can have st ong connotations of oppression; the Greek rendering in the Ephodia, then, may be more charged than Constantine's rendering. Cf. BAV MS Vat. gr. 300, f. 172v.

197Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages, 39-40.

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aut infirmitate).198 Similarly, Gratian's text makes clear the gravity of nocturnal emissions that resulted from what we might call erotic ideation (ex cogitatione, which Constantine had called ex concupiscentia anime), which could lead to severe legal and ritual problems. The consequences of the third category were more ambiguous: like Constantine, Gratian's text acknowledged that nocturnal emissions might result from the bodily state of the dreamer, and overindulgence in food and drink in particular (ex crapula). But where Constantine—in contrast to n a - azza , as well—left unclear whether the dreamer bore any moral responsibility for these bodily states, Gratian's text suggests that some guilt

(aliquem reatum) was incurred by the overindulgent dreamer, even though it did not result in serious problems of ritual impurity. We can see a contrast, then, between Constantine's muddled, indifferent presentation of the causes of nocturnal emission and the increasingly codified approach taken in canon law, which saw clear distinctions between the different causes of nocturnal emission.

The final translation shift in this passage, however, may give the clearest indication of Constantine's indifference to these moral questions. At the end of this chapter, Constantine says tersely that those frequently experiencing pollutio should use cold medicine, foods, and unguents, as had been discussed in the

198D. 6 c. 1, 'De multiplici genere illusionis.' For further discussion of this passage in the Decretum and some ate e a o ation of these issues, cf. ames A. B undage, “O scene and Lascivious: Behavio a O scenity in Canon Law,” in Obscenity: Social Control and Artistic Creation in the European Middle Ages, ed. Jan M. Ziolkowski (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 246–259, 252ff. For the Responsa Gregorii and their early medieval importance (which were attributed to Gregory the Great but date back at least to the turn of the eighth century), cf. Brundage, Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe, 140ff. and passim.

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chapter on those suffering from frequent erections (VI.ii).199 Moreover, this terse sentence contrasts with the full paragraph of remedies given in n a - azza 's text (which, it should be noted, does indeed have some overlap with the remedies in VI.ii). This passage furnishes further evidence of Constantine's relative lack of interest in the practical side of n a - azza 's text, but its implications are wider than that.

For one, this translation shift calls into question whether Constantine gave any consideration to a monastic readership for the Viaticum, in contrast to

Cadden's interpretation of the De coitu.200 As we have seen, nocturnal emissions received some attention from canon lawyers, but it appears to have been communities of monks who were most preoccupied by them, from Cassian on.

Constantine's omission of remedies for nocturnal emission suggests, in the first instance, that Constantine's text may not have been composed with monastic readers in mind, and was likely intended for lay readership. But this translation shift may even tell us something about Constantine himself. After all,

Constantine was not producing his translations in a , but in a community of professed religious; moreover, the regulation (or attempted regulation) of sexuality was a fundamental aspect of monastic life. There is something astonishing about the fact that a medical handbook, composed in a monastery

199"Pollutionem sepe habentes cum frigida medicina . s . cibariis . s . unguentis sicut diximus in sepe erigentibus." Paris, BnF MS 6951, f. 159r. This has some elements of the first sentence of Ibn al-Jazza 's discussion of remedies, combined with Constantine's extremely terse recommendation of cold remedies.

200Cf. discussion above.

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and read and circulated in short order among monastic communities, would be so indifferent to the problems of monastic sexuality. It is hard to escape the impression, then, that Constantine scarcely considered or cared whether the work might be helpful for monastic readers.

Finally, this chapter, taken in its entirety, may also reveal something about the composition of the Viaticum. As we noted, Newton has taken Peter the

Deacon's account of Azo's role to mean that Azo improved the Latinity of

Constantine's texts. We may well ask, however, whether it is fair to suppose that

Azo was really engaged in the production of this chapter. Of course, we have no way to recover Azo's attitude towards nocturnal emissions; for all we know, he may have viewed such things permissively (and given his exposure to the imperial court, we may well imagine that he had been thoroughly exposed to secular life, where attitudes may have been laxer). But we may well ask whether a long-serving churchman at the highest levels, having served first as the chaplain of Empress Agnes and then a monk at Monte Cassino, would have been responsible for the final form of this text: would Azo have produced a text that conflated several well-established canonical categories—one that allowed for the materialistic and deterministic implications of Constantine's text, as well?

Would this experienced churchman have been as oblivious to the problems of clerical chastity as Viaticum VI.iv appears to be?

In discussing Constantine's approach to sexuality in the Viaticum, then, we have seen the complicated interpenetration of several factors: Constantine's attitude towards the practical medical text he was translating, Constantine's

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intended audience, and the sexual mores of both the Islamic world and the Latin

West. The central point, however, is that it is too simple to see Constantine's translations in terms of sharp, black and white contrasts, between medical and religious discourses, lay and monastic sexual codes, or even sex in Christian and

Islamic lands. None of these terms can be taken as monolithic. The same monastery that avidly supported Constantine's translations in one generation may have been uncertain about his treatment of sexual matters in the next: Peter the Deacon, who had a hand in both lists of Constantine's books, mentioned

Constantine's sexual and gynecological texts in his De viris illustribus but omitted them in the official chronicle of the monastery. As we have seen, even taking n a - azza as a representative exponent of Islamic attitudes towards sex in contrast with the Latin West is problematic. For one, he was an unusual figure in a heterogeneous tradition, whose biographical sources emphasize his unusual moral probity and stringency; at the same time, he was part of a centuries-long, multilingual, and multiethnic medical tradition that confounds any efforts to make neat, broad distinctions: n a - azza studied medicine with a Jewish physician in a North African community in order to master a body of medical knowledge that bore the deep stamp of both its roots and its

Islamicate transmission.201 In criticizing nocturnal emission arising from overindulgence, moreover, n a - azza and Latin canonists unwittingly echoed

201For more on n a - azza , especially in the Arabic biographical traditions, cf. Micheau, “La connaissance d’ n A -G azza , médecin de Kai ouan, dans ’O ient a a e.” Fo a a ge y unconvincing attempt to sift out a genuine Hippocratic tradition on questions of abortion, cf. Congou deau, “À p opos d’un chapit e des Éphodia.”

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each other. The complexities here resist any simple formulation; but they also illustrate that the uncertainty, contradiction, and even confusion we can detect in Constantine the African's engagement with sex were not particular to him, but rather endemic to the writing of and engagement with medicine in the medieval

Mediterranean.

2.3 Authorship and Authority

Despite these ambiguities, one of the clearest aspects of Constantine's efforts is that, in his effort to translate a comprehensive, reliable body of medical texts into Latin, Constantine sought to claim legitimacy and authority for his work. The body of the Viaticum, for example, is studded with references to great medical writers of the past. The preface of the work, by contrast, invoked not medical authorities, but instead combined references to Cicero's rhetoric and the

Pauline epistles in an attempt to endow the work with the prestige of classical literature and the Christian past.202 In these allusions, Constantine's Viaticum preface reflects the origins of his text among the monks of Monte Cassino.

Biblical and patristic texts were highly valued at Monte Cassino, and Cicero's works were also particularly prized.203 Danielle Jacquart pointed out that we can see considerable efforts in the preface of the Pantegni to present the work in a way so that it spoke to the concerns of readers in the Latin West; similarly, the

202Cf. discussion of the preface above.

203Cf. Francis. Newton, The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino, 1058-1105 (Cambridge, U.K.; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), passim.

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Ciceronian and biblical allusions in the preface of the Viaticum reflect (and likely respond to) Cassinese concerns with religious life and classical literature.

(Interpreting the deployment of these texts, however, is complicated by questions about the work's composition, as we discussed above: does this preface allude to these texts because Constantine sought to make his works palatable and appealling, or because Cassinese monks aided in the work's composition?)204

In this section, we will expand this consideration of authorship and authority in the Viaticum. In particular, by considering the work's relationship to its Arabic author and the many Arabic sources named in the body of n a -

azza 's text, we will see that the Viaticum demonstrates a consistent pattern of omitting Arabic authorities and preserving Greek ones, presenting the originally

Arabic work to its readers in "Greek dress." This Greek dress is striking, even exaggerated—it is telling, for example, that Constantine's approach here is even more hellenizing than Greek translators in close proximity to him. The translator of the Greek Ephodia, after all, had preserved references to Arabic authors and sources. As we have mentioned, these omissions have received a great deal of comment, including both condemnations and attempts to explain or justify

Constantine's decisions. What has not received adequate emphasis, however, is that this tendency of Constantine's accords well with a larger Cassinese

204 acqua t, “Note su a t aduction atine du Kita a -Mansu i de Rhazes.” Constantine's student Azo, at any rate, who may have aided Constantine (see discussion above) was as much of a newcomer as Constantine, and may have been less conversant with Cassinese reading preferences.

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sensibility that placed great stress on an intimate, even immediate, connection to the ancient past. Just as the carefully balanced references to Cicero and the

Christian past in the preface of the Viaticum reflect Cassinese preoccupations, then, his omissions of Arabic authors and citations appear to reflect the context in which Constantine's handbook of practical medicine was produced.

2.3.1 Authority and Plagiarism in Constantine's Prefaces

In Constantine's translations, antiquity and reliability are closely linked.

The prefaces to Constantine's translations place repeated emphasis on his concern with searching out and drawing upon reliable, authoritative medical texts. The preface to his Pantegni notes that he had looked through the volumes of the Latins, although they were many, but did not find anything sufficient for beginners.205 Furthermore, Constantine's claim to have searched the works of the

Latins was a repeated one. In the preface to his translation of sh a q s a 's De urinis, he notes that in Latin books he found no author (auctorem) who conveyed certain and authentic information (certam et autenticam cognitionem) about urines.206 Moreover, Constantine's emphasis on reliability and authority allowed him to point out the deficiencies in existing texts. Even though recent scholars like Gariopontus had done much to systematize the inchoate mass of existing

205The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, MS 73 J 6, f. 1r (hereafter Hague Pantegni): latinorum uolumina percurrens . cum licet multa essent . non tamen introducendis esset sufficere uiderem.

206"In latinis quidem libris nullum auctorem invenire potui. qui de urina certam et autenticam cognitionem dederit." Quoted in Wallis, "Inventing Diagnosis," 40.

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medical knowledge, Constantine's emphasis on reliability and authority touched a central point about these medical texts: many were brief, unsystematic, and modest, with dubious attributions, or no attribution at all.207 Both to supplement this deficiency and to enhance the prestige of his own works, therefore,

Constantine emphasized the reliability and authority of his own texts.

Aside from a handful of translations of Galen, however, the search for reliable, authoritative ancient sources did not lead Constantine directly to the authors of ancient medical works. As scholars of Constantine's works have long realized, Constantine's works are largely translations of pre-existing Arabic texts. The preface to the Pantegni claims that Constantine turned to ancient medical authorities like Hippocrates and Galen as well as the moderns like

Alexander of Tralles, Paul of Aegina, and Oribasius, but the work is actually a translation of the t - kī of A i n a - A a s a -Maju s . Furthermore, the body of the work keeps only those citations of authorities from the Greek tradition in the t - kī, omitting all of the citations of Arabic authors in

Ibn al-Maju s 's works.208 What is more, after decades of scholarship, it is

207For the character of Gariopontus' Passionarius and existing medical texts, cf. discussion in the next chapte , as we as F o ence E iza G aze, “Ga iopontus and the Sa e nitans: Textua T aditions in the E eventh and Twe fth Centu ies,” in La Collectio Salernitana di Salvatore De Renzi, edited by Danielle Jacquart and Agostino Paravicini Bagliani (Firenze: SISMEL edizioni del Galluzzo, 2008), 149–90 and F o ence E iza G aze, “Speaking in Tongues: Medica Wisdom and Glossing Practices in and Around Salerno, c. 1040-1200,” in Herbs and Healers from the Ancient Mediterranean through the Medieval West: Essays in Honor of John M. Riddle, edited by Anne Van Arsdall and Timothy Graham (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), 63–106, both of which have considerably enriched scholarly understanding of Gariopontus.

208For further discussion of the Pantegni translation in particular, cf. the articles in Burnett and Jacquart, Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī.

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reasonable to infer that the same is true for almost all of Constantine's works.209

Nevertheless, even though all of the evidence we have suggests that Constantine did not produce original medical works, his works give the impression that his works were produced by his own hand, and from direct engagement with classical medical sources.

The Viaticum furnishes no exception to this general pattern, as the work omits references to both its author and its citations of Arabic sources. For one, the name of n a - azza , the author of the Arabic text, was removed from

Constantine's translation. Neither in the preface nor anywhere in the book does

Constantine refer to the work's original composition by n a - azza . What is more, the Arabic original of the work began each book with a reference to n a -

azza . Book VI, for example, begins "the sixth treatise (maqa la), consisting of 20 chapters, from the book Provisions for the Traveller, composed by the physician

A u a fa Ah mad ibn Abi Khā id, may God have mercy upon him, treating the diseases which occur in the genitals" (trans. Bos, 239). Rather than a single omission, Constantine appears to have removed the attribution at the beginning of each book in translating the Viaticum.

In addition to his omissions of n a - azza , Constantine also removed all references to Arabic authorities in translating the body of the Viaticum. The

209For a list of Constantine's works and thei A a ic sou ces, cf. Veit, “Que enkund iches zu Le en und We k von Constantinus Af icanus.” n some cases, the A a ic sou ces of Constantine's texts are no longer extant or have not been found; by diligent searching, however, scholars have reduced the number of such works to a mere handful. Enrique Cartelle Montero, for example, has shown that Constantine's De coitu (which appears at first glance to be a compiliation) very likely was a translation of a pre-existing Arabic compilation.

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recipe for pills against gout in Book VI.xix, for example, was taken "from the

Bos, p. 228) in n a - azza 's text. Constantine, on) (منّكتابّسابور) "book of Sabur the other hand, omitted Sabur's name entirely. Likewise, the discussion of sleeplessness in Book I.xvii of n a - azza 's text gives a recipe for a soporific sternutory from sh a q i n m a n. Constantine reproduces much of this extensive, multi-step recipe, but is silent about its origin. Rather, his text says that, if sleeplessness arises from warm food or drink (ex calido... cibo siue potione), one should medicate with somniferous substances. He is vague about the origins of the remedy, saying only that one such substance is this opiate- infused preparation.210 We have seen earlier that Constantine engaged in the considerable compression of some of the practical parts of his text. This remedy for sleeplessness, however, illustrates that this is not what is happening here.

Constantine has preserved many of the details of the preparation of this remedy, but has simply removed the introductory attribution to sh a q i n m a n.

Moreover, many other examples like these two can be adduced from throughout the Viaticum. By contrast, however, classical authorities assume a significant

(albeit somewhat sporadic) importance in the body of the Viaticum.

In the Viaticum, the contrast between Constantine's omissions of Arabic authorities and the presence of ancient authorities adds further confirmation to a long-recognized pattern in Constantine's works, as we have mentioned. For centuries, in fact, Constantine's apparent attempts to claim sole credit for his

210For the Arabic text, cf. Ibn al- azza , ed., p. 75-6.

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texts have even garnered him substantial censure. Beginning with Stephen of

Antioch mere decades after Constantine's life, critics have noted with indignation the brazenness of Constantine's efforts to claim sole credit for his texts.211 In recent decades, however, scholars have made an effort to rethink the assumptions that underlay attacks on Constantine as a plagiarist. In the 1980s,

Herbert Bloch contended that medieval concepts of authorship were surely different from our own, and argued that scholars were guilty of anachronism in condemning Constantine for plagiarism.212 (And indeed, Constantine's intellectual appropriations are of a type well known from a range of medieval texts.) In 1994, Danielle Jacquart argued that what Constantine was doing was not really an act of intellectual expropriation, but merely a concession to

Constantine's Latin audience, to whom a lengthy list of Arabic authorities would have been impenetrable in any case.213 And most recently, Francis Newton has suggested that it would have been well known to Constantine's contemporaries that he was translating from Arabic.214 As salutary as these revisionist interpretations are, however, they fail to do justice to Constantine's texts themselves.

211Several scholars have collected and discussed these condemnations of Constantine as a plagiarist; cf. for example Schipperges, Die Assimilation der arabischen Medizin durch das Lateinische Mittelalter, 17ff.

212Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, I:104-5.

213 acqua t, “Note su a t aduction atine du Kita a -Mansu i de Rhazes.” 75.

214Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe A a ic Cu tu a nf uences in Southe n ta y at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2),” at 43 esp.

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Across his works, as we have discussed, Constantine repeatedly emphasizes the active role he played in compiling the work: in the De stomacho, addressed to Alfanus of Salerno, Constantine emphasizes his personal effort in painstakingly combing the works of the ancients for information about the stomach. More subtly, the citations of Hippocrates, Galen, and other Greek authorities in his works consistently give the impression that he had delved into the sources of his works himself.215

Tellingly, the prefaces of Constantine's works are most outspoken about his efforts and his personal role when addressing high-profile recipients like

Alfanus and Abbot Desiderius of Monte Cassino, and this element of calculation complicates efforts to rehabilitate his reputation. His preface to the Pantegni, addressed to Desiderius, begins with a humility topos, but quickly transitions to an in-depth description of Constantine's considerable efforts to draw upon—and even improve on—classical medical authorities. At the beginning, the Pantegni's salutation to Desiderius contrasts Desiderius' glory with Constantine's humble status: Desiderius is the "shining gem" (gemma prenitens) of the entire ecclesiastical order (totius ordinis aecclesiastici), while Constantine is unworthy to be counted "among the visible/starry (oculatis) animals of the inner or outer

215We can see this even when he acknowledges the Arabic sources of his works: it seems that he acknowledges that he was translating Galen's commentary on the Aphorisms because there was no way for him to claim Galen's work as his own. For the texts of the prefaces where he acknowledges the Arabic origins of his works, cf. Newton, "Arabic Medicine."

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heaven."216 Shortly thereafter, however, Constantine sheds his humility in unambigously describing his efforts to produce the text: after reviewing existing

Latin works and finding them insufficient for beginners, Constantine had turned back to "our" authorities, both ancient and modern ones—suggesting, perhaps, the medical works that were available at Monte Cassino—encompassing figures from Hippocrates to Alexander of Tralles, Paul of Aegina, and Oribasios.217 He gives the works of the authorities he'd consulted in exhaustive detail, going so far as to give Greek titles for some of these works (Galen's "Piriton hereseos medicorum," "vi . criseos," and "iii . ymera criseos" most conspicuously).218 More than this, however, Constantine gives a detailed explanation of how he'd settled on the work's form. He claims that he had decided upon it after reflecting on the limitations of the works of both Hippocrates and Galen: Hippocrates was so very obscure and brief (adeo obscurus atque breuis), while Galen treated subjects prolixly, and in an overwhelming, even tedious number of independent treatises.219 By contrast, in his effort to serve the common good, Constantine has

216Hague Pantegni, f. 1r. The entire phrase may be a reference to Martianus Capella, who uses the rare word oculatus to mean "starred;" if this is the case, the point is likely that Constantine is an unworthy practitioner of the liberal arts.

217Hague Pantegni, f. 1r: "Vnde ego . C[onstantinus] . tantam huis artis utilitatem perpendens . latinorum uolumina percurrens . cum licet multa essent . non tamen introducendis etiam sufficere uiderem . Recurri ad nostros."

218The list of sixteen works here is, in fact, the Alexandrian curriculum of Galenic works; cf. A. . skanda , “An Attempted Reconst uction of the Late A exand ian Medica Cu icu um,” Medical History 20 (1976): 235–58 for discussion of the Alexandrian list.

219f. 1r: Galienus de rebus singulis singula uolumina fecit . assidua enim uerborum iteratione . et camillosa diuersarum questionum argumentatione . centum . Lx . fecit uolumina eademque maxima . Multiplicitate quorum multi tedio affecti sunt . vix enim tantum . xvi . uolumina leguntur.

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restricted his discussion to the essentials: the causes of diseases and their natures, their signs (significationes) and accidents, all of which discussions are all necessary to cure illnesses. He even explains that, although he has included passages (testimonia) from Hippocrates and Galen, he has had to make some corrections to account for the difference in climate in his text and Galen and

Hippocrates'.220 In addressing Desiderius, then, Constantine's text gives the overwhelming impression that, from the form of the text, to its citations of medical authorities, and even to its climatic adjustments, it was Constantine who was responsible for the work.

By contrast, two of the three cases where Constantine is frank about translating from Arabic come in dedications to his students, where the stakes must have been lower. The preface to his book on fevers, for example, which was addressed to his disciple Johannes, explains that he undertook the work on

Johannes' behalf (Johannes had apparently struggled to keep the varieties of fevers straight), and is frank that the work was a translation from Arabic: "hunc librum transtuli ex arabica lingua in latinam." [I translated this book from the

Arabic language into Latin.]221 Despite Constantine's prolific output, moreover, it

220A surprising consideration given the fact that Galen had spent much of his career practicing in Rome!

221Lyons ed., I.203v.

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is striking how rare these references to Arabic are.222 Where the credit mattered, it seems, Constantine wanted it for himself.

Even to his near contemporaries, moreover, his acts of appropriation seemed problematic. Stephen of Antioch, who re-translated the Pantegni into

Latin a half century after Constantine, gives a detailed, condemnatory account of the strategic omissions Constantine made in his translations in seeking to justify his re-translation.223 This raises questions, then, about whether we can excuse

Constantine's translation practices by appealing to contemporary standards.

My goal here, however, is not to rekindle the largely sterile debate about

Constantine's ostensible plagiarism. Neither branding him a plagiarist nor explaining away his appropriations does justice to the complex balancing act he undertook. Constantine's works, in fact, appear to have intentionally allowed for multiple interpretations. As we have seen, his works give the overwhelming impression that he was drawing from classical Greek sources; but at the same time, Constantine also seems to have drawn attention to his foreignness. His

222For discussion of the remaining two mentions of Arabic in Constantine's works, cf. Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe A a ic Cu tu a nf uences in Southe n ta y at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2)," 37ff.

223"Nomen etenim auctoris titulumque subtraxerat, seque qui interpres extiterat et inventorem libri posuit, et suo nomine titulavit. Que ut facilius posset, et in libri prologo et in aliis multa pretermisit pluribus necessaria locis, multorum ordines commutans, nonnulla aliter protulit... In quo manifeste nobis innuit ipsum interpretem pocius quam scriptorem fuisse." Quoted in Bu nett, “Antioch as a Link Between A a ic and Latin Cu tu e in the Twe fth and Thirteenth Centuries," p. 27, §14, where further information about Stephen's life and activities can be found. More recently, cf. Cha es Bu nett, “The Twe fth-Centu y Renaissance,” in The Cambridge History of Science. Volume 2, Medieval Science, ed. David C. Lindberg and Michael Shank (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 365–384. Recent scholarly discussions, moreover, have revived literary deceit and forgery as tools of scholarly analysis; cf., for example, Ehrman, Forgery and Counterforgery.

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name, for one, which he gives at the slightest provocation, draws attention to his

Christianity (Constantinus) and to his foreignness (Africanus).224 Furthermore, the choice of the (presumably monastic) name Constantine can hardly have been an accident.225 Constantine was a resonant name at Monte Cassino: Constantine had been the abbot of Monte Cassino who succeeded Benedict.226 But, in all likelihood, Constantine's name also evoked the emperor Constantine, yet another figure who mediated between paganism and Christianity—perhaps implying that Constantine the translator drew upon—even conquered—pagan knowledge and rendered it fit for contemporary Christian use. Similarly, geographic epithets like Africanus could surely indicate place of origin, as

Newton has suggested; on the other hand, the most famous ancient Africanus was Scipio Africanus, who gained his epithet by victory in Africa in the Second

Punic War.227 (We may well surmise that this Africanus would have been well known to the learned monks of Monte Cassino.)

In the preface to his Pantegni, we can see further evidence of the way that

Constantine gives nimble expression to the tension between his ostensible classical sources and his north African origins, while also maintaining a coyness about both his background and his linguistic skills. On the one hand, Constantine

224Cf. Newton, "Arabic Medicine and Other Arabic Cultural Influences," for further discussion of this point.

225Alternately, it is possible that Constantine may have been Constantine's birth name in North Africa, although one might suppose that the resonances would have been the same.

226Constantine's succession is mentioned in Gregory the Great, Dialogi, 2.2.

227For Africanus indicating geographic origin, cf. Newton, "Arabic Medicine."

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says explicitly that he was unable to find a satisfactory introduction to medicine among the volumes of the Latins, but he never quite says that he had read the

Greek medical works he cites in the (even as his citation of the title of Hippocrates' 'On Acute Diseases' in transliterated Greek must have been intended to give this impression).228 On the other hand, he appears to allow for the interpretation that he had read these classical medical works in Arabic, though Arabic finds no explicit mention in the preface, either; the "Africanus" in

Constantine's salutation to Desiderius (Constantinus Africanus licet indignus) may have served to advertise his command of foreign or Arabic knowledge. More than brazen plagiarism, therefore, the preface to the Pantegni is a skillful example of Constantine's careful cultivation of multiple interpretations.

Constantine's immediate confidants and colleagues (and perhaps other enthusiasts of Arabic culture) might well have known that Constantine had drawn from Arabic texts, as Newton has suggested; other readers, however, were likely given the impression that the work had been drawn directly from the

Greek medical sources Constantine meticulously lays out.229 The early reception of his texts, moreover, suggests just such a range of beliefs about Constantine's origins and the background of his texts: some readers may well have taken

Constantine's claims for Greek knowledge at face value, but others recognized

228Fo fu the discussion of this p eface, cf. Danie e acqua t, “Le sens donné pa Constantin L’Af icain à son oeuv e: Les chapit es int oductifs en a a e et en atin,” in Constantine the Af c n n ʻA ī bn Al-ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , edited by Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 71–89.

229His foreign background does not appear to have been a secret to his contemporaries, as can be seen, for example, in his biographies.

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him as a transmitter of Arabic knowledge: Winston Black has drawn attention to the Eastern associations that Constantine's Liber graduum had for Henry of

Huntingdon, while the scribes who copied Constantine's works sometimes describe him as a translator from Arabic.230 Modern scholars have been divided in their interpretation of Constantine, then, because this is exactly the effect that his works were designed to provoke.

And in fact, Constantine's cautious use of Arabic sources appears to have been well adapted to the cultural environment of southern Italy. We have a robust body of evidence attesting to the presence of Arabic speakers and Arabic cultural goods in southern Italy, precisely in Constantine's day: our texts attest to interactions and exchanges with saraceni, artifacts from southern Italy reveal the prestige and glamor of Arabic luxury goods, and Arabic-speaking Muslims would even come to enjoy a certain measure of political power under Latin rulers. On its face, this evidence appears to suggest an enthusiasm, or even an atmosphere of tolerance between religious and linguistic groups.231 The more closely this evidence has been investigated, however, the murkier its implications have become. The embrace of Arabic culture by the Latin rulers of

230For Henry, cf. the discussion in the conclusion, and Winston Black, Anglicanus Ortus: A Verse of the Twelfth Century, ed. Winston Black (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2012), at 159. For the range of rubrications and inscriptions in Constantine's works, cf. Green, forthcoming.

231Fo enthusiasm fo A a ic cu tu e, cf. Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe A a ic Cultural Influences in Southern Italy at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2)." For c aims fo a to e ant atmosphe e in southe n ta y, cf. Hu e t Hou en, “Re igious To e ation in the South ta ian Peninsu a Du ing the No man and Staufen Pe iods,” in The Society of Norman Italy, ed. Graham A. Loud and Alex Metcalfe (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 319–39.

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southern Italy and Sicily, for example, had strong pragmatic motivations; when

Latins became politically and socially ascendant, by contrast, the cultivation of

Arabic (and even the toleration of Muslims at all) appears to have become significantly less attractive.232 Moreover, as a burgeoning bibliography on Iberia has shown, the appropriation of cultural goods might have signified military conquest or political domination as much as respect or appreciation. Arabic culture was thus present in southern Italy in Constantine's day, but its significance is complex.

At a personal level, then, we can see Constantine the African's approach to his sources as a strategy that allowed him to do two things. First, it allowed him to draw upon Arabic works without appearing suspect for religious or other reasons.233 Secondly, however, Constantine's approach to his sources allowed him to draw attention to himself—if not as an authority at the level of those cited in the preface to the Pantegni, then certainly someone with privileged access to them. Like many figures engaged in the transfer of knowledge across religious and linguistic boundaries, then, Constantine engaged in a conscious effort at

232For these aspects of southern Italian society and politics, cf. especially Jeremy Johns, A c A m n t t on n No m n S c : The Ro Dīw n (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).

233Glick has contended that, in many cases, the concealment of influence was conventional just so that scholars might avoid suspicions of tainted knowledge. Thomas Glick, “’My Maste , the ew’: O se vations on nte faith Scho a y nte action in the Midd e Ages,” in Jews, Muslims and Christians in and Around the Crown of Aragon: Essays in Honour of Professor Elena Lourie, ed. Harvey J. Hames (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 157–182, at 159. We might suppose that Constantine was seeking to distance himself from his origins if he did not so emphatically name himself as "Africanus."

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dissimulation.234 By being coy about his Arabic sources and cultivating multiple interpretations, Constantine allowed himself, in effect, to have it both ways:

Constantine was able to draw upon the allure of foreign, novel knowledge in

Arabic texts while also keeping unclear how indebted to Arabic culture he actually was.

2.3.2 The Implications of the Viaticum Preface

It is ironic, then, that in light of his silent use his Arabic sources,

Constantine himself was concerned about others taking credit for his work, as he makes clear in the preface to the Viaticum:

I have decided to attach my name to this little work, because certain ones, jealous of another's work, place their own name upon it secretly and as if by theft, if another's work should come into their hands.235

Though long known to scholars, the preface of the Viaticum has not received the attention it deserves. In particular, this crucial text raises major questions about

Constantine's activities and his understanding of them. For one, Constantine's concern that his work might, in turn, be appropriated problematizes some of the

234We may even be justified in asking whether there are biographical roots for Constantine's facility in this kind of dissimulation. After all, Constantine had originated as a member of a minority religious community in Fatimid-held North Africa; perhaps Constantine's use of Arabic sources had some kinship with the Isma'ili doctrine of taqiyya, the conscious cultivation of religious deception.

235The full passage reads: "Quem nostrum laborem si qui dente canino corroserint . in nugis suis inueterati torpescere et dormitare sunt dimittendi . Nostrum autem nomen huic opusculo apponi censui . quia quidam horum alieno emulantes labori . cum in eorum manus labor alienus uenerit . sua furtim et quasi ex latrocinio supponunt nomina." Lyons ed., f. 144r. There are some textual problems with this part of the preface, however.

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revisionist narratives scholars have put forward about Constantine's activities.

As we have seen, Bloch contended that Constantine's activities must have stemmed from medieval concepts of authorship that diverged from our own;

Bloch thus imputes to Constantine a somewhat guileless borrowing of Arabic texts and affixing of his own name to them. Whatever generalizations we might make about medieval concepts of authorship more generally, this passage shows

Constantine was well aware that taking the work of another (alienus labor) could well appear like theft (quasi ex latrocinio). We can well allow that translation is a form of literary creation and nevertheless note the stark tension between

Constantine's concerns in the Viaticum preface and his actions. It is difficult, therefore, to believe that Constantine thought what he was doing was wholly innocuous. But if Constantine was attuned to the risks of intellectual theft, of placing one's name onto another's work, then why did he repeatedly do something like it?

At the same time, however, the many critics of Constantine as a plagiarist have also missed the import of this passage. These critics have sought to lay all of the blame for Constantine's acts of intellectual appropriation at his own feet. But beyond a certain measure of hypocrisy, this preface suggests a genuine ambivalence about what Constantine was doing. Unlike the preface to the

Pantegni, where Constantine had hinted that he might merit authorial status

(even as he simultaneously claimed to be a coadunator, a compiler),

Constantine's description of his activity here is more vague: the first part of the preface is unambiguous about his role in producing the Viaticum, which he

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describes as "his work" (nostrum laborem), but nowhere in this preface does

Constantine use the language of authorship. Constantine has decided to "attach" his name (apponendum censui), but this appears to imply that he might equally have opted not to. More broadly, then, his preface raises the possibility that

Constantine's suppression of Arabic authors and citations might not entirely derive from his personal inclinations. Closer examination of Constantine's context suggests, in fact, that the appropriation of Arabic learning in

Constantine's translations may have been motivated by the context of contemporary Monte Cassino.

2.3.3 The Politics of Memory at Monte Cassino

By the late eleventh century, Monte Cassino had passed through a period of social and political upheaval with the Norman conquests of much of southern

Italy. Nor was this the first such episode of violence and upheaval. The place of

Monte Cassino near the Mediterranean could bring wealth and knowledge, including scholars, monks, and books from around the Mediterranean; but it could equally lead to social instability and even military incursion. In response to these repeated upheavals, Monte Cassino deployed a strategy of both material and cultural expansion. For one, in the eleventh century Monte Cassino pursued sustained, even aggressive, expansion in southern Italy, seeking to gain possession and control over monasteries and properties across a wide swath of southern Italy. They defended these attempts at acquisition with documentary evidence, whether historically genuine or forged; and by cultivating close

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connections to elites, including the newly ascendant Normans.236 Alongside these efforts at material expansion, Monte Cassino seems to have sought to make itself an indispensable part of the cultural order of southern Italy, to strengthen its cultural position and cultivate an image of unimpeachable antiquity. These two efforts went hand in hand: its vaunted connections to ancient culture and the ancient church complemented its efforts to use documentary evidence to lay claim to territorial and monastic control.

Monte Cassino's cultivation of its image had several dimensions. Under

Desiderius, for example, the monastery undertook an ambitious building project that was consummated by the dedication of the monastery's basilica in 1071.

The production of luxurious books in the most refined forms of Beneventan script similarly emphasized the wealth and refinement of the monastery.237 At the same time, the content of the books that Monte Cassino possessed and produced served to make a case for its religious and intellectual preeminence.

For one, Monte Cassino's books bolstered its connections to the ancient church, as its scribes copied a range of patristic texts. New works, furthermore, illustrated the continued relevance of the ancient past. Abbot Desiderius' new

236Graham A. Loud, The Latin Church in Norman Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), passim and 430ff.

237For this, cf. Newton, The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino, 1058-1105.

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miracle collection of St. Benedict, the Dialogi, served to illustrate the activity and power of Benedict in the contemporary world.238

Also on the religious side, Monte Cassino appears to have made an effort to play a major role in contemporary efforts to reform the church, both in Monte

Cassino's immediate vicinity and in Latin Christendom more generally. The monastery had a close relationship with the papacy, as is illustrated most clearly by the flight of Gregory VII there and Abbot Desiderius' ascension as Pope Victor

III. Similarly, archbishop Alfanus I of Salerno was a monk at Monte Cassino before he became archbishop; after his election, he initiated a program of reform and reorganization, during which time he continued to enjoy a close relationship with Monte Cassino.239 Monte Cassino even aided efforts to establish new bishoprics; the Cassinese monk Guaiferius produced a collection of miracles of

Secundinus, for the newly established see of Troia; in doing so, Monte Cassino furthered local efforts at reorganization and regularization, but also strengthened its ties to the Normans by thus supporting Stephen, the Norman bishop of Troia.240 In all of this activity, Monte Cassino made itself an

238Cf. disc. in Paul Oldfield, Sanctity and Pilgrimage in Medieval Southern Italy, 1000-1200 (Cam idge: Cam idge Unive sity P ess, 2014), 92ff., and G aham A. Loud, “Monastic Mi ac es in Southern Italy, c. 1040-1140,” Studies in Church History 41 (2005): 109–22.

239For Alfanus' efforts to restructure the southern Italian church, cf. Valerie Ramseyer, The Transformation of a Religious Landscape: Medieval Southern Italy, 850-1150 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006).

240Disc. in Oldfield, Sanctity and Pilgrimage in Medieval Southern Italy, 1000-1200, 56ff. and 67f.

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indispensable part of the religious landscape of southern Italy, but also served to underscore the monastery's privileged connection to the ancient church.

On the other hand, Cassinese scribes copied a wide range of classical texts, from the well-known to the obscure, and did so in a Beneventan script that was reaching the height of its maturity. Cicero, who seems to have exerted a particularly strong influence on the monastery, figured prominently in these texts, but pagan literature (Apuleius and Ovid) and classical history (Livy and

Tacitus) were also copied and read. (And, indeed, Cassinese exemplars have been quite important for the textual tradition of these works.) The prestige of the ancient past can be seen with particular clarity in the Cassinese cultivation of the Roman antiquarian Varro, who had a villa at classical Casinum, and who seems to have enjoyed a vogue under Desiderius.241

These classical texts were particularly resonant at Monte Cassino, and we have some evidence that Cassinese authors thought of these texts as distinct from other kinds of text; a poem by Amatus, for example, enumerates Cicero,

Livy, Lucan, Virgil, Ovid, and Varro in quick succession. All the same, this does not necessarily mean that we can draw a sharp divide between classical and religious pursuits at the monastery.242 Amatus' enumeration of classical

241For the cultural atmosphere at Monte Cassino under Desiderius, cf. Newton, The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino, 1058-1105, but especially 253ff. The discussion of Varro, who had a villa at ancient Casinum, can be found at 278ff.

242The book lists of Monte Cassino provide further evidence in these considerations: works of pagan literature, law, and medicine are listed much later (if at all), while liturgical and patristic manuscripts come first, apparently having pride of place. Cf. disc. in ibid., 253ff. For other comparisons between classical texts, on the one hand, and liturgical and patristic texts, on 148

authorities, after all, comes in an account of the greatness of Rome in a poem on

Saint Peter; Guaferius' vitae of Secundinus and Lucius Papa include a wealth of allusions to classical texts; and Newton's work on tracing the scribes of Monte

Cassino has made clear that some scribes copied both classical and religious manuscripts.243

Across all of this cultural production, much of Monte Cassino's prestige and identity was bound up with its historical identity, which encompasses both

Monte Cassino's production of historical texts and a more general sense of a link to the past. For one, as Marjorie Chibnall suggested about monasteries in general, monks in the period were ideally positioned to write histories, with their background in Latin letters, their time to study and write, and their access to the monastery's records.244 Moreover, the monks of Monte Cassino did indeed make use of their monastic background to write histories: Amatus of Monte

Cassino wrote one of our central sources for the activities of the Normans in southern Italy in the period, while Leo Marsicanus' Chronicle of the abbey

the other, cf. ibid., 96ff., esp. at 107ff. Alfanus' famous dedicatory poem to Desiderius in BAV MS Vat. lat. 1202, furthermore, seems to see a sharp divide between the pagan past visible at Monte Cassino and its Christian present: the first stanza of the poem, after all, emphasizes Benedict's overthrowing of pagan idols (Veniens loca, sculptile stravit/Dominoque domum fabricavit). Cf. disc. in ibid., 291ff.

243Ibid., 307ff., emphasizes the diversity and multiplicity of books produced at Monte Cassino under Desiderius and Oderisius.

244Marjorie Chibnall, The World of Orderic Vitalis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 109ff.

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documented the history of the well-connected monastery itself in a text of far- reaching historical importance.245

Beyond the writing of history, however, we can see an emotional investment in Monte Cassino's connection to the ancient world, across a range of figures and texts associated with Monte Cassino.246 Alfanus, for example, (who had begun his career as a monk of Monte Cassino) placed himself front and center as the mediator of classical Greek knowledge in his Premnon Physicon.

Guaiferius composed a richly allusive Vita of St. Secundinus for the bishop of

Troia.247 Peter the Deacon was a deeply learned scholar of ; secure in this knowledge, he apparently felt little compunction about his occasionally breathtaking forgeries. The dossier of 26 works he compiled for the town of Atina, for example, traced the town's history in meticulous detail from its foundation by Saturn onwards, and included sermons, hymns, and a martyrology.248 Peter the Deacon is perhaps unusual for his boldness and industry, but the immediacy and intensity of his relationship with the past seems

245For the connections between Monte Cassino's Chronicle and the First Crusade, for examp e, cf. Luigi Russo, “The Monte Cassino T adition of the Fi st C usade: F om the Chronica Monasterii Casinensis to the Hystoria de via et Recuperatione Antiochiae Atque Ierosolymarum,” in Writing the Early Crusades: Text, Transmission and Memory, ed. Marcus Bull and Damien Kempf, 2014, 53–62.

246For further discussion of the "historical awareness" of the Desiderian period, cf. disc. in Newton, The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino, 1058-1105 at 276ff.

247Cf. disc. in Oldfield, Sanctity and Pilgrimage in Medieval Southern Italy, 1000-1200 and in Newton, The Scriptorium and Library at Monte Cassino, 1058-1105 at 279.

248Herbert Bloch, The Atina Dossier of Peter the Deacon of Monte Cassino: A Hagiographical Romance of the Twelfth Century (Vatican City: Biblioteca apostolica vaticana, 1998).

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to have been characteristic of Cassinese scholars. What has received only slight attention, however, is the way that Constantine's translations fit into and give us perspective on this larger Cassinese program. As Francis Newton has suggested in an apt phrase, Constantine's translations are part of a larger pattern of

"historical foreshortening" at Monte Cassino.249 In comparison with their sources, the examination of Constantine's translations allows us to see how carefully constructed and thoroughgoing the cultivation of this connection to classical antiquity was.

The importance of Constantine's translations to Monte Cassino, moreover, is underscored by the material support given both to Constantine personally and to the production and circulation of copies of his works. After all,

Monte Cassino financed the production of a substantial number of translations by Constantine, many long and complex. This concentrated attention and backing suggests that it is mistaken to consider Constantine's translations in isolation from their larger context at Monte Cassino; the support Constantine's efforts received suggests that these were not translations carried out independently, but a translation program with extensive backing at the highest levels. It may even be justified to see Constantine's translations as paralleling other translations produced for elite patrons, such as the patronage of

249Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe A a ic Cu tu a nf uences in Southe n Italy at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2)."

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translations from Greek into Arabic under the Abbasids, translations which served ideological as well as intellectual aims.250

Furthermore, we have evidence that Monte Cassino made efforts to copy and circulate copies of these translations. Although we have only fragmentary remains of manuscripts of Constantine's translations that were produced in

Beneventan script (but cf. the fragment of the Viaticum in Beneventan fine script preserved in Orléans, MS 301), Newton and Kwakkel have found evidence that

Constantine's translations were copied in Caroline script in Monte Cassino for an

"export market." In particular, one of the earliest manuscripts of Constantine's

Pantegni was written in Caroline script, and likely suggests that Monte Cassino saw the dissemination of Constantine's translations as a priority.251

Constantine's works received the support of Monte Cassino, then, because they served the monastery's ideological needs, but also because they corresponded to its identity. The access to classical Greek sources which was so emphatically proclaimed in Constantine's translations played the role for the medical field that Monte Cassino's copies of Varro or Augustine did for classical or patristic literature. It is this context, then, that substantially contributed to the elision of Arabic sources in Constantine's translations.

250Cf. Dimitri Gutas, eek Tho ght, A c C t e: The eco-A c T n t on ovement n B gh n E ʻA Soc et (2nd-4th/8th-10th Centuries) (London: Routledge, 1998).

251Newton and Kwakkel, forthcoming.

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This dimension of Constantine's texts finds clearest expression, perhaps, in the prefaces to works like the Pantegni and the De stomacho, where

Constantine interjects himself in order to claim a substantial role in their creation. These prefaces detail Constantine's painstaking efforts to compile classical sources for his dedicatees, as has been discussed, but serve two other functions: they draw attention to Constantine's connection to Monte Cassino and the monastery's extensive library: in the Pantegni, which was dedicated to

Desiderius, Constantine is "his [Desiderius'] monk." Constantine's access to extensive bibliographic resources is emphasized particularly emphatically in the

De stomacho, where Constantine identifies himself as Constantinus Africanus

Cassinensis before dealing with his research: Constantine drew the De stomacho from the "many, rather elegant statements of the ancients" (de multis et elegantioribus antiquorum dictis), and, with the highest care, he thoroughly read

(perlegi) "all of the works of the ancients" (omnia etenim antiquorum uolumina).

These prefaces serve as self-aggrandizing statements of Constantine's efforts to produce his works, but they also underscore the large numbers of books available at Monte Cassino that enabled these efforts.252

It might seem unlikely, however, that we would be able to uncover a comparable historical sense in the Viaticum. The Viaticum was a compact, even

252For the Pantegni preface, cf. Hague Pantegni, f. 1r; for the De stomacho, cf. 1536 ed., 215. Alfanus, the dedicatee of the De stomacho and Constantine's patron, may have known that Constantine's texts were drawn from Arabic sources, but Constantine's preface maintains the pretense that he used was "all of the volumes of the ancients." Furthermore, it appears most likely that Constantine himself brought these texts to Monte Cassino.

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terse handbook of practical medicine, compressed further in translation from

n a - azza 's Arabic. Even at its most expansive, the Viaticum seldom gives extensive expression to its historical sense or its connections to contemporary

Cassinese concerns.

We might suppose, for example, that the medical care set forth in the

Viaticum (and the promotion of medicine more generally) would have intentionally been undertaken in tandem with Desiderius' attempt to emphasize the continued relevance of Benedict to Monte Cassino. Chapter 36 of the Regula

Benedicti, after all, sets forth guidelines for the care of sick brothers in

Benedictine monasteries. There are, however, no textual links I have been able to discern between the Regula and the Viaticum (or with Constantine's translations more generally). In the Viaticum preface, Constantine's allusion to 1 Corinthians

3:2 and its language of gradual instruction might seem reminiscent of Benedict, but it is a passage Benedict does not quote in the Rule (and, at any rate, the gentle pastoral guidance envisioned by Benedict seems rather distant from

Constantine's condescension in the Viaticum preface).253 Even the conception of the Viaticum as a medical handbook for the traveller might suggest a certain tension with the Regula's emphasis on monastic stabilitas. But this does not quite mean that the past is entirely absent from Constantine's work, however; the Greek medical past plays a subtle, recurrent role in the Viaticum. This is

253For the absence of 1 Cor. 3:2 in the Regula Benedicti, cf. the scriptural index in Timothy Fry, ed., RB 1980: The Rule of St. Benedict in Latin and English (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1981).

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expressed both linguistically, in the occasional Greek etymologies given by the work, and in the Viaticum's recurrent discussions and citations of ancient authorities.

As we will see in the following chapter, Constantine's terminology appears to express a preference for Latin rather than Greek terminology. All the same, however, the Viaticum's occasional use and explanation of Greek terms underscores the Greek past of his medical knowledge (although, of course, such

Greek etymologies were ubiquitous from Isidore's Etymologies on). Much of the very first chapter of the work, for example, on alopecia, is taken up by a natural- philosophical explanation of the growth of hair and the etiology of alopecia, but a brief etymological explanation of the Greek term is also given:

Hic autem morbus ideo alopicia dicitur . quia uulpes que grece alopide hoc sepe patiuntur. [This disease therefore is called "alopicia," because foxes (which [are] alopide in Greek) often suffer from it.]

This passage thus gives the impression that Constantine has a casual acquaintance with both the Greek language and Greek medical terminology.

Even more strikingly, however, this etymological digression does not correspond to anything in Constantine's source text. n a - azza 's text explains that the

"fox's disease"

is so-called because it occurs to foxes. Unlike some chapters of the (داءّالثَ ْع َلب)

- , this passage neither gives nor explains the Greek name or origin of

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the illness.254 The contrast with Constantine's text thus shows that not only did

Constantine make the effort to correlate the Arabic "fox's disease" with the

Greco-Latin name, but he also incorporated the term's etymology into his text.

Constantine's text does not draw a great deal of attention to this passage and others like it, but the effect it is intended to produce is far from accidental.255

In much the same way, the work's repeated citation of medical authorities

(drawn, in fact, from his Arabic source) gives the impression that the work stands in close proximity to the texts of classical Greek medicine. As we have seen, Galen, Hippocrates, and other figures of classical Greek medicine are frequently invoked. In some cases, they provide authoritative definitions of particular illnesses: Constantine gives Galen's definition of "cold frenesis," for example, in I.xviii. At other times, these authorities articulate general principles of medical care. The discussion of frenesis in I.xviii also gives two quotations from Galen in support of a principle of graduated medical care: in non-severe cases, the Viaticum claims, medical treatment should begin from the weaker remedies before progressing to the stronger.256 At other times, however, these authorities furnish case histories or therapeutic suggestions: VI.ix recounts a case where Galen cured a woman who had stopped menstruating with copious

254Cf. Tunis ed., p. 43. Greco-Arabic loan words will be discussed in detail in the following chapter.

255Other etymological explanations can be found, for example, in IV.xvii (colica passio).

256"G. inquit oportet in omni morbo considerari que medicina fortior siue debilior in initio debeat dari . Item dixit . Si morbus non adeo sit molestus . nec suspicio habeatur a debilibus ad fortiora ascendatur . et e contrario contrariis. Idem ypocras sensit." Paris, BnF MS lat. 6951, f. 112v.

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amounts of phlebotomy, while I.xxii gives a remedy from Diascorides that hare rennet helps sufferers from epilepsy.

Along with its authoritative medical advice, however, the Viaticum sporadically transmits a body of knowledge and lore that goes back to classical antiquity. The discussion of disgust in IV.ix, for example, cites a number of philosophical authorities (including Plato and Porphyry) to encourage eating as a means to an end and not an end in itself. The discussion of lovesickness in I.xx cites Zeno, Rufus, and Galen himself to attest to the salutary and cheering qualities of wine. (Zeno, for example, is reputed to have said "Just as the bitterness of lupines is removed by infusing them in water, so the harshness of my spirit is changed into sweetness after drinking wine.")257 Most of the time, the antiquity of this knowledge is merely implicit, but in some cases this knowledge is even explicitly labeled as deriving from the ancient world. The discussion of epilepsy in I.xxii, for example, explains that "the ancients" (antiqui) considered it the worst disease (pessimum morbum uocauerunt).

Across the Viaticum, it is important to emphasize that chapters with quotations from Galen or Hippocrates or that draw attention to ancient knowledge occur only occasionally. But rather than undercutting the text's efforts to give an impression of ancient, authoritative knowledge, we may ask whether these occasional, nonchalant references are meant to suggest an easy

257Trans. Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages, 191.

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familiarity that is as effective as the explicit—even exaggerated—claims of

Constantine's other texts to have read "all of the books of the ancients."

Even in the Viaticum, then, we can see that Constantine's texts presented a body of medical knowledge that was authorized and reinforced by its connection to the authorities of classical medicine and to classical culture more broadly. Moreover, just as the work's implicit connection to the classical past emerges from the work's citations of and references to classical authorities,

Monte Cassino's role in shaping the work is subtle, but no less real: the work's preface, after all, begins with a discussion of Cicero and then refers to Paul's epistles. The absence of Arabic sources in Constantine's texts, therefore, had less to do with Constantine's ambition than is usually supposed, and much more to do with the importance of the classical past at Monte Cassino. Even though we have suggested there are reasons to doubt whether the Viaticum was translated for monastic readers, as an expression of the monastery's ideology and identity,

Constantine's practical medical handbook nevertheless served Monte Cassino's needs.

2.4 Conclusion

For centuries, the substantial amount of commentary Constantine and his texts have received has been focused overwhelmingly on Constantine himself: the minutiae of his biography, his attitudes, and especially his ambiguous relationship with his Arabic sources. In treating Constantine in isolation like this, we have often missed the opportunity to see Constantine against the background

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of these contexts: Constantine's choice of texts, for example, reveals a major debt to the of Kairouan, but we have as yet only a tenuous understanding of his relationship to the most important Kairouanese physicians.

Was he ambivalent about this background, as his suppression of Arabic sources might suggest? Indifferent, a man who saw a way to turn his linguistic capabilities to personal advantage? Or was Constantine in some sense its successor, whose texts mediated the most important findings of North African medicine to the rather different world of Latin Christendom? The answers to these questions lie in Constantine's texts themselves. These works reveal the details of countless philological and translational decisions, but they also illuminate a series of acts of transmission and interaction between North Africa and the social and cultural worlds of southern Italy. Like a particle moving through a cloud chamber, Constantine's translations allow us to trace his path through these contexts; conversely, too, these contexts illuminate and help us to better understand Constantine himself.

2.4.1 Greek and Latin Communities

Constantine's Viaticum allows us to see contrasts between the Greek and

Latin communities of southern Italy. Constantine made a number of systematic adaptations to his translation, such as his downplaying of sexual elements and omission of Arabic authorities. Constantine's adaptations here contrast with the more literal, direct approach which the translator of the Greek Ephodia took to the same work. Translation is a philological act that springs from engagement

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with a text and cannot simply be equated with social context, but it seems that here we can see differing responses to Arabic culture between the Greek and

Latin communities of southern Italy.258 After all, the Greek communities of southern Italy had lived in close proximity to Arabic speakers for centuries.259

These Greek communities may well have been familiar with—or even shared— the sexual mores of Arabic-speakers. Furthermore, Greek communities may have had a clearer sense of Arabic culture than the Latins: a text by an Arabic author, even if presented in Greek, might not have seemed terribly foreign to Greek- speakers in southern Italy. Given the degree of acculturation between the Greeks and Arabs in southern Italy, that is, the Greek speakers appear to have developed an understanding of Arabic culture, and this appears to have been a major influence on the transparent way the - was rendered into Greek.

For Latin readers with much less familiarity with Arabic culture, by contrast,

Constantine made adaptations and omissions to make his translation more acceptable to his audience, as we can see in his treatment of sexual matters.

2.4.2 Politics of Memory at Monte Cassino

More than the Latin community's relations with Arabic communities, however, Constantine's immediate context at Monte Cassino played a

258For a careful elucidation of the importance of this philological dimension of translations, cf. Thomas E. Burman, Re ng the Q ’ n n t n Ch ten om, 1140-1560, Material Texts (Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007).

259Cf. disc. in Alex Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily: Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London: Routledge, 2005), passim and at 180, e.g.

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determinative role in shaping his translations. At the time of his translations, the past was overwhelmingly important at Monte Cassino: a close, intense connection to the past played a major role in Monte Cassino's identity, and also in its efforts to assume and exert control over the surrounding area. In this context, I have argued that Constantine's texts were not merely useful or interesting compilations of medical knowledge, as they are often assumed to be.

Rather, these translations had implications beyond medical learning, and they figured into the broader Cassinese insistence on a close connection to—or even mastery over—the past. The importance of the past at Monte Cassino led to

Constantine's emphatic claims that his works resulted from access to "all of the books of the ancients," and the importance of the past is the central reason that

Constantine's Viaticum (together with his other works) gives an overwhelming impression of direct access to Greek texts and authorities. Furthermore, these considerations allow us to see why Monte Cassino financed and promulgated such an ambitious set of translations in the first place: the abbey valued

Constantine's texts because they illustrated the monastery's immediate, vivid connection to the classical past.

2.4.3 Constantine Himself

Of course, in tracing Constantine's path through the contexts of southern

Italy, Constantine was not simply a particle in an early twentieth century physics experiment, inarticulate matter following a mechanical trajectory. Constantine's personality left indelible marks on his works, and must have figured centrally in

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the course of his career. In his self-promotion, for example, Constantine was quite emphatic; as "ego Constantinus Africanus," he aggressively put himself forward as someone with privileged access to the medical learning of the Greek tradition.

Furthermore, the consideration of shifts between n a - azza 's -

and Constantine's Viaticum has suggested that it seems likeliest that

Constantine himself who was responsible for the final form of his texts, rather than his student and associate Azo.260 These compositional questions are extremely complicated, however, and will require sustained study to answer definitively.

Nevertheless, the close examination of Constantine's works has also allowed us to get a sense of Constantine's complexities and uncertainties beneath the surface of his texts and their veneer of self-promotion. His treatment of sexual subjects sometimes suggests an effort to moderate his work's sexual content, but we may also detect occasional efforts to use medical texts to articulate a permissive—even materialistic—attitude towards sexual activity.

Similarly, his hesitation in employing religious language suggests that— regardless of whether he came from a Christian or Muslim community in North

Africa—he remained uncertain about employing religious language in his new surroundings. And finally, the discussion of plagiarism in the preface to his

260Some contribution by Azo is not entirely excluded, however, and may merit further study.

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Viaticum implies that Constantine was, at least to some extent, uneasy or defensive about the ostensible role of authorship he sought to cultivate. Given the number and breadth of the translations Constantine produced, it must have been the case that his superiors at Monte Cassino provided him with considerable time and resources to produce his translations. Perhaps, then, we can get a sense of Constantine's ambivalence in producing the Viaticum: indebted to a monastery that fed and provided him with the time and resources to produce his translations; but uneasy and defensive about the way that the centrality of the past in Monte Cassino compelled him to yet more acts of furtive literary theft.

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CHAPTER 3:

THE VIATICUM AND THE CONTEXTS OF PRACTICAL MEDICINE

3.1 Introduction

In the previous chapter, we saw that many features of Constantine's texts appear to have been determined by his position at Monte Cassino, where the past played a particularly important and resonant role. Beyond the walls of

Monte Cassino, though, we are left with the question of where Constantine fit in the broader world of medicine, both in the Latin West and beyond. For both

Constantine at Monte Cassino and intellectuals in Byzantium like Michael

Psellos, we saw that the philosophical and theoretical dimensions of medicine exerted a particularly potent appeal. In many respects, however, the theoretical medicine that Constantine discussed in his theoretical masterpiece, the Pantegni, is a tricky object of historical analysis. Many of the precepts of Galenic medicine, for example, were given influential formulations in Galenic (or even Hippocratic) texts, while later texts, including compilatory and encyclopedic texts that enjoyed wide popularity, often repeated the same theoretical claims in much the same form. Precisely tracing the sources of theoretical influence, then, can be extremely difficult.

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By contrast, in the Latin, Greek, and Arabic medical traditions, large numbers of practical medical works were produced throughout the medieval period. And where the principles of Galenic theory largely remained stable, practical medicine often changed and evolved: new procedures came into fashion, new herbs and spices shifted the pharmaceutical landscape, new diseases even arose and demanded medical attention. By situating the Viaticum,

Constantine's practical medical handbook, against the changing backdrop of practical medicine in the medieval Mediterreanean, we can come significantly closer to an understanding of Constantine and his place in the tradition of Latin practical medicine. For one, the consideration of the terminology Constantine uses for different diseases and ailments in the Viaticum will show that the prickly arrogance of Constantine's preface to the Viaticum (which we touched on in the previous chapter) is matched by a body of terminology that breaks with contemporary Latin medical practitioners.

Furthermore, the consideration of this body of terminology will help us appreciate Constantine's place at the intersection of Greek, Arabic, and Latin medical traditions in the Mediterranean. As we saw in the previous chapter,

Greek medicine had a particular appeal for Constantine, and classical Greek authorities are emphatically present in his works. This "Greek dress" of his works, moreover, extends to their deployment of the Greek language: his terminology was Greek-inflected, his prefaces sometimes cite classical works by their Greek titles, and some of his major works (especially the Pantegni) even bore Greek titles. As we saw in the last chapter, however, Constantine's works

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were almost exclusively translations of Arabic works that he passed off under his own name, and much of this Greek veneer was therefore for show. Nevertheless,

Constantine's circumstances provided a wealth of ways that Constantine may have indeed had access to Greek medicine or medical practitioners: after all, southern Italy and Sicily comprised a rich zone of exchange between Greeks,

Latins, and Arabs, while Monte Cassino itself was repeatedly visited by Greeks, for diplomatic visits, religious purposes, and artistic production. Contemporary

Cassinese medical manuscripts bear Greek glosses, and Constantine's patron

Alfanus knew Greek, had travelled to Constantinople, and very likely possessed

Greek medical manuscripts himself.

Terminological analysis of the Viaticum allows us to measure and even quantify Constantine's relationship to the Greek tradition, even despite his deceptions and evasions about this relationship. For example, the term

"cephalea" (which describes one variety of headache) suggests at first glance a connection to Greek medicine; the first element of the word clearly derives from

G eek κεφαλή ("head"). But closer examination shows that this term actually derives from and is closest to terminology that already existed in Latin; moreover, it differs from contemporary Greek terminology, whether from

Constantinople or southern Italy (in both places the te m κεφαλαλγία appea s to have been the usual term).261 The analysis of Constantine's terminology, then,

261The wo d κεφαλαία, used to mean headache, does appea in G eek texts, ut a e y (it appears in Paul of Nicaea, for example, who, via Gariopontus, was likely the ultimate source of Constantine's use of the wo d). The wo d κεφαλαλγία, y cont ast, was the usua wo d fo 166

gives little evidence that Constantine was familiar with contemporary Greek medicine or its practitioners. Using the analysis of Constantine's terminology, then, we can situate the Viaticum amid the medical worlds of the medieval

Mediterranean.

Finally, the Viaticum is valuable as an object of terminological analysis because the comprehensive nature of the text allows us to gain a synoptic overview of Constantine's nosological terminology. As discussed in the previous chapter, Constantine's Viaticum is a systematic work of practical medicine, covering a wide range of clinical entities afflicting the entire body, from head to foot (a capite ad calcem).262 Where existing studies of Constantine's terminology have often considered only a scattershot selection of his terminology or the terminology of a single specialized treatise, the comprehensive body of nosological terminology in the Viaticum allows us to gain a full overview of

Constantine's terminology. His fever terminology has been studied intensively,

headache, and appears both in the Vatican manuscript of the southern Italian Greek Ephodia and in the Constantinopolitan practical medical text of Theophanes Nonnos.

262For more on the distinction between disease entities and clinical entities, cf. Lester King, Medical Thinking: A Historical Preface (Princeton N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1982), 146ff. For the purposes of this chapter, we will simply consider a clinical entity to be "a recurrent pattern having to do with disease" (King, 149). Given his translation of Galen's De methodo medendi (as the Megategni), Constantine must have had some familiarity with Galen's refined, philosophical elucidation of the nature of disease. In the Viaticum, however, Constantine is not uniformly describing disease entities—certain chapters concern entities with varied etiologies— while other chpaters are simply heuristic groupings of associated phenomena.

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for example, but turns out to be an outlier in its heavy use of Greco-Latin terms like causon and sinochus.263

Such intensive scrutiny is merited by Constantine's terminology because it played a major role in shaping the later history of medical terminology. We no longer believe that Constantine single-handedly "loosened the tongue of" or

"gave voice to" the school of Salerno—we now recognize that Constantine's translations followed on a longer tradition of medical texts in southern Italy— but Constantine's outsize influence on the development of theoretical and practical medicine is indisputable.264 On the theoretical side, Constantine's works played a dominant role in the development of Galenic theory in Latin.

(Constantine's sole rival in this is Gerard of Cremona, but recent research has illuminated the degree to which Gerard's program appears to have been conceived in response to Constantine's.) On the practical side, the Viaticum became a standard textbook of practical medicine in the medieval university.

Strikingly, Constantine's influence even persists in the vastly changed world of

263The exemplary work of Raphaela Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen: Ein Beitrag zur Rezeption arabischer Wissenschaft im Abendland (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2003), for example, largely focuses on fever terminology. As we will see, fever terminology appears to form a category of nosological terminology with an unusually strong representation of Greco-Latin terms. Some discussion is also found in Montero Cartelle's introduction to the De coitu, Enrique Montero Cartelle, Con t nt n e e Co t E T t o e An o og e Con t nt no E Af c no (Santiago de Compostela: Secretariado de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Santiago, 1983), 21f.

264For these two formulations, cf. Ka Sudhoff, “Konstantin De Af ikane Und Die Medizinschu e von Sa e no,” Sudhoffs Archiv für Geschichte der Medizin 23 (1930): 293–298, 297, and Ge ha d Baade , “Die Entwick ung de medizinische Fachsp ache im hohen und späten Mitte a te .” n Fachprosaforschung: Acht Vorträge zur mittelalterlichen Artesliteratur, edited by Gundolf Keil and Peter Assion (Berlin: Schmidt, 1974), 88–123, at 104. For Constantine's substantial influence, cf. the following chapter and Green, forthcoming.

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modern medicine, where Constantine's choices continue to influence modern anatomical terminology. The standard terms for several (including the cephalic, basilic, and portal veins) follow terminological decisions made by

Constantine almost a millennium ago.265 Even in its idiosyncrasies, Constantine's terminology has had a long afterlife: modern medicine continues to refer to two membranes surrounding the and spinal cord as the dura and pia mater because of the peculiar way Constantine translated two Arabic terms. In the names he gave to diseases, to parts of the body, and to Galenic concepts,

Constantine shaped the experience and understanding of medicine and the human body for generations of patients and physicians. (As the next chapter will discuss, moreover, it was not merely medical thought that was shaped by

Constantine's terminology; his texts and his terminology also played an important role in reintroducing certain aspects of Greek philosophy to the West.)

To give the complexities of this body of terminology their due, then, this chapter will be taken up with an in-depth discussion of Constantine's terminology. This comprehensive investigation will proceed by treating three broad categories of Constantine's terminology in turn. First, we will consider those cases where Constantine followed both the Arabic and Latin traditions in continuing to use transliterated forms of Greek terms derived from classical

Greek medicine. Next, we will consider those cases where Constantine employed

Greco-Latin loan words. This category of Constantine's terminology betrays a

265For discussion of these terms, cf. Baader, "Die Entwicklung," 104-5, who critiques Temkin's earlier discussion of the terminology for the cephalic and basilic veins.

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revealing connection to existing Latin medical texts; in particular, there are clear similarities between Constantine's Viaticum and the Passionarius of Gariopontus.

A generation before Constantine produced his handbook of practical medicine,

Gariopontus, a prominent Salernitan physician, produced his Passionarius

(which would become widely popular and highly influential) by synthesizing a set of pre-existing Greek-Latin translated works of practical medicine. We will see that a substantial portion of Constantine's Greco-Latin nosological terminology closely parallels the terminology of Gariopontus' text. Our final terminological category will complicate this picture of dependence on

Gariopontus, however, by considering those cases where Constantine simply used existing Latin terminology or sought to render the Arabic terms of his source text into Latin, with no Greek admixture at all—a tendency often unmentioned in existing scholarship. Furthermore, we will see that there are reasons to see the terminological divergences of this category of purely Latin terminology as part of a conscious break with existing Latin medical texts, and perhaps with the Passionarius in particular. The Viaticum's nosological terminology, therefore, serves to deepen our understanding of Constantine's approach to the act of translation, but also sheds light on his complicated, sometimes contentious, relationship with his Latin predecessors.

3.2 The History of Mediterranean Medical Terminology

In producing his translations from Arabic into Latin, Constantine was heir to a long tradition of medical writing in the Mediterranean, and his works

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resonated with many other texts. Our understanding of him is deepened, then, if we step back and consider the longer history of medical terminology in the medieval Mediterranean. Anxiety about cross-cultural influence was nothing new, after all, and Constantine's somewhat conflicted decision to use Arabic sources in order to produce Latin medical texts mirrored the sometimes ambivalent importation of Greek medicine by Roman authors like the Elder Cato more than a millennium before Constantine.266 Like these earlier Latin authors, the production of Constantine's translations also entailed questions about and an engagement with medical terminology.

In its broadest outlines, much of the medical terminology in learned

Mediterranean medical traditions had been created by ancient Greek writers and disseminated into Latin and Arabic, beginning in antiquity and continuing through the early medieval period. Greek-Latin medical influences gained their strength from those periods and places where interactions between Latin- and

Greek-speakers were particularly vibrant, such as imperial Rome or late antique

Ravenna. Greek-Arabic transfers, in turn, were aided to some extent by the

Islamic conquests of many of the medical centers of late antiquity, but also resulted from systematic attempts by Islamic elites to draw upon the prestigious

266For discussion of this process, cf. Vivian Nutton, Ancient Medicine, 1st ed. (Routledge, 2005), 157ff., and Hein ich von Staden, “Limina Pe i s: Ea y Roman Receptions of G eek Medicine,” in Tradition, Transmission, Transformation: Proceedings of Two Conferences on Pre- Modern Science Held at the University of Oklahoma, ed. F. Jamil Ragep, Sally.P Ragep, and Steven John Livesey, 1996, 369–418.

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knowledge of Greek antiquity.267 In the case of both Greek-Latin and Greek-

Arabic influences, these transfers of knowledge resulted in substantial lexical transfer as well. In his early translation of Galen's De simplicibus medicinis, for example, uncertain of Arabic equivalents, a -Bit q often transliterated technical terms for medical substances into Arabic script before offering a possible Arabic equiva ent. Ḥunayn i n sḥāq's t ans ation of the same wo k, y cont ast, usua y just gave the Arabic, without any transliterated form. For example, in discussing the wild turnip (Brassica rapa), a -Bit q gave a transliteration of the Greek

,by contrast ;(غنجيلدوسّ...ّال ِل َفتّ...ّال َس ْل َجم) γογγυλίς efo e giving an A a ic equiva ent

In some cases, transliterated terms eventually came 268.ال َس ْل َجم Hunayn simply gives to be widely used, as in the case of melancholy.269 In other cases, both transliterated and translated forms coexisted (as we will see, this seems to have occurred in the case of fevers). In many cases, however, transliterated terms were edged out by Arabic equivalents: when textual transmission depended on scribal copying, after all, the accurate transmission of strange, complicated, often lengthy loan words was a dicey proposition. In translating his works from Arabic

267For discussion of the modalities of such transfers, cf. Dimitri Gutas, eek Tho ght, A c C t e: The eco-A c T n t on ovement n B gh n E ʻA Soc et (2nd-4th/8th-10th Centuries) (London: Routledge, 1998).

268Cf. Manfred Ullmann, W te ch Den ech ch-A chen e etz ngen De 9. Jahrhunderts (Wies aden: Ha asowitz, 2002), s.v. γογγυλίς.

269For discussion of the Arabic tradition of works on melancholy, cf. , On Melancholy, ed. Peter E. Pormann (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008); for the edition of one influential text on melancholy, also translated by Constantine, cf. ī-’ - ī ū , Constantini Africani Libri Duo de Melancholia: Vergleichende kritische ch- te n che P e g e, De t che e etz ng e A chen Texte , füh che E n e t ng n Arabischer wie lateinischer drogenkundlicher Apparat, ed. Karl Garbers (Hamburg: Buske, 1977). cf. as well Rufus of Ephesus, On Melancholy, 179-96.

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into Latin, then, Constantine was making decisions about Latin terminology, but he was also in some way renegotiating the long, complex history of medical terminology in the medieval Mediterranean. The fact that a surprising amount of

Constantine's terminology would persist throughout the Middle Ages (and beyond) suggests that, generally speaking, his terminology well served its purpose of allowing for clear discussion of medical subjects and accurately reflecting the theoretical dimensions of Galenic medicine.

The importance of Constantine's terminology has not been lost on modern scholars, and many have described aspects of Constantine's terminology. Though reasons of space preclude a comprehensive review of this scholarship, several trends are particularly apparent. For one, scholars have been particularly attentive to terms with foreign origins in Constantine's works, both those stemming from Greek and those from Arabic. As we will see, this scholarship has largely confirmed things already known about Constantine's works, namely that his works were translated from Arabic and that his terminology reveals some Greek influences.

The work of Gotthard Strohmaier on Constantine's terminology, for example, illustrates the tendency to focus on Arabic loan words and calques in

Constantine's translations.270 Both in his 1970 work on the pia mater and dura

270Other examples of this focus on Constantine's Arabic terminology can be found in Ge ha d Baade , “ u Te mino ogie Des Constantinus Af icanus,” Medizinhistorisches Journal 2 (1967): 36–53 and Baade , “Die Entwick ung de medizinische Fachsp ache im hohen und späten Mitte a te ,” 100ff. Discussion of the "G eek d ess" of in Constantine's te mino ogy, y cont ast, can e found in Baade , “ u Te mino ogie Des Constantinus Af icanus," 38; U su a Weisse , “Noch Einma zu sagoge des ohannicius: Die He kunft des ateinischen Leh textes,” 173

mater and in his 1994 overview of different kinds of terminology in the Pantegni,

Strohmaier traced the long, often convoluted histories of Constantine's terminology with philological sensitivity.271 Strohmaier's 1970 article on the matres investigates both Arabic analogues and antecedents of these terms in addition to tracing the path of each into Constantine's works. The dura and pia mater are two terms Constantine coined for the membranes of the brain. In translating these terms, Constantine rendered the Arabic phrases quite directly

concretely as mater, for example, (rather than أُ مّ as calques: he translated Arabic

which) رقيق metaphorically as "owner," "possessor," or "source") and rendered can mean "thin" or "sensitive" as well as "tactful") as pia. Approaching

Constantine's terminology at a more general level, Strohmaier's brief 1994 essay offers a typology of the varied approaches to translating terminology used by translators into both Arabic and Latin, including translations, transliterated terms (nucha and meri), and calques (the matres of the brain, or Constantine's

The virtue of Strohmaier's discussion .(عرقّغيرّضارب non pulsatiles vene for Arabic here is that it illuminates translation decisions in Constantine by comparing them to an impressively wide range of Arabic texts, including translators of medical works into Arabic (inc uding Ḥunayn i n sḥāq and othe s f om his

Sudhoffs Archiv 70 (1986): 230–235, 232; Danie e acqua t, “A L’au e de a enaissance médica e des XIe-X e sièc es : L’ « sagoge ohannitii » et Son T aducteu ” (1986), 231ff.; and Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen, 169ff.

271Gottha d St ohmaie , “Dura Mater, Pia Mater: Die Geschichte zweier Anatomischer Te mini: Dem Andenken He mann Lehmanns Gewidmet,” Medizinhistorisches Journal 5 (1970): 201–216 and Gotthard Strohmaie , “Constantine’s Pseudo-Classical Terminology and Its Su viva ,” in Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Texts, ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 90–98.

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school) and other writers. Moreover, Strohmaier is explicit that his findings are preliminary and open to completion and correction (a qualification that has not always been heeded). All the same, a significant limitation of Strohmaier's work is that it is largely impressionistic, focusing on terms that are attention getting: the matres of the brain and Constantine's use of the transliterated Arabic anatomical terms nucha and meri, for example, are striking because of their strangeness in a Latin text.272 More problematically, Strohmaier seems to take such exceptional terms as typical: he claims that transliterated Arabic terms are found "rather often" in Constantine's texts, despite the fact that only a handful have ever been found.

By contrast, the translation or replacement of Arabic terms by Latin ones is included in the typology of Strohmaier's 1994 article, but receives almost no discussion. The neglect of this Latin dimension of Constantine's terminology in favor of his occasional Arabic or Greek terms, however, is not limited to

Strohmaier; this is the case even though, as we will see later in this chapter, Latin terms like tussis or fastidium constituted the majority of Constantine's terminology in the Viaticum.

More valuable has been detailed work on particular fields or aspects of

Constantine's terminology. For example, Galenic theory defined three spirits of

272Cf. 94-5, where Strohmaier gives a detailed discussion of 'vena basilica' and 'vena cephalica'. Strohmaier's failure to discuss any of the more straightforward cases of translated terminology makes it difficult to determine exactly what this category of his typology means here, moreover: the venae he discusses are actually Greek loan words. Much the same tendency can e seen in Baade , “ u Te mino ogie des Constantinus Af icanus,” and Baade , “Die Entwick ung de medizinische Fachsp ache im hohen und späten Mitte a te ,” 100ff.

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the body that played a central role in human physiology, but the terminology describing these spirits presented difficulties, for translators from Arabic into

Latin just as it earlier did for those translating from Greek into Arabic. Danielle

Jacquart, for example, discusses the confused way that the Isagoge renders these three spirits into Latin; Burnett, in tracing the manuscript transmission of the

Pantegni's chapter on the spirits, points out Pantegni's greater fidelity to its

Arabic source in comparison with the Isagoge. Finally, Veit has continued this investigation by considering the translation of the three spirits in Constantine's

Liber febrium; she points out that the prologue of the work translates the three spirits correctly, but that there is some inconsistency in the body of the work.

She notes, nevertheless, that the Liber febrium appears to represent a significant improvement over the confusion of the Isagoge.273 The terminology of these spirits, then, sheds light on both the relative chronology of Constantine's translations and on Constantine's tendencies as a translator (meticulous care at some points, inconsistency at others).

Similarly, Mary Wack's discussion of lovesickness in the Viaticum has illuminated Constantine's terminology for love. In particular—and despite the

273 acqua t, “A ’au e de a enaissance médica e des X e-XIIe siècles," 228-230; Charles Bu nett, “The Chapte on the Spi its in the ’Pantegni’ of Constantine the Af ican,” in Constantine the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 99–120, esp. at 103ff.; and Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen, 172ff. One of the cent a issues in these t ans ations is the ende ing of G eek ζωτικός (vita ) animal). In some cases, Constantine translates the) َحيَوانِ يّ which was translated into Arabic as Arabic as uitalis (which accurately conveys the sense of the Greek) but in others he gives it as spiritualis. The investigation of this point merits reconsideration in light of recent manuscript research.

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difficulties of tracing this terminology in manuscript—she described the way

( ِع ْشق) that Constantine attempted to render the nuances of the Arabic term 'ishq into Latin with the Greco-Latin loan word eros as amor eros (and a few derivative forms).274 In our current understanding of Constantine's translations, the significance of this term is that it appears to be the only case where Constantine independently coined a Greco-Latin term.

More systematically, Raphaela Veit has given comprehensive attention to

Constantine's fever terminology; further, she has contextualized this investigation with a broader discussion of Constantine's translation practices and some discussion of other areas of terminology. She describes, for example,

Constantine's use of Greco-Latin terms for many forms of fever (and notes his inconsistency in doing so), the occasional confusions in his text (as in the case of quartan fever, which is referred to by both its Latin and Greco-Latin forms), as well as the general clarity and comprehensibility, nevertheless, of the texts

Constantine produced.275

By contrast, the works of Danielle Jacquart have illuminated

Constantine's terminology without being focused on a particular semantic field, as part of her broader contributions to our understanding of Constantine's

274Mary Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages: The Viaticum and Its Commentaries (Phi ade phia: Unive sity of Pennsy vania P ess, 1990), c. 2 and Ma y Wack, “ A ī n A - A ās Al-Magūsī and Constantine on Love, and the Evo ution of the P actica Pantegni,” in Constantine the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 161–202.

275Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen, 168ff.

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translations. In an important 1986 article, Jacquart adroitly illustrated the evolution of Constantine's terminology from the Isagoge to the Pantegni.276 The

Isagoge has many peculiarities, but none perhaps more striking than the confusing deployment of unusual, non-standard terminology. The term complexio, for example, was the standard term for the humoral complexion or mixture of the human body; in the Isagoge, however, this term (translating Ar.

,is confusingly rendered as commixtio.277 By his later works, however ( ِمزاج

Constantine more consistently rendered the Arabic term as complexio. Cap. I.vi of the Pantegni, for example, may be an effort to walk back and clarify the terminological confusion of his earlier work by clearly differentiating between the combination (commixtio) of elements that gives rise to the complexio of the human body:

In elementorum tractatu superiori . omnia corpora subiecta constructioni . et destructioni ex elementorum commixtionibus fieri probauimus . in quantitate diuersa . prout formandi inde corporis expetebat necessitas . Est enim quantitas . aequalis est et inaequalis . [...] Illud autem

276In doing so, she follows the well-grounded argument that the Isagoge is indeed Constantinian. For further discussion on this point and manuscript support, cf. Francis Newton, “Constantine the Af ican and Monte Cassino: New E ements and the Text of the ’ sagoge’,” in Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA A - gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 16–47.

277Cf. acqua t, “A ’au e de a enaissance médica e des X e-XIIe siècles," 224ff, as well the discussion of complexio in a longer perspective in Danielle Jacquart and Gérard Troupeau, “T aduction de L’a a e et Voca u ai e Médica Latin: Que ques Exemp es,” in La lexicographie du latin médiéval et ses rapports avec les recherches actuelles sur la civilisation du moyen-age, Paris 18-21 Octobre 1978 (Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1978), 367– 76. The variations in the translations of this term in the De coitu illustrate both the way that text was produced and Constantine's occasional tendency to terminological inconsistency. Cf. Cartelle, Con t nt n e e Co t E T t o e An o og e Con t nt no E Af c no, 21-22.

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complexionem esse dicimus quod ex elementorum commixtione conficitur.278

Jacquart's essay traces a number of these terminological missteps in the

Isagoge and situates them in Constantine's biography, allowing us to see the development and refinement of Constantine's terminology during his career.

Further systematic attention to the development of Constantine's terminology across his works would likely allow us to see further terminological evolutions in Constantine's works. At present, however, such an effort is hampered by our lack of critical editions and rudimentary understanding of the manuscript tradition of many of Constantine's texts.

Even though Jacquart's study displays exemplary care in its analysis of

Constantine's terminology and its attention to development over time, however,

Jacquart's work is merely one of the best examples of a body of scholarship that has often been merely impressionistic: just as scholars have often seized on a handful of terms in order to draw broad conclusions about the general characteristics of Constantine's terminology and translation practices, Jacquart's work focuses on a relatively small handful of unusual terminological decisions.

Even the rigor of studies on specialized fields of Constantine's terminology is mitigated by its narrow focus. As Veit's careful work has shown, Constantine makes extensive use of Greek loan words for fevers, such as febris effimera, causon, and sinochus. As we will see, these same terms do appear in the Viaticum;

278Hague Pantegni, f. 2v.

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the salient point about them, however, is that discussion of these fevers takes up only the first six chapters of Book VII, and their terminology is unusual in the degree of Greek influence it betrays.

Finally, aside from broad claims about Constantine's influence, much of the existing scholarship on Constantine has treated him in isolation. A growing body of recent work, however, is illustrating the limitations of this isolated approach. In particular, we are coming to appreciate the importance and wide popularity of Latin medical texts that pre-dated Constantine himself: we have learned, for example, that the re-organization and synthesis of existing Greek-

Latin medical texts effected in Gariopontus' Passionarius in the middle of the eleventh century was enormously influential.279 Likewise, it is only in recent years that the medical learning of Monte Cassino itself has belatedly begun to be investigated, revealing a body of existing medical texts that may have substantially influenced Constantine's translation program and his terminology.280 The focus on Constantine's terminology in isolation, intriguing though it has often been, may prove to have been a distraction from the thorough investigation of both Constantine and his immediate contexts.

The advantage of the Viaticum, then, is that the extensive range of ailments it treats allows us to gain a broad, comprehensive understanding of a

279Fo Ga iopontus and his impo tance, cf. F o ence E iza G aze, “Ga iopontus and the Salernitans," 149–90 and eadem, “Speaking in Tongues: Medica Wisdom and G ossing P actices in and Around Salerno, c. 1040-1200,” 63–106.

280For this point, and the importance of Paul of Aegina, Oribasius, and Alexander of Tralles in particular, cf. Green, forthcoming.

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central dimension of Constantine's terminology in all of its complexity, and to situate it in both southern Italian and broader Mediterranean contexts. In a very real sense, this complexity is the point of this chapter (and accompanying table), and should not be reduced to simple conclusions. Approximately a fourth of

Constantine's terminology has substantial Greek influences, for example, but the significance and contemporary import of these Greek terms resists simple formulations. After all, many of these terms had a long history in written (and presumably spoken) Latin. Did they register, then, as distinctively Greek to

Constantine's contemporaries? By contrast, his Latin terminology (much of which he himself may have coined) raises the opposite question: was

Constantine's Latin terminology immediately comprehensible to his contemporaries, despite its novelty, or did his new coinages and Arabic calques conspire to give even Constantine's Latin an unmistakable foreign air? Or were his contemporaries in the Greek, Latin, and Arabic ambience of eleventh-century southern Italy so thoroughly inured to cross-cultural influence that

Constantine's terminology merited little notice? The terminology of

Constantine's texts, then, raises more questions than it can neatly answer. All the same, at the conclusion of this chapter, I will reflect on what I see as the soundest conclusions we can draw from this survey of Constantine's terminology. In particular, I will discuss what Constantine's terminology allows us to infer about

Constantine's relationship with contemporary medical practitioners.

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3.3 A Terminological Menagerie

To peel back the layers of Constantine's nosological terminology in the

Viaticum and explore the terms he uses for the ailments in the text, we will categorize Constantine's terms by their origins and evolution. First, we will discuss terms, like melancholy, that, although transliterated into Arabic and

Latin, remained relatively stable across the different medical traditions of the

Mediterranean; Greco-Latin terms, including his fever terminology and words like podagra and frenesis, that were imported into Latin from Greek; and Latin terms, where Constantine attempted to use Latin words or phrases to describe a clinical entity (like tussis), sometimes attempting to capture the denotation of the Arabic term (as we will see with favus). In each case, we will consider examples of these categories in detail, to illustrate their character and development. As I have noted, the Viaticum's nosological terminology offers us a large, varied, finite terminological sample that permits a systematic overview of

Constantine's terminology. Along with the examples of each kind of terminology, then, I will quantify the degree to which each kind of term figures into the terminology of the Viaticum.

One plausible objection merits discussion at the outset, however. Many works of practical medicine saw extensive use, revision, and emendation, and both text and chapter headings might change in the course of manuscript transmission. Despite these vagaries, however, we have good reason to believe the terminology in the twelfth-century manuscripts of the Viaticum is authorial

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(or at least archetypal).281 For one, we have 35 partial and full manuscripts of the

Viaticum dating to the long twelfth century, and the terminology of the work is largely stable across these manuscripts.282 Furthermore, at the beginning of the work and each book, the Viaticum supplies lists of chapter headings to simplify its use by later readers. (These tables of contents follow, in fact, n a - azza 's

Arabic text.) Moreover, we know that these chapter lists originated with

Constantine because the preface to the Viaticum explicitly mentions them.283

These chapter headings, taken together with the earliest manuscripts of the

Viaticum itself, furnish strong evidence that the nosological terminology of the work dates back to its earliest copies. In investigating the terminology of the

Viaticum, then, we can be reasonably secure in the belief that it dates back to the earliest recension of the text.

3.3.1 Greek All the Way Down

As we have seen, earlier discussions of Constantine's terminology have often emphasized his use of Arabic loan words, such as the use of the word meri, for example, to refer to the os stomachi, or calques like pia mater.284 Some of

281That is to say, we must bear in mind questions of the composition of the Viaticum discussed in the previous chapter.

282We will discuss a handful of exceptions, like bolismus, below.

283"Liber totus in .vii. libros diuiditur . In quorum principio posui capitula . unicuique tamen libro postea preponenda . ut cum quis querens aliqua per singula allaboraturus esset uolumina modo in initio habeat . in quoto et quo libro inueniat." Leipzig, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 1212, f. 42r.

284Cf., for example, Strohmaier "Constantine's Pseudo-Classical Terminology" and idem, “Du a Mate , Pia Mate ." This is a so appa ent in the synthetic discussion of Baade , “Die Entwick ung de medizinische Fachsp ache im hohen und späten Mitte a te ,” 100ff. 183

these Arabic loan words also appear in the Viaticum; anatomical terms like meri, for example, are occasionally used.285 Furthermore, many medical substances had recently entered Latin medicine from the east, and are referred to in the

Viaticum with loan words like alcanna and mirobalan.286 Strikingly, however, despite the considerable emphasis scholars have given to this Arabic terminology, however, they do not figure at all in Constantine's nosological terminology (as can be seen in Table 3.1).287

Even though none of the nosological terminology of the Viaticum consists of Arabic loan words, it is possible all the same that his Arabic source text might have been the source for some of his terminology. We discussed earlier that translators of classical medical texts into Arabic often used or coined Arabic terms equivalent to render Greek terms in their source texts, but that transliterated Greek terms (like melancholy) did also appear in Arabic medical texts. The - (Constantine's source for the Viaticum) did indeed sometimes use Greco-Arabic terms for particular ailments: Constantine's heavily

Greek fever terminology, for example, echoes the Greek loan words in the -

285Meri appears, for example, in the preface to Book IV of the Viaticum. I have not yet found any instances of the pia and dura matres of the brain, and it may be noteworthy that frenesis is defined in Book I.xviii as a cold aposteme in certain membranes of the brain (in quibusdam cerebri pelliculis) without further specification of which membranes these are.

286In some cases, however, these loan words are unlikely to have originated with Constantine. As a native Arabic speaker, Constantine's loan words omitted the Arabic definite article al-; it can thus be ruled out, for example, that Constantine himself coined the loan word 'alcanna.'

287Later in the chapter, we will see that there may be reason to suppose that, given the audience of the Viaticum, Constantine used fewer Greek loan words than in his other works; this may well extend to Arabic loan words, too.

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(cf. VII.ii, VII.iii, and VII.iv in Table 3.1).288 Furthermore, it has been suggested that many of the Greek terms in Constantine's translation may derive from Greco-Arabic terms available in the - .289 The presence of such transliterated Greek terms in Latin translations from Arabic attests to what we might call, to borrow a phrase from Brian Catlos, the "mutual intelligibility" of post-classical intellectual traditions in the Mediterranean, where Latin philosophers and theologians would eventually read Aristotle with the aid of

Arabic-speaking commentators, and a wide range of thinkers—Jewish, Christian,

Muslim—would critique Galen's philosophical pretensions. As these terminological borrowings show, medical practitioners speaking Greek, Arabic, and Latin sometimes used the same terms that descended from the medical language of classical antiquity, and it was (sometimes) possible for translators to recognize analogous terms in producing their translations.290

The - contains several examples of transliterated Greek terminology besides fevers, moreover. One is the Greek term phrenitis

I.xviii) فرانيطس φρένιτις), which continued to e used in A a ic, t ans ite ated as) in the table).291 Further examples of this kind of transliterated Greco-Arabic

.fo συνοχός, and the emaining examp es can e seen in Table 3.1 سونوخوس 288VII.iv gives

289Fo this suggestion, cf. G aze, “Speaking in Tongues.” at 73.

290Fo the concept of "mutua inte igi i ity," cf. B ian Cat os, “Ethno-Religious Mino ities,” in A Companion to Mediterranean History, ed. Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, 2014, 361–377.

291Cf. Ullmann, Wörterbuch, 742, s.v. φρένιτις, which ists a ange of ways to desc i e brain inflammation; perhaps, then, these varied translations furnish one reason that the transliterated Greek term continued to be used.

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,(V.xii ,اليَ َرقان) terminology can be found in the - , such as jaundice

IV.xvii), and diabetes (V.xix).292 However, despite the presence of ,ال َق ْو َل ْنج) colic these Greco-Arabic terms, the - allows us to see that, by n a -

azza 's day at least, these transliterated terms were regularly accompanied by an Arabic term or gloss. The chapter on phrenitis (I.xviii) explains that the

The chapters on ".( ِس ْرسام) that is sirsam ,(فرانيطس) chapter concerns "phrenitis fevers in Book VII give the Arabic name of the fever type first, before giving the transliterated Greco-Arabic name of the fever. Furthermore, these names are clearly labelled as loan words: n a - azza often states that these transliterated

Some of the reason for the relative rarity of these .(باليونانية) "terms are "in Greek transliterated terms and their explanation with more straightforward Arabic terms was surely that these Greek loan words presented distinct problems to scribes and were liable to becoming garbled in manuscript transmission, further compounding the difficulties of working with technical and philosophically complex medical texts.

In his translation of the - , moreover, these transliterated

Greco-Arabic terms appear to have had only limited influence on Constantine's terminological decisions. In the majority of cases it is clear that, while the Greco-

Arabic loan word might have been available to Constantine in the text of the

,(in Arabic (MS Huntington 302, f. 146v داربيطا 292The chapter on diabetes is actually titled which may mean that n a - azza is conveying a Syriac transliteration of , بالسريانية but is labeled G eek διαβίτης. Fu the mo e, it is st iking that a num e of the G eco-Arabic terms that appear in n a - azza 's text are not to be found in Ullmann's lexicon of early translations; did the philhellenism of the ninth and tenth centuries cause an uptick in the use of Greek loan words?

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Arabic, Constantine preferred to follow existing Greco-Latin translations and terminology. As we will see in greater detail in the next section, the organization of earlier Greek-Latin translations by Gariopontus in the mid-eleventh century was widely popular and may have played a substantial role in influencing

Constantine's terminology. The transliterated form of phrenitis in Arabic, for example, is franits. Constantine's spelling of the term, by contrast, is frenesis, following, therefore, existing Greco-Latin terminology (I.xviii). Similarly, a t ans ite ated fo m of the G eek wo d co ic ( V.xvii, κωλικός) was avai a e in

It is clear, however, that Constantine's rendering of .(ال َق ْو َل ْنج) n a - azza 's text this disease as "colica passio" derives from existing Latin terminology (and perhaps Gariopontus in particular). In the case of fever terminology, the Greco-

was present in Constantine's source, but the (قوسوس) Arabic loan word causus term Constantine uses is causon, the Greco-Latin version of the term, which can likewise be found in Gariopontus. Where the - gives the Greek

Constantine retains this brief mention of ,(اطريطاوس ,name of tertian fever (VII.iii the Greek name of the fever (quam Greci triteon vocant), but uses tertiana as the title of his chapter. (This, too, is the term found in Gariopontus.) In all of these cases, then, we can see that Constantine likely knew Greek terminology from n a - azza 's text, but opted to follow established Latin usage.

Furthermore, n a - azza 's text and Constantine's translation of it illustrate the difficulties presented by such transliterated loan words, especially in an era of scribal transmission. The transliteration of phrenitis must have been quite obscure to readers without any knowledge of Greek; we can even see this

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in the 1986 Tunis edition of the work, which gives the word as the nonsensical

Even Constantine's copy of the - appears . فرانيطسّ rather than قرانيطس to have had some areas where the Greek had been so garbled in Arabic transliteration that the original term was impossible to recover. In discussing erectile dysfunction in Book VI, for example, Constantine wanted to give the classical Greek term for an erection of excessive du ation, G eek πριαπισμός, a term which had been rendered into Latin as priapismus by several classical authors (and which survives in medical English as priapism).293 The Greek term was apparently irrecoverable from the Arabic, however, and Constantine rendered it into Latin as porgesimos.294 Using foreign loan words can be an effective strategy for a translator, but difficulties of transmission and interpretation suggest that Constantine made a sensible choice in opting, in general, to use either established Greco-Latin terms or to replace them with

Latin terms.

3.3.2 Greco-Latin Replacements of Arabic Terms

As we saw in the previous chapter, Constantine sought to raise the Greek profile of his texts; in the preface to the Pantegni, as we mentioned, Constantine furnished a long list of Greek authorities he had ostensibly drawn upon in the creation of his work, and even went so far as to cite the Greek titles of the works

293Lewis and Short and Langslow give examples from Theodorus (MG1 130.7, 17) and Caelius Aurelius.

294Cf., for example, Pal. lat. 1163, f. 87r.

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he had read. In much the same way, Constantine's translation of the Viaticum took many of the Arabic terms of his source text and rendered them with Greco-

Latin terms, which are Latin terms that were borrowed from Greek. For example,

,niqris), and replaces it with podagra) نقرس ,VI.xx takes the Arabic word for gout an equivalent term that had been brought into Latin from Greek. We will see that a substantial portion of Constantine's nosological terminology in the Viaticum consists of such Greco-Latin terms. On their face, these terms might give further support to the claim that Constantine was simply obsessed with Greek knowledge, to an extent that he made the (likely considerable) effort to match

Arabic terms with their Greek equivalents. However, just as we saw in the previous chapter that Constantine's relationship to the past was not as straightforward as a flat reading of the prefaces to his works might suggest, his use of Greco-Latin terminology requires further explication.

In particular, we will see that, even though Constantine was working in both a region (southern Italy) and an institution (Monte Cassino) where Greek speakers were present, and though he himself was in contact with translators from Greek like Alfanus of Salerno, there is scant evidence in the Viaticum to support the hypothesis that his Greco-Latin terms arose from direct engagement with Greek. Far more influential, it seems, was Greco-Latin terminology already present in Latin texts. In particular, the terminology of Gariopontus' synthesis and re-organization of existing Greek-Latin medical translations in the previous generation likely played a significant role. Where Constantine used Greco-Latin

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terms, as he did in discussing gout as podagra (IV.iii), Gariopontus had too.295

Much of the Greco-Latin terminology in Constantine's works pre-dates even

Gariopontus, however, deriving from much older Latin translations of Greek texts and the long history of interaction between Latin and Greek medicine.

Podagra, in fact, was a term that had been in use in Latin medical texts for centuries.296 In fact, fully 56% of the Greco-Latin terms found in the Viaticum appear in the same form in ancient Greco-Latin texts.297 The persistence of this terminology might appear to suggest a deep-seated conservatism in

Constantine's terminology, and indeed, we will see that Constantine's use of

Greco-Latin terminology often follows established Latin usage. Neither

Constantine's indebtedness to Gariopontus nor his usage of these Greco-Latin terms tells the entire story, however; we will see that, placed in the context of the entirety of Constantine's nosological terminology in the Viaticum, the Greco-

Latin terminology that has garnered so much attention makes up a relatively small percentage of the whole.

Despite the long history of these Greco-Latin terms, their presence in

Constantine's works has often been seen as part of an effort to draw on the

295Fo Ga iopontus' te mino ogy, cf. G aze, “Speaking in Tongues.”

296David R. Langslow, Medical Latin in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), at 490, notes a number of ancient medical writers who had used the term podagra.

297Many of these terms, moreover, are largely indistinguishable from the corresponding Greek terms: Latin podagra (VI.xix), for example, is essentially a faithful transliteration of Greek ποδάγρα, whi e Constantine's Latin t ans ite ations of gonorhea (VI.iii) and lienteria (IV.xiv) are also close to their Greek origins.) Further, this number may actually be higher, given that I was unable to find antecedents for several Greco-Latin terms Constantine uses.

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prestige of ; Gotthard Strohmaier, for example, deemed

Constantine's terminology "pseudo-classical."298 As we saw in the previous chapter, moreover, Constantine's reputation for seeking to present his works to

Latin readers in borrowed "Greek dress" is by no means unjustified. But we may ask whether it is entirely justified to see the Greco-Latin terminology of the

Viaticum in these terms. To be sure, Constantine's renderings of these terms with their Greco-Latin equivalents may represent a substantial effort, as comparison with the - makes clear that the Arabic terms for these ailments (as can be seen in Table 3.1) were not simple transliterations of the

Greek.

The long standing of these Greco-Latin loan words, however, raises deep

(albeit somewhat intangible) questions about the nativization of this Greek terminology in Latin. Their long history, that is, has implications for the impression these words would have given contemporary readers and writers, and for our understanding of Constantine's aims in his terminological choices in the Viaticum as well.299 With the passage of time after a word has been adopted into a language, that word goes from being a foreign word to simply making up part of the language that is used without much consideration of the word's foreign origin. It is reasonable to suppose, for example, that English-speaking

298St ohmaie , “Constantine’s Pseudo-Classical Terminology and Its Survival."

299For further discussion of lexical nativization from the perspective of historical linguistics, cf. discussion in Hans Henrich Hock, Principles of Historical Linguistics, 2nd revised and updated ed. (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1991), 390ff.

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asthma sufferers seldom give thought to the Greek origins of the word. Indeed, we may likewise ask whether Latin writers gave any thought to the Greek origins of asthma: after all, the word had originally been brought into Latin by Celsus at the turn of the first century.300 Given their lack of obvious Greek traits (foreign phonological clusters, Greek prefixes, etc.) words like spasmus and thetanus

(English spasm and tetanus, respectively) might not have appeared exotic at all to medieval Latin readers.

Such nativization of Greco-Latin terminology becomes particularly clear when we consider that some terms became fossilized in their Greco-Latin form, even where this differed from the original Greek term. Some of this may be due to the phonological or morphological nativization of these terms; to return to our previous example, English asthma is pronounced in accordance with English

(and not Greek) phonological rules. In Latin, however, aspirated Greek phonemes presented problems for Latin scribes and translators where aspi ation was not ep esented o thog aphica y: phthisis (φθίσις) was frequently written 'ptisis' in manuscript (cf. III.vii), while asthma frequently lost its theta entirely (cf. Passionarius II.x). Similarly, it appears to have been quite common to spe epi epsy (G eek ἐπιληψία) with an int usive m (epilempsia).301

300Langslow, Medical Latin in the Roman Empire, 479.

301This form can be seen, for example, in Daremberg's edition of the Aurelius. Da em e g, “Au e ius de acutis passioni us. Texte pu ié pou a p emiè e fois d’ap ès un manuscrit de la bibliothèque de Bourgogne à Bruxelles, corrigé et accompagné de notes c itiques,” Janus 2 (1847): 468–99, 690–731, at 16. Linguistically, this probably derives from the change in place of a ticu ation of the p eceeding vowe η in the t ansition f om G eek into Latin; from the mid-high [e] of classical Greek or the further heightened [i] of the iotacized medieval p onunciation to the [ε] o schwa ike y in the Latin p onunciation of the wo d.

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Regardless of the root causes of such changes, these Greco-Latin terms tended to take a stable form that may or may not have corresponded to the Greek term.

Constantine's use of these fossilized Greco-Latin terms—which have been noted in passing, but which have received little sustained attention—has major implications for our understanding of Constantine and his relation to the Greek and Latin traditions.302 In Viaticum VI.xviii, for example, Constantine discussed a form of nerve pain he termed sciatica or passio sciatica. This word, deriving from the Greek word ischiadikos (ἰσχιαδικός), was given in t ans ite ated fo m in ancient Latin medicine as ischiadicus, and is used by both Cassius Felix and

Theodorus Priscianus to mean either the disease or the sufferer.303 In the course of the centuries, however, the word underwent a transformation; by the time it reaches Gariopontus, the word has assumed its more familiar form as sciatica or passio sciatica.304 In translating VI.xviii, therefore, Constantine did not follow the

Greek spelling of this word; rather, he followed established Latin precedent.305 In

302Eliza Glaze, for example, notes that "when it came to naming diseases or conditions, Constantine employed the same terminology as had Gariopontus of Salerno 20 to 30 years earlier." She suggests that Gariopontus might have had some influence on Constantine's terminology, but dismisses that possibility in favor of the proposal that Constantine had gleaned his Greek terminology from transliterated Greco-Arabic forms in Constantine's source. Glaze, “Speaking in Tongues,” 73.

303Langslow, Medical Latin in the Roman Empire, 486.

304For Gariopontus, cf. Passionarius IV.i. On the Greek side, it is also discussed in Theophanes Nonnos, ed. Saint-Bernard, cap. CCXV.

305It is also worth noting that, at least in the earliest MS of this chapter, the Arabic does not bear any resemblance to the Greek or the Latin terms; rather, the Arabic title of this chapter apparently meaning the "vein of women," which reflects the , ِع ْرقّالنساء in the Zad al-Musafir is medieval etiology of the disease and its association with (often pregnant) women.

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this case, Constantine thus derived his terminology from established Latin usage rather than any fresh engagement with the Greek tradition.

Moreover, sciatica is merely one example of a wider pattern in the

Viaticum, and the work contains a number of other examples where Constantine has used a fossilized Greco-Latin term rather than that term's Greek form: this includes scothomia (I.xiii), lethargia (I.xiv), ydropisis (V.v), and so on. These fossilized Greco-Latin terms make up approximately 18% of the Greco-Latin terminology in the Viaticum, and just over 3% of all of the terminology in the

Viaticum. But these fossilized Greco-Latin terms have a significance that outweighs their relative frequency. The presence of these fossilized Greco-Latin terms in the Viaticum strongly suggests that all of Constantine's Greco-Latin terms (also including terms like podagra, gonorrhea, and lienteria which are much the same in Greek) derive from existing Greco-Latin terminology. These fossilized Greco-Latin terms imply, then, that almost none of Constantine's terminology was independently coined by Constantine in drawing from Greek medical texts.306 If Constantine's terminology had been substantially influenced by Greek terminology (whether through texts or Grecophone informants), we would expect him to use forms closer to current Greek usage rather than these fossilized Greco-Latin forms. As we will see shortly, there was already a certain

306The word eros in Constantine's discussion of lovesickness in I.xx may be the sole Greco-Latin loan word that was independently coined by Constantine; cf. discussion in Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages, 38ff. Further examples may well be found in Constantine's other works, but I have found no other evidence for independent Greco-Latin coinages in the Viaticum.

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amount of confusion about existing Greco-Latin terms, and Constantine may not have wanted to add to the confusion by coining new Greco-Latin terms.

These Greco-Latin terms suggest, in particular, that the recent systematization of a number earlier texts (the so-called "pre-Passionarius ensemble") by Gariopontus may have played a significant role in shaping

Constantine's Greco-Latin terminology. As we can see in Table 3.1, these fossilized forms in the Viaticum are overwhelmingly the same as the terms found in Gariopontus' Passionarius. Furthermore, such Gariopontan influence is unsurprising in the light of recent research that attests to the work's prevalence.

In particular, Eliza Glaze has recently demonstrated that, despite the lack of modern interest in the work, Gariopontus' text enjoyed substantial popularity in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and was copied and recopied in surprising numbers. More than this, Gariopontus' work received several different sets of glosses, which reveals the lively use of his work for study and teaching.307

Manuscripts of the Viaticum, by contrast, tell a different story. Although scholars long believed that Constantine's works played a dominant role in the medical learning of the twelfth century, there are reasons to question this assertion. We indeed have a substantial number of Viaticum manuscripts from the long twelfth century, but surprisingly few from the first half of the twelfth century. Moreover,

307Cf. G aze, “Ga iopontus and the Sa e nitans,” and eadem, “Speaking in Tongues.”

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our manuscripts contain few early glosses and signs of active study.308 In the first half of the twelfth century, the students of the medicus Northungus in

Hildesheim combined the findings of their teacher with the Viaticum, but they appear to stand alone in their interventions (and perhaps even their engagement) with Constantine's text.309 Much more typical may be the late twelfth century southern Italian copy of the Viaticum that was paired with

Gariopontus' Passionarius in Paris, BnF MS lat. 6951; while the Passionarius received extensive glossing and commentary, the Viaticum reveals relatively few signs of use. It may well have been the case, then, that Gariopontus' text was the dominant textbook of practical medicine for much of the long twelfth century.

Constantine's use of the Greco-Latin terminology found in Gariopontus, then, may suggest that Constantine was here deferring to the sensibilities of his audience and contemporary usage, in much the same way that his omission of

Arabic authors and authorities did.310 Even Constantine's use of terminology with

Greek roots, then, may attest less to an uncritical embrace of the trappings of

Greek medicine, and more to a desire to not overwhelm his readers with a flood of new Greek loan words.

308A point that Green has made about the lack of Salernitan commentaries on both the Pantegni, and Viaticum, Monica G een, “Rethinking the Manusc ipt Basis of Sa vato e de Renzi’s Co ectio Sa e nitana: The Co pus of Medica W itings in the ‘Long’ Twe fth Centu y," 30.

309The Hildesheim copies of the Viaticum can be found in Vatican, BAV MS Pal. lat. 1158 and Bamberg, Msc. Med. 6.

310Cf. this point in D acqua t, “Note su a t aduction atine du Kita a -Mansuri de Rhazes,” Rév e ’H to e e Texte (1994): 359–74.

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At the same time, however, it seems that some of Constantine's distance from Greek-inflected terminology, in fact, may derive from uncertainty about these Greco-Latin loan words. For example, he employs the word orthomia in the body of chapter III.xi in a discussion of difficulty breathing. This term, a Greco-

Latin ende ing of the G eek ὀρθόπνοια, attests oth to Constantine's know edge of more Greco-Latin terms than he used, but also to the confusion that could arise in the usage of such foreign loan words. In Greek, the term goes back to

Hippocrates, and rather transparently describes difficulty breathing that is wo se ying down (ὀρθός means 'st aight, up ight'). (This te m, mo eove , has remained an important diagnostic sign for failure, even in modern medicine.) For Latin readers and writers of Constantine's day, however, the term seems to have been far less comprehensible: Gariopontus's text explains the

Greek elements of the term correctly at one point, but runs several terms for difficulty breathing together at another point.311 Constantine is similarly inconsistent: Chapter III.xi of the Viaticum relates the condition to severe difficulty breathing: "Alto cogitur anhelitu infirmus spisse mouere totum pectus."312 In Book IX of the Pantegni, however, Constantine had given an explanation that accurately described both the etymology of the Greek term and the ailment: "hec passio vocatur orthomia ab orthos grece, quod est rectus latine, quia huiusmodi patiens semper vult erectus esse." This kind of etymology recurs

311"Orthopnoia, id est rectus flatus," (cited at G aze, “Speaking in Tongues,” Table 3.1, 17) explains the Greek term, but the discussion at II.xiii is far less clear: "anhelitus & orthopnoia, ab aliquibus uocantur comuniter dyspnoea, quae est asthma."

312Bodley 489, f. 27r.

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in texts and commentaries on eleventh- and twelfth-century medical texts, and

Glaze has noted both the effort that went into glossing such terms and contemporary uncertainties about their meaning.313 It is striking, however, that while such etymologies are present in the Pantegni, they do not figure in the

Viaticum—an especially striking fact given the internal evidence suggesting the

Viaticum was translated after the Pantegni.314 Whatever their implications, these foreign loan words like orthomia might give concise expression to a particular concept (as is the case in modern medicine), but it might also lead to confusion and incomprehensibility (as may well have been the case in the eleventh century).

Given the terminological overlap between Gariopontus and Constantine, then, it is tempting to see Constantine's Greco-Latin nosological terminology as essentially conservative, or solely in terms of dependence on Gariopontus.

Indeed, Glaze has argued that "the Greek names of medical conditions remain virtually unchanged" in southern Italian medicine for much of the long twelfth century after its establishment by Gariopontus in the mid-eleventh century, even down until the production of the Alphita lexicon in the late twelfth century.315

Consideration of Constantine's Greco-Latin terminology in context, however,

313G aze, “Speaking in Tongues,” at 63.

314For this point, cf. the discussion of the Viaticum preface in the previous chapter. These differences may derive from Constantine's source text, but is tempting to wonder—though impossible to prove at this point in our research—whether Constantine might have been in contact with Greek speakers during the production of the much more heavily Greek Pantegni, but not the Viaticum.

315G aze, “Seaking in Tongues,” 73-4.

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makes clear that the terminologies of Gariopontus and Constantine were far from identical. For one, as can be seen in Table 3.1, Greco-Latin terminology only makes up approximately 19% of the Viaticum's nosological terminology; even if

Gariopontus were the overwhelming influence for these Greco-Latin terms, they still only account for one fifth of the nosological terminology in the Viaticum as a whole. Even more significant, however, are those Greco-Latin terms in

Gariopontus that do not appear in Constantine's work. Gariopontus' work, for example, used the transliterated Greek word cephaloponia to refer to headaches, a term that does not seem to occur in Constantine's texts. Gariopontus' text, moreover, had used a wide variety of—sometimes even exotic—Greco-Latin terms for ailments: Gariopontus' text referred to vomiting and diarrea, for example, with the Greek phrases anatropa and catatropa stomachi—even though he also included the usual Latin terms (vomitus and diarrhea) for these conditions.316 In Constantine's Viaticum, however, many of these more unusual nosological terms seem to be absent.317 (Constantine's divergences from

Gariopontus, in fact, appear to have been subject to "correction" by twelfth- century rubricators, who replaced the original chapter titles with terms closer to

316Cf. G aze, “Speaking in Tongues,” Ta e 3.1, 2, fo cepha oponia, and 19 and 20 for anatropa and catatropa stomachi.

317Ibid., Table 3.1 gives several additional examples of these terms: monopagia (3), anathimia stomachi (18), anatropa and catatropa stomachi, phlegmonis, pneumatosis (22), perielcosis (24), sclirosis (26), scleria (27), syrexis (28), and perhaps ciliaca (29). (Scliros, however, can be found in VII.xv, De apostematibus.) Glaze's table, which draws from the 1515 Lyons edition of the Viaticum, merits correction at a few points: empima (15) does not appear in the Viaticum, as she points out, but the adjectival form empiici appears to (III.x; it appears in rubrics for the chapter, even in the earliest MSS, while the chapter itself uses the phrase sanies screatus); bulismus (25) does not appear in the earliest Viaticum MSS, rather, IV.iii uses the term caninus appetitus; anorexia (23) may also appear in the Viaticum.

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established, Gariopontan terminology: caninus appetitus in IV.iii, for example, was occasionally replaced by the more Gariopontan bolismus.) Such divergences between Gariopontus and Constantine raise questions about the degree of dependence between Constantine's Viaticum and Gariopontus' text, and we will speculate further on the significance of this discrepancy at the end of the chapter. But if Constantine's terminology did not slavishly depend on

Gariopontus, and if it was not relentlessly "pseudo-classical"—perhaps even betraying in fact some confusion in the use of Greco-Latin terms, as we saw in the case of orthomia—where, then, did the rest of Constantine's terminology come from?

3.3.3 Latin Adaptations of the Arabic

We have seen that, in the case of Greco-Latin terminology, Constantine made use of terminology that had already been established in Latin; and further,

Gariopontus' nosological terminology may have been particularly influential on the Viaticum. In many ways, however, these Greco-Latin terms do not appear to have been a perfect solution. As we noted, Greco-Latin terms like orthomia were subject to variable interpretations. Eliza Glaze has shown that Gariopontus' text received extensive glossing, and his nosological terminology received sustained attention in a standardized set of glosses.318 These glosses attest to the work's wide use, but in many cases this glossing also appears to reveal as much confusion about Gariopontus' heavily Greek terminology as interest in the text

318For discussion of these glosses, cf. ibid., at 69 and Table 3.1 in particular.

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itself. A gloss explains that perielcosis concerned "quod latine vulnus dicitur in stomacho sic agnoscitur."319

By contrast, as we noted, Constantine's Viaticum lacks many of these apparently obscure Greek terms. (Perielcosis, for example, does not appear in the

Viaticum; Constantine appears to have opted for vulnus instead.) As can be seen in Table 3.1, Constantine makes surprisingly extensive use of Latin terminology in the Viaticum, far more than Greco-Latin or Greco-Arabic terms, and by a considerable margin. Almost three-fourths (approximately 73%) of the nosological terminology in the Viaticum is Latin, rather than Arabic or Greek loan words. Studied systematically, then, the Viaticum's nosological terminology makes clear that Constantine often Latinized his terminology as much as he

Hellenized, in an attempt to describe the characteristics of an ailment in Latin words or phrases rather than often cryptic Greek ones. In the scholarship on

Constantine's texts and terminology, however, this aspect of Constantine's translations has often gone overlooked, where the "Greek dress" or Arabic sources of his texts have received overwhelming emphasis.

Indeed, Constantine's use of Latin terminology even breaks with established Greco-Latin terminology. In the Viaticum, Constantine used Latin terms for several conditions that, in Gariopontus and other works, had long been discussed with Greco-Latin terms. To continue with the terminology for

319G aze, “Speaking in Tongues,” Ta e 3.1, 24. Note, as we , that at east in chapter II.xlvii of the 1536 edition of the text, this term is explained in yet another way, as "uulnus et carbunculus, quae Graeci perielcosin dicunt."

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difficulty breathing, for example, a bewildering range of Greek and Latin terminology had been used to describe such conditions. In addition to orthomia,

Gariopontus referred to it in its simplest form with the Greek loan word dyspnoea (meaning, simply, difficulty breathing), and this term went back all the way to Celsus.320 Uncertainty apparently remained about such respiratory problems even with so many terms, and Gariopontus' Passionarius also used asthma for good measure. In the Viaticum, by contrast, Constantine simply titled

Constantine here appears to .( ُسوءالتَنَ ُّفس his chapter anhelitus (rendering the Arabic have opted for terminological transparency rather than the prestigious associations of a Greek term (perhaps to simplify the work for his readers). In much the same way, Constantine's discussion of inflation of the stomach (inflatio stomachi) does not follow the Greek term (pneumatosis, cap. II.xxvii) used by

Gariopontus.321). Across Constantine's Viaticum, then, we can see a pattern of describing the ailments in his text with Latin rather than Greco-Latin terminology.

Some of this terminology may well derive from existing Latin terminology, although our limited knowledge of the texts that were in wide circulation in Constantine's day (and at Monte Cassino in particular) restricts our ability to definitively determine the origins of all of Constantine's Latin

320Langslow, Medical Latin in the Roman Empire, 489.

321Cf. G aze, “Speaking in Tongues," Ta e 3.1, 22, where Gariopontus' text explains the word as "inflatio."

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terminology.322 All the same, we can nevertheless see that some of the Latin terms used by Constantine preceded him: Constantine referred to quartan and tertian fevers as febris quartana and tertiana, for example, which are terms that appear in Gariopontus. Similarly, his use of words such as impetigo and uerruca had roots in the terminology of ancient medical writers.323

At other points, Constantine may have tried to establish this Latin terminology himself. In several cases, for example, the ailments in the Viaticum are described in simple and descriptive language: tussis, uomitus, difficultas parturientis, fetor oris. The simplicity of these terms may imply that, in these cases, Constantine intentionally used simple Latin words and phrases rather than making any concerted effort to use or coin specialized medical terminology.324 More rarely, Constantine appears to have coined new terms to reflect the meaning of the terms in n a - azza 's Arabic. To accurately describe a skin infection that emitted a honey-like fluid, Constantine rendered a word

as favus, the Latin word for (ال َش ْهدة) close to the Arabic word for honeycomb

322In particular, our understanding of the contexts of Constantine's Viaticum will likely change as research on medicine at Monte Cassino itself continues.

323Cf. Lewis and Short, s.vv. "impetigo" and "verruca."

324I note, however, that tussis (III.vi) appears to differ from Gariopontus, who uses tussicula at II.i.

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honeycomb.325 Similarly, Constantine renders what n a - azza calls the "canine

with a Latin calque, caninus appetitus (IV.iii).326 (الشهوةّالكلبية) "hunger

Some of Constantine's preference for Latin rather than Greco-Latin terms in the Viaticum likely derives from his rudimentary knowledge of Greek. Despite

Constantine's efforts to give the impression that he had access to Greek texts, there is no reliable evidence that Constantine himself knew Greek. Some of

Constantine's preference for Latin instead of Greco-Latin terms, therefore, may well have been because he did not know Greek, and the Greco-Latin terms were also unknown to him. To my knowledge, for example, pneumatosis does not occur in either Constantine's translation of the Pantegni or the Viaticum, and this absence suggests he may not have known the word at all.327 In other cases, it seems likely that Constantine had some familiarity with the Greco-Latin terminology, but uncertainty about its meaning may have played a role in his decision not to use it. His inconsistent definitions of orthomia, discussed above, suggest that Constantine may not even have been entirely clear on the meaning of Greco-Latin terminology he used.

in n a - azza ال َش ْهدة 325My interpretation of the Arabic terminology is that the Arabic honey, honeycomb) in an) َش ْهد meaning 'carbuncle' in Wehr) is intentionally close to Arabic) effo t to fo ow G eek κηρίον (which appea s in Theophanes Nonnos' medica hand ook).

326The term bolismus, which is the chapter heading given in the 1515 Lyons edition and even some twelfth-century manuscripts of the Viaticum, does not appear in the earliest manuscripts, and appears to have been inserted by later rubricators.

327In searching both my transcriptions of the earliest Viaticum manuscripts and Kaltio's transcription of the Pantegni, for example, I have been unable to find "pneumatosis" or "pneumatosin."

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At the same time, it seems likely that some of Constantine's preference for

Latin terminology in the Viaticum results from the work's intended audience.

After all, in the preface of the Viaticum, Constantine emphasizes that he "took on the form of simplicity" to produce the work. Furthermore, he contrasts the practical orientation of the Viaticum with the theoretical complexity of the

Pantegni, and claims that the work's name derives from its small size, intended to be "neither toilsome or tedious" (neque laboriosus neque tediosus) for the traveller. Moreover, the Latin terminology of the Viaticum is used consistently and clearly, both in its chapter headings and as central terms in the text of the chapters themselves. To clarify even further, much of its terminology is defined in the chapters of the Viaticum: Constantine explains at the beginning of chapter

I.vii, for example, that favus is a form of scabies characterized by honey-like secretions. In the Viaticum's use of Latin terminology and the organization of its chapters, then, we can detect little attempt to impress or overwhelm the reader with erudite or recherché Greco-Latin vocabulary, but rather an often earnest effort to make its terms accessible to the reader.

It may well be the case that Constantine simplified (and even Latinized) the terminology of the Viaticum for its readers, in a manner that contrasts with his other works. An obvious difference is presented, after all, by the Latin title of the Viaticum and the Greek title of the Pantegni. Moreover, we have seen in orthopnoea one Greek term that was carefully defined in the Pantegni with reference to its Greek etymology, but only defined vaguely in the Viaticum. This could be simple inconsistency—and there is ample evidence of terminological

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inconsistency in Constantine's translations—but it may equally be an intentional simplification.328 Just as Jacquart's 1986 comparison of the terminology in his early Isagoge with Constantine's other terminology suggested an evolving and maturing body of terminology, the comparison of Constantine's terminology across the works of his maturity likely offers a promising avenue for further research. Other such contrasts in Constantine's terminology would nuance our understanding of Constantine's translations, further enrich our understanding of

Constantine's methods and aims as a translator, and perhaps give further evidence that he tailored his terminology and his translations to different audiences.

3.4 Conclusion: Gariopontus and Constantine

The preface of the Viaticum suggests Constantine believed that, without the considerable amount of medical theory and philosophy on offer in the

Pantegni, medical practice alone—the mere attendance on patients and their ailments—was a shortcut, one he assumed was undertaken in the hopes of money or worldly glory. In this, Constantine thereby intimated that the therapeutic comprehensiveness of the Viaticum was less worthy than the theoretical depth of the Pantegni. We may ask, however, whether Constantine here unjustly slights the Viaticum's comprehensive approach to therapy. In particular, we may ask whether he overlooks the merit—and even the

328For terminological inconsistency, cf. the discussion of the bodily spiritus in Veit, Das Buch der Fieber des Isaac Israeli und seine Bedeutung im lateinischen Westen, 172-3.

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therapeutic value—that the names of disease have for the sick. As Jerome

Groopman describes in the case of fibromyalgia—and expressing a sentiment surely familiar to all who have labored under an unknown, unnamed ailment,

Language is as vita to the physician’s a t as the stethoscope or the scalpel. Of all the words the doctor uses, the name he gives the illness has the greatest weight. The name of the illness becomes part of the identity of the sufferer.329

In Constantine's case, his terminological decisions in the Viaticum served to map many of the clinical entities known to the physicians of his day; moreover, these decisions would have a long afterlife, particularly with the addition of the Viaticum to the medical curriculum of the university of Paris from the turn of the thirteenth century.330 In adding these names to the medical armarium, an unknown, invisible sea of medieval patients must have been able to link names and ailments in the wake of Constantine's efforts.

Like many maps, we have seen that Constantine's betrays lacunae and difficulties on close inspection. But there is merit in investigating whether the qualities we have discerned in Constantine's terminological map served to make the work accessible and useful to its readers. As we have seen, Constantine made some use of existing Greco-Latin terminology, from both Gariopontus'

Passionarius and earlier medical Latin. In many cases, however, we have seen

329Jerome Groopman, “Hu ting A Ove ,” The New Yorker, November 13, 2000, 78ff.

330Wack notes that the Viaticum is found in Alexander Neckham's list of textbooks at the turn of the thirteenth century; furthermore, it is found in the formal curricula of the University of Paris for bachelors of medicine, 1220-74. Wack, Lovesickness in the Middle Ages, 48.

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that Constantine chose to Latinize his terminology rather than adhere to this body of Greco-Latin terminology. We have seen that the Passionarius' Greco-

Latin terminology appears to have caused real confusion for later readers with little Latin and less Greek: transliterated Greek might become a tangled mess in the hands of generations of Latin scribes, and the crystalline, elegant transparency of a Greek term might prove frustratingly imprecise and opaque to the Greekless. By contrast, the substantial proportion of Latin terminology in

Constantine's Viaticum would likely have been comprehensible to many readers and patients; we do well to remember that Constantine produced his works during a period when Latin literacy may well have been increasing, and at a time when Latin had only been separated from Romance vernaculars for a few centuries (and in Italian areas least of all).331 His terminology, therefore, may well have been an improvement on the existing, heavily Greco-Latin terminology of practical medical texts which might, at best, have been comprehensible only to a fraction of its Latinate audience; or, at worst, a means of obfuscation, and thus a way for physicians to dazzle or exert control over patients.

Despite the virtues of Constantine's terminology and its eventual influence, however, his Viaticum was not immediately influential upon

Constantine's contemporaries. As Green has pointed out, Salernitan masters

331For England, cf. Michael T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England, 1066- 1307, 3rd ed. (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013). For the development of vernaculars, cf. the works of Michel Banniard and Roger Wright, such as Michel Banniard, v voce: comm n c t on éc te et comm n c t on o e e e èc e en occ ent t n (Pa is: nstitut des e tudes augustiniennes, 1992) and Roger Wright, Late Latin and Early Romance in Spain and Carolingian France (Liverpool: F. Cairns, 1982).

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made "slow and hesitant" use of Constantine's translations: the Salernitan physician Copho (probably at writing at the beginning of the twelfth century) made only limited use of Constantine's works, while it was only his student

Johannes Platearius who drew upon the Viaticum more comprehensively.332 This delay raises questions about Constantine's relationship to contemporary medical practitioners and scholars, and the broader relationship between the medical cultures of Salerno and Monte Cassino.

The terminological analysis of this chapter suggests answers to some of these questions about Constantine's relationship with his contemporaries, and

Constantine's partial use of the terminology of the Passionarius in particular.

Constantine appears to have been familiar with the Passsionarius, as we have seen, but was not slavishly dependent on it or its terminology. It is unlikely, therefore, that Constantine translated the Viaticum with the Passionarius at his elbow, as has been suggested.333 External circumstances present one possible explanation for this partial connection between the Passionarius and the

Viaticum: if the Passionarius was not available at Monte Cassino, for example, these traces of Gariopontan influence might be the result of Constantine's stay in

Salerno at the beginning of his career, or perhaps the medical knowledge of other Cassinese monks. On balance, however, these explanations seem unlikely.

332G een, “Rethinking the Manusc ipt Basis of Sa vato e de Renzi’s Co ectio Sa e nitana," 29-30. The Pantegni, by contrast, appears to have quickly become popular in the first half of the twelfth century.

333This suggestion was tentative y made in G aze, “Speaking in Tongues," at 73.

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After all, there is compelling evidence that Gariopontus and his work were widely known in southern Italy, and even at Monte Cassino itself. A short generation before Constantine, Gariopontus had been widely lauded by his contemporaries for his wide learning as well as his medical knowledge; moreover, those with connections to Monte Cassino had been his vocal supporters. Peter Damian (whose connections to Monte Cassino we touched on in the previous chapter) referred to Gariopontus as "senex vir videlicet honestissimus, adprime litteris eruditus ac medicus." Lawrence of Amalfi, a former monk of Monte Cassino, discussed exegesis with Gariopontus; with some epistolary hyperbole, Lawrence spoke of the generous floods of Gariopontus' wisdom.334 Moreover, Gariopontus' text remained popular through the twelfth century: the Passionarius survives in twice as many early copies as the Viaticum; was cited extensively by Salernitan masters; and was furnished with prefaces, glosses, and scholia.335 Given Gariopontus' reputation and the popularity (or even dominance) his work enjoyed, it would be surprising if the work was inaccessible in the well-stocked library of Monte Cassino.

Surprisingly, however, neither Alfanus nor Constantine make any reference to Gariopontus or his work.336 This appears to be because

Constantine's Viaticum was intended to be an improvement on Gariopontus' text; this is the case even despite the resemblance between the two works and

334Quoted in G aze, “Ga iopontus and the Sa e nitans,” 154ff.

335A fuller study of these manuscripts is forthcoming.

336A point made y G aze, “Ga iopontus and the Sa e nitans.”

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the fact that Constantine's tenure at Monte Cassino came only a few short decades after Gariopontus had been lauded at mid-century. At first glance, the

Passionarius and the Viaticum seem to share many similarities. Both Gariopontus and Constantine composed practical medical handbooks which covered a range of illnesses, from head to foot (a capite ad calcem). Both men possessed a desire to present a range of illnesses in a systematic, accessible format: the prefaces of both works explicitly mention technical, formal aspects of the books they created so that their works would be easier to use.337 Furthermore, as we have seen, the

Passionarius seems to have shaped the nosological terminology of the Viaticum:

Constantine's Greek terminology, as we have seen, did not derive from a direct engagement with Greek texts, but from existing Latin works. In particular,

Constantine's Viaticum used the fossilized forms of Greco-Latin terms readily accessible in Gariopontus' text.

Upon closer inspection, however, the Passionarius and the Viaticum present a study in contrasts. In particular, Constantine's work appears earnest in its effort to adopt the "form of simplicity": as we have discussed, its chapters overwhelmingly make use of simple, consistent, often straightforward Latin terminology to discuss each illness; furthermore, its chapters often begin with a succinct definition of the illness before continuing to an explanation of its signs and remedies. Gariopontus' Passionarius, by contrast, must have been far less

337Constantine mentions the use of tables of contents and the manageable size of the Viaticum as intended to make the work accessible to readers. Cf. discussion of Gariopontus' comparable aims for the Passionarius in ibid., esp. at 161.

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accessible to the uninitiated reader. Its chapters often begin with a welter of

Greco-Latin terminology (and terminology glossed so painstakingly, it seems, because it presented substantial difficulties to Latin readers and students untutored in Greek).338 Similarly, Gariopontus' readers had to contend with doublet chapters; these were chapters where, in compiling the work,

Gariopontus simply included two treatments of the same subject with little apparent effort to reconcile them. These doublets must have presented particular difficulties, in fact, because their inconsistencies extended to conflicting terminology, even for the bodily member under discussion! Book II of the Passionarius, for example, includes several chapters on illnesses of the liver, but these alternate between calling it the epar and the iecur.339

Even as it must have presented practical difficulties, moreover,

Gariopontus' work largely lacked many of the literary qualities Constantine cultivated in his translations. As we saw in the previous chapter, Cassinese scholars were preoccupied with their close relationship with ancient authorities, and they endowed their texts with literary pedigree and polish. These qualities, moreover, were also present in Constantine's translations; although muted to some extent by the "form of simplicity" of the Viaticum, we saw in the previous chapter that they nevertheless appear to have played a substantial role in

338Where much of Constantine's Greco-Latin terminology has a long history in medical Latin, Gariopontus' text presents a larger number of uncommon Greco-Latin terms.

339Constantine's text overwhelmingly used the term epar, but it is worth noting that the term iecur does appear in a single manuscript of the work, Oxford, Corpus Christi College, MS 189.

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shaping the text. Gariopontus' Passionarius, by contrast, was a valuable synthesis of existing texts, but, aside from its playful preface, it may well have seemed awkward or lacking in literary polish, riddled as it was with inconsistencies, repetitions, and confusions.340 Similarly, Gariopontus' text had some grounding in ancient authority, but nothing like the insistent, emphatic presence of ancient

Greek authorities in Constantine's major translations.341

These contrasts between the Passionarius and the Viaticum, then, show that the Viaticum would likely have been an easier text for medical novices to work from, but they also suggest that a shift in taste or sensibility had occurred in the few decades between Gariopontus and Constantine. This shift between

Gariopontus at midcentury and Constantine in the 1070s and 1080s may seem like a dramatic about-face, but it was not necessarily so. We do well to remember that Gariopontus was already a "senior scholar" at mid-century when he had been praised by Peter Damian, who referred to him as "senex vir." It may have even been the case that Gariopontus and his work seemed old-fashioned or outdated by Constantine's day. Carrying this analysis further, then, both the terminological discrepancies between the Passionarius and the Viaticum and other contrasts between the two texts suggest, perhaps, that Constantine made a conscious, tacit attempt to improve on Gariopontus' text in the Viaticum.

340For discussion of the features of Gariopontus' text, cf. ibid.

341The writers of scholastic prologues to Gariopontus' work were indeed aware that he had drawn materials from several ancient authorities. Cf. disc. in ibid., 167.

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If Constantine's Viaticum was intended to improve on the Passionarius, however, it seems puzzling at first glance that he was silent about Gariopontus' popular text, particularly given the clear parallels between the two texts. In his other prefaces, after all, Constantine had disparaged existing Latin works by drawing attention to their lack of reliable, authoritative knowledge; the Viaticum, however, lacks a comparable dismissal of existing Latin texts. Upon closer inspection, however, the preface of the Viaticum contains an implicit (though no less stinging) rebuke. There are those, Constantine notes waspishly, who do not pursue medical knowledge for its own sake, but seek worldly status (secularem... dignitatem); Constantine here echoes a perennial complaint about avaricious and ambitious physicians. But Constantine has not simply scorned these benighted medics: he claims that the writing of the Viaticum was undertaken out of pity for those overeager for advance (ad proficuum... festinantibus):

Verum etiam propter aliud ad proficuum questum festinantibus . quia in illius magnitudine forsitan tediosi esse uidentur . huiusmodi compaciens quoquemodo me exanimaui formam eorum suscipiens simplicitatis . Qui tamen huic libro si acquieuerint studiose non male succedet eorum exerciciis ... Sapientiam igitur inter perfectos loqui destinauimus . Lac uero sugentibus fomentula hec . non crustula subministramus. (Leipzig, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 1212, f. 42r)

In a nice bit of condescension, Constantine adroitly suggests his readers are not the "perfecti;" compares them to immature children; and implies their carnal nature by alluding to 1 Corinthians 3:2. Constantine then notes that the work consists of bite-sized (even baby-sized) bits (fomentula) of medical nourishment (rather than the crusts they apparently deserve). The work

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Constantine has deigned to produce is mere milk for impatient, infantile medical practitioners rather than the solid wisdom of the Pantegni. But Constantine's condescending attitude here seems odd if aimed solely at readers of the

Viaticum: why would he disparage readers of one of his major works?

This interpretive quandary is partly resolved, however, when we realize that Constantine's critique applies more generally than the readers of the

Viaticum, to those avaricious and ambitious medical practitioners who have not sufficiently engaged with medical theory before hastening to practice. In particular, it is difficult to avoid the suspicion here that Constantine's critique here is directed against the Passionarius and its readers. Given its evident contemporary popularity and the overlap in terminology between the two works, it would have been difficult for Constantine not to think of the

Passionarius while translating the Viaticum. Moreover, the Passionarius was a useful and popular handbook, but the work also seems to exemplify the practical orientation and theoretical simplicity Constantine dismisses here. Now with the availability of the Pantegni, he seems to imply, it is particularly egregious to skimp on medical theory in order to hasten to the quick practice of medicine and the pursuit of secular status—and, we may infer, the Passionarius aids them in doing so. Despite their evident similarities, then, the Passionarius and the

Viaticum present a study in contrasts. They likely represent a shift in taste, between Gariopontus' somewhat makeshift text and the barrage of sophisticated, polished translations Constantine produced; but they likely also suggest a contrast between the two men themselves: where Gariopontus sought

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to produce a useful handbook of practical medicine with the materials at hand,

Constantine produced a similar text a generation later, but one shot through with its author's brittle sense of superiority.

Paradoxical as it may be, Constantine's text even suggests an ambivalence about works of practical medicine more generally. On the first folio of the

Viaticum, after all, Constantine abuses those readers who pursued the practice of medicine without extended engagement with its philosophical complexities; and in the body of the work, as we saw in the previous chapter, Constantine appears to have chosen not to precisely translate remedies from Arabic into Latin, even omitting dosage information from his remedies. As Green has argued, the contrast between the Passionarius' wide popularity and the slow adoption of the

Viaticum implies a divide between the medical worlds of Monte Cassino and

Salerno. More than this, however, the close examination of the Viaticum suggests a contrast between the practical orientation of Salernitan medicine and

Constantine's snobbery towards medical practice (to say nothing of the fact that

Constantine's other works repeatedly emphasized the lack of reliable, authoritative medical knowledge in existing Latin texts). Practical reasons, then, such as its compressed recipes or its terminological divergences from contemporary texts, might indeed have hindered the Salernitan reception of the

Viaticum. In addition, we may well suppose that Constantine's perceptible arrogance was not lost on its earliest Salernitan readers and targets, too, and that this likewise played a role in its slow adoption. Explanations for this sense of rivalry are easy to hypothesize but challenging to substantiate: the roots of the

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rivalry may lie in the obscure period between Constantine's original arrival in

Salerno and his move to Monte Cassino. It seems entirely plausible, nevertheless, to suppose that Salernitan physicians resented the fact that Alfanus and

Constantine (with the resources of the archbishopric of Salerno and Monte

Cassino itself) appear to have appointed themselves to improve upon the existing Salernitan medical tradition with new translations and more medical theory. We might likewise suspect that contemporary politics compounded this rivalry; Constantine, after all, seems to have quickly found the patronage of the newly ascendant Normans, and we can well imagine that, to the local, Lombard medici who appear in eleventh-century documents, Constantine's efforts were further tainted by their Norman patronage.342

Whatever the roots of this rivalry, however, the number and spread of the

Viaticum's manuscripts show that Constantine's work did eventually become popular in the long twelfth century as a handbook of medical practice; further, this popularity had the ultimate result that the Viaticum became part of the curriculum in the thirteenth-century University of Paris. But there seems to be a historical irony here. If Constantine consciously rejected Gariopontus' terminology, that is, out of a disdain for contemporary medical practitioners, his

342Fo Constantine's No man pat onage, cf. F ancis Newton, “A a ic Medicine and Othe Arabic Cultural Influences in Southern Italy at the Time of Constantinus Africanus (saec. XI2),” in Between Text and Patient: The Medical Enterprise in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Florence Eliza Glaze and Brian K. Nance (Florence: Sismel, 2011), 25–55; for medici with Lombard names, cf. (to select a few) Adelferus in CDC VI.920 (1037), Alferus in CDC VII.1124 (1049), Alferius in CDC VII.1200 (1054), and Maraldus in CDC IX.17 (1066), all of which documents are listed in Luca Larpi's database of Italian medici, 800-1100, at http://www.alc.manchester.ac.uk/subjects/history/research/projects/italian-doctors/

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Latinized terminology may well have made his work far more accessible to later

Latin readers who would have been unable to follow the convolutions of

Gariopontus' Greek-influenced terminology. It may well have been Constantine's apparent disdain for contemporary medical practice, in fact, that smoothed the way for its embrace by later generations of medical practitioners.

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TABLE 3.1:

THE TERMINOLOGY OF THE VIATICUM, WITH SELECTIVE ARABIC AND GREEK

ANALOGUES

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings ἀλοπεκία الداءّالمس مىّداءّالثَ ْع َلب I.i alopicia ῥεῦσις τριχῶν تناشرّالشعر I.ii capilli cadentes تشقيقّالشعرّوتقصفه I.iii pressura et asperitas capillorum شيبّوماّيغيره I.iv cani et ipsi tingendi األبريةّالمتولدةّفيّجلدةّ I.v furfures in capite الرأسّ nascentibus قروحّجلدةّالرأس I.vi pustulae capitis الداءّالمس مىّبالشهدة I.vii favi السعفةّوالرية I.viii tinea ال َق ْملّالمتولدّفيّالرأسّ I.ix pediculi lendines κεφαλαλγία ال ُصداع I.x cephalea ἡμικρανία ال َش ِقي َقة I.xi hemicranea داءّالبيضة I.xii dolor cranei دُوار I.xiii vertigo σκοτασμός ال َسدَر scothomia λήθαργα اليترعش/النسيان I.xiv lethargia τῆς νόσου τῆς καλουμένης ἐγρήγορις الداءّالمس مىّال ُم ْنتَبِه I.xv quasi expergefactio a somno ال ُسبات I.xvi stupor mentis ال َس َهر I.xvii uigilia فرانيطسّوهوّال ِس ْرسام I.xviii frenesis عالجّإفراطّال ُس ْكر I.xix ebrietas ἔρως ال ِع ْشق I.xx amor qui dicitur hereos πταρμός العُطاس I.xxi sternutatio TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings داءّال َص ْرعّ I.xxii epilepsia فا ِلج I.xxiii apoplexia التَ َش ُّنجّ I.xxiv spasmus وهوّال ُكزاز thetanus ال ِر ْع َشة I.xxv tremor ال َخدَر iectigatio I.xxvi stupor membrorum [deest] ال َر َمد II.i lippitudo البَياضّالحادثّفيّ II.ii albugo in oculis العين ال ُط ْر َفة II.iii sanguis in oculis الدَ ْمعَة II.iv lacrimae περὶ ἑσπερινῆς ἀμβλυοπίας ّالعَ ًشىorالعَشاّ II.v amittentes visum ab occasu solis περὶ ὀμίχλης τῆς συμβαινούσης εἰς τοὺς ضعفّالبصرّمنّقبلّ II.vi continua oculorum ὀφθαλμούς تغي رّمزاجّالعينّأوّمنّ tenebrositas قبلّبُخارّيَ ْر َقىّإليهاّمنّ المعدةّ [περὶ βαρυκοίας [sic ثِ ْقلّالسمع II.vii auditus diminutio الدَ ِو يّوال َطنِين II.viii tinnitus aurium عالجّوجعّاألدنينّ II.ix dolor aurium ex العارضّمنّقبلّتغيرّ complexionis المزاج mutatione عالجّوجعّاألذنينّ II.x sanies aurium العارضّمعّكونّال َق ْيحّ فيها عالجّخروجّالدمّمنّ II.xi sanguis aurium األذنين περὶ τοῦ πίπτοντος λίθου . ἤ ὕδατος ἤ κόκκου عالجّجميعّماّيدخلّفيّ II.xii omnis res cadens in ἤ τῶν ὁμοίων . ἐπὶ τῶν ὤτων اآلذانّأوّيقعّفيها aure تغيرّرائحةّاالستنشاق II.xiii fetor narium et pustulae et carnis superflua περὶ κατάρρου الزكامّوماّيعرضّمنه II.xiv coriza περὶ αἱμορραγίας ῥινός ال ُرعاف II.xv fluxus sanguinis a naribus περὶ σχίσματος χειλέων تشقيقّال َش َفتَ ْي ِنّ II.xvi rimae labiorum περὶ τοῦ κεκωλῦσθαι (being prevented) τὴν ِا ْمتِناعّحكمةّاللسان II.xvii grauedo lingue κίνησιν ? γλώττης καὶ τὴν στέρησιν της λαλιᾶς περὶ ὀδονταλγίας وجعّاألسنان II.xviii dolor dentium περὶ καταβρώσεως (devouring) ὀδόντων καὶ تأكلّاألسنانّوتغيرهاّ II.xix ruptura dentium τῆς τούτων ἀλλοιώσεως /صفةّدواءّال ُح َفرّفيّ األسنان περὶ σαλευομένων (loosened) ὀδόντων تحريكّاألسنان II.xx dentes commoti

220 TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings II.xxi dentes putridi (?)περὶ τῶν ξηρίων φημὶ πασμάτων καὶ διαν السنوناتّالتيّتُنَ ِ ميّ II.xxii dentes fricandi . τῶν τριβομένων τῶν ὀδόντων األسنان ἀποκαθαίρουσι τούτους περὶ εὔλων ال ِلثَة II.xxiii gingiuae البَ َخر II.xxiv fetor oris περὶ τῶν παθῶν τῶν συμβαινόντων ἐν τῇ األدواءّالعارضّفيّالفم II.xxv morbus oris στόματι περὶ τῶν ἀλφῶν (dull white leprosy) τῶν ἐν τῷ الكلفّفيّالوجه II.xxvi lentigines προσοπῷ II.xxvii pustulae in facie περὶ κυνάγχης ال ِذ ْب َحة III.i sinanchia περὶ θεραπείας ὠφέλιμος εἰς τὸ ἀνεῶξαι τὰ العالجّالنافعّلتفجيرّ III.ii apostemata in gula οἰδή-/ματα τὰ συμβαίνοντα ἐντος τοῦ األَ ْورامّالحادثةّفيّ τραχήλου داخلّال َح ْلق περὶ πόνου τοῦ γαργαρεῶνος . καὶ τῆς ῥίζης أوجاعّال َلهاَةّوال َل ْو َزتَ ْي ِنّ III.iii uva τῆς / γλώττης . καὶ τῆς σταφυλῆς . καὶ τῶν πέριξ (?) περὶ βραχιάσεως φωνῆς البُ ُحو َحةّال َص ْوتّ III.iv raucedo περὶ τραχυτῆτος φωνῆς ُخ ُشونَةّال َص ْوت III.v asperitas uocis ablatio [uocis] περὶ βηχός ال ُسعال III.vi tussis περὶ τοῦ μαρασμοῦ τοῦ γινομένου ἀπὸ τῆς الذُبولّالكائنّعنّتأكلّ III.vii ptisis καταβρώσεως τοῦ πνεύμονος . καὶ τῆς τούτου ِج ْسمّالرئةّوتُعَ فها σήψεως περὶ πτύσεως αἵματος نَ ْفثّالدم III.viii reiectio sanguinis περὶ πτύσεως αἵματος ἀπὸ καταπόσεως نَ ْفثّالدمّمنّابتالعّ III.ix screatus sanguinis βδέλλης َع َل َقة propter irudines نَ ْفثّال َق ْيحّ III.x empiici περὶ δυσπνοίας ُسوءالتَنَ ُّفس III.xi anhelitus περὶ στηθοπλευρίτιδος . καὶ τοῦ ὀντος ال َشوصةّوذاتّال َج ْنبّ III.xii pleuresis οἰδήματος ἐν τῷ διαφράγματι περὶ παλμοῦ (twitching) καρδίας َخ َفقانّالقلبّ III.xiii cardiaci περὶ λειποθυμίας َغ ْشي III.xiv sincopis περὶ τοῦ συμβάντος οἰδήματος ἐν τοῖς μασθοῖς الورمّالعارضّفيّ III.xv apostemata الثَدَ َي ْي ِنّ mamillarum περὶ δυσωδίας μαλῶν ἤτοι μασχάλων نَتْنّا ِإل ْب َط ْي ِنّ III.xvi fetor assellarum IV.i difficultas glutiendi (περὶ τῆς ἀποπαύσεως καὶ ἀργίας (lapse ّبُ ْطالنّال َش ْه َوةّ ِلل َطعام IV.ii defectio appetitus ἐπιθυμίας τῆς βρώσεως الشهوةّالكلبية IV.iii caninus apetitus قُ ْبحّالشهوة IV.iv irrationabilis appetitus IV.v defectio appetendi [deest] περὶ ἀποπαύσεως τῆς ἐπιθυμίας τοῦ ὕδατος potum

221 TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings περὶ δίψης َع َطش IV.vi sitis περὶ ὀρεγμοῦ ال ُجشاء IV.vii eructatus / ructatus περὶ λυγμοῦ الفُواق IV.viii singultus περὶ βλάβης τῆς συμβαινούσης ἀπὸ ἀπληστίας التُ َخم IV.ix fastidium περὶ ἀνατροπῆς στομάχου َغثَيان IV.x abominatio περὶ ἐμέτου الق ىّ)=التَ َقيُّؤّ?( IV.xi uomitus περὶ τοῦ ἐν τῷ στομάχῳ φύσιους النَ ْفخّالذيّفيّيكونّفيّ IV.xii inflatio stomachi المعدة περὶ τρόφου ال َمغَص IV.xiii angustia sui περὶ τῆς νόσου τῆς καλουμένης λειεντερίας العلةّالتيّتسمىّزلقّ IV.xiv lienteria األمعاء ال َس ْحجّ َوالقُ ُروحّ IV.xv dissinteria الحادة\الحارةّالحادثهّ فيّاألمعاء ال َق ْو َل ْنج IV.xvi ileos περὶ τῆς κολικῆς [sic] νόσου ال َق ْو َل ْنج IV.xvii colica passio περὶ τῶν σκωλήκων καὶ ἑλμίνθων τῶν الدودّوالحياتّالمتولدةّ IV.xviii ascarides et γενομένων ἐν τοῖς ἐντέροις فيّاألمعاء lumbrici περὶ τῶν ἐξοχάδων . καὶ τῶν τραυμάτων τῶν بَوا ِسير IV.xix emorroides et apostema et ani γενομένων ἐν τῇ καθέδρα uulnus περὶ τῆς χαυνώσεως τῆς καθέδρας καὶ τῆς ِا ْستِ ْرخاءّالمقعدةّ IV.xx mollities et exitus ἐξεώσεως αὐτῆς . φημὶ ὅταν ἐξέρχεται τὸ وخروجها ani quod dicitur paralisis ἔντερον περὶ τῆς τοῦ ἥπατος δυσκρασίας سوءّمزاجّالكبد V.i mala complexio epatis περὶ τῆς ἐμφράξεως τῆς γεννωμένης ἐν τῷ ال َسدَدّالمتولدّفيّالكبد V.ii oppilatio epatis solius ἥπατι περὶ τῶν οἰδημάτων τῶν γεννωμένων ἐν τῷ أَ ْورامّالمتولدّفيّالكبد V.iii apostema epatis ἥπατι περὶ τοῦ αἵματος τοῦ κενωμένου ἀπὸ τοῦ الدمّالمتفرغّمنّالكبد V.iv fluxus sanguinis ab epate ἥπατος περὶ ὕδρωπος ا ِال ْستِ ْسقاء V.v ydropisis V.vi antidota epatis V.vii trocisci V.viii pilluli V.ix pulueres V.x apozimata/catartica V.xi sirupi oximel περὶ ἰκτέρου اليَ َرقان V.xii icterici περὶ τοῦ σπληνός ال ُطحال / ال ِطحال V.xiii splenetici περὶ ὀδύνης νεφρῶν وجعّال ُك ْل َيتَ ْي ِنّ V.xiv dolor renum περὶ τῶν οἰδημάτων τῶν νεφρῶν أَ ْورامّال ُك َلى V.xv apostema renum

222 TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings περὶ τῶν τραύματων τῶν φυομένων ἐν τοῖς القُ ُروحّالمتولدةّفيّ V.xvi uulnera renum νεφροῖς καὶ ἐν τῇ κύστη ال ُك َلى V.xvii mictus sanguinis [deest] περὶ οὔρου αἵματος περὶ τῶν λιθιόντων ال َحصاَة V.xviii lapis περὶ τῆς ἀδυναμίας τῶν νεφρῶν ὁ καλούμενος ضعفّقوىّالكالّويُس ماّ V.xix uirtutis defectio διαβίτης بالسريانيةّداربيطا περὶ στραγγουρίης تَ ْق ِطيرّالبول V.xx guttatim mingentes περὶ τῶν οὐρούντων ἐν τῇ στρωμνῇ عالجّمنّيبولّفيّ V.xxi commingentes ال ِفراش lectos περὶ ἐποχῆς οὔρου ِا ْحتِباسّالنول V.xxii stranguria περὶ τῆς ἐλαττώσεως τῆς συνουσίας καὶ قِ َّلةّالباهّوالضعفّعنه VI.i paucitas coitus ἀδυναμίας περὶ τῆς διηνεκοῦς ὀγκώσεως τοῦ καύλου اإلنعاظّالدائم VI.ii multa membri erectio que satiriasis dicitur باليونانيةّبرياسموس porgesimos περὶ γονορροίας ἀθελη τὶ γινομένης سيالنّالمنيّمنّغيرّ VI.iii gonorrea إرادة περὶ τῆς ἐν ὀνείρῳ γονορροίας االحتالمّفيّالنوم Vi.iv effusio spermatis in somno περὶ τῶν τραυμάτων καὶ τῶν οἰδημάτων τῶν قُ ُروحّّواألَ ْورامّّ VI.v uulnus ueretri γεννωμένων ἐν τῷ καύλῳ المتو لدةّفيّالقضيب περὶ τῶν οἰδημάτων τῶν γεννωμένων εἰς τοὺς األَ ْورامّّالمتو لدةّفيّ VI.vi apostema in ὄρχεις الخصيتين testiculis περὶ τῶν τραυμάτων τῶν γεννωμένων ἐν τοῖς القروحّالمتو لدةّفيّ VI.vii uulnera in testiculis ὄρχοις الخصيتين περὶ ἀτασπάιματος καὶ κίλης γεννωμένης εἰς الفتوقّواألدرةّالمتو لدةّ .VI.viii de intercelicis (Par [τοὺς ἄρχις [ὄρχεις فيّالخصيتين (6951 περὶ κατοχῆς ἐμμήνων احتباسّال َط ْمث VI.ix de non menstruis περὶ ἑμοραίδων γυναικῶν النَ ْزفّالعارضّالنساء VI.x fluxus sanguinis περὶ τεμιτμοῦ μήτρας اختناقّالرحم VI.xi suffocatio matricis περὶ τῶν οἰδημάτων τῶν φυομένων ἐν τῇ األورامّالمتو لدةّفيّ VI.xii apostema matricis μήτρᾳ الرحم περὶ τῶν τραυμάτων τῶν γεννωμένων ἐν τῇ القروحّالمتو لدةّفيّ VI.xiii uulnus matricis μήτρᾳ الرحم περὶ τῆς ὀγκώσεως τῆς μήτρας καὶ نُتُوءّالرحمّو َزواله VI.xiv exitus matricis de suo loco μεταστροφῆς περὶ ὠφελήμου οἰκονομίας εἰς τὰς ἀρροστίας التَ ْد ِبيرّالنافعّ ِلألَ ْمراضّ VI.xv de ordinanda dieta συνεχούσας ταῖς ἐγκυαμνούσαις الالزمةّال َحوا ِمل pregnantium περὶ δυστοκουσῶν γυναικῶν ُع ْسرّالوالدة VI.xvi difficultas parturientis περὶ τῶν ἐκβαλλόντων τὸ ἔμβρυον καὶ τὴν األشياءّالتيّتخرجّ (omitted) γονὴν φθείροσις ἐν τῇ μήτρᾳ ال َجنِينّوتفسدّال ُن ْط َفةّفيّ الرحمّ πρὸς ἐκβαλεῖν τὸν ἔμπιπλον ἀπὸ τῆς μήτρας إخراجّال َم ِشي َمةّمنّ VI.xvii exitus secundine الرحمّ περὶ ἰσχάδος ِع ْرقّالنساء VI.xviii sciatici et genuum dolore

223 TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings περὶ ποδαλγίας النقرس VI.xix podagra περὶ ἐφεμέρου πυρετοῦ ح مىّيوم VII.i effimera febris περὶ καύσωνος πυρετοῦ الح مىّالمحرقة VII.ii causon المدعوةّباليونانيةّ قوسوس περὶ τοῦ τριταίου πυρετοῦ ح ماءّال ِغ بّ [VII.iii tertiana [febris وحمىّال ِغ بّتس ماّ quam greci triteon باليونانيهّاطريطاوس uocant περὶ τοῦ πυρετοῦ τοῦ γεννωμένου ἐξ αἵματος الحمىّالمتولدهّمنّالدم VII.iv sinochus καὶ καλουμένου συνοχόου وتس مىّباليونانيهّ سونوخوس sinocha putrida περὶ τοῦ τεταρταίου πυρετοῦ حمىّالربع [VII.v quartana [febris περὶ τοῦ ἀμφημερινοῦ πυρετοῦ الح ماءّالنايبةّكلّيوم VII.vi effimerina περὶ πλήθους ἱδρῶτος العَ َرقّال ُم ْف ِرط VII.vii nimius sudor περὶ τῆς φλυκταινούσης λοιμηκης . καὶ τῆς ال َح ْصبَةّوال ُجدَ ِر يّ VII.viii uariolae ἑτέρης τῆς λεπτῆς καὶ πυκνῆς λοιμικῆς περὶ τοῦ προφυλάγτεσθαι ἀπὸ τῶν κτεινόντων التحرزّمنّاألدويةّ VII.ix de cauenda et εἰδῶν . καὶ τὴν καθολικὴν θεραπείαν τοῦ القاتلةّوالعالجّالعامّلكلّ medicinanda πιόντος δηλητήριον . ἤ τινὸς δηλητηρίον منّشربّشياّمنّنواعّ mortifera potione εἴδους ἐκ τῶν εἰδῶν السموم περὶ θεραπείας τοῦ δήγματος ὄφεων عالجّلسعةّأَ ْفعَى VII.x morsus serpentium περὶ θεραπείας τοῦ δήγματος σκορπίου τοῦ عالجّمنّلدغتهّ َع ْق َرب VII.xi morsus scorpionum λεγομένου ἄκραπ περὶ σφαλαγγιω δήκτων العالجّمنّالزنابيرّ VII.xii morsus uesparum والنَ ْحل et apium περὶ λυσσοδήκτων καὶ τοῦ ὑδροφοβηκοῦ ال َك ْلبّال َك ِلب VII.xiii morsus canis rabidi πάθους περὶ κόπου καὶ πόνου ا ِإل ْعياءّوالوجع VII.xiv labor et dolor περὶ οἰδημάτων συμβάλλεται δὲ ἡ األَ ْورام VII.xv apostemata τοιάντηστήλη καὶ εἰς τὸν ἐρυσίπελαν الثواليل VII.xvi porra ال َمسا ِمير uerrucae ال ُجذام VII.xvii elephantia البَ َرصّوالبَ َهق VII.xviii morphea ال َحزازّوالقُ َوباء VII.xix impetigo ال ِح َّكةّوال َج َرب VII.xx scabies et prurigo περὶ τῶν τραυμάτων τῶν γνωριζομένων الدَما ِميل VII.xxi carbunculi ἀνθράκων [deest] القروحّالمتو لدةّفيّ VII.xxii uulnera corporis ال َج َسد περὶ χοιράδων ἅς ὁ κοινὸς λαὸς καλεῖ ال َخنا ِزير VII.xxiii scrofule σκρόφας περὶ τῆς λεπτοπυρώδους κνισμάσας τῆς ال َش ًرىّوالحصف VII.xxiv pustule ex

224 TABLE 3.1 (CONTINUED)

Viaticum Constantine the Ibn al-Jazzar, Ephodia (Vat. gr. 300): chapter African, Viaticum: - : Chapter headings number Chapter headings Terminology and and other terms chapter headings sudatione λεγομέν' παρὰ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν ἱδρωτξιχια περὶ κλάσματος καὶ ἐξαρμόσεως ال َكسرّو َزوالّالمفاصل VII.xxv ruptura et disiunctione / separatio iuncturarum περὶ τοῦ ἀποπεμπομένου αἵματος . ἀπὸ الدمّال ُم ْنبَعَثّمنّقطعّ VII.xxvi sanguis fluens ab [ἐκτομῆς ξίφ[εος السيفّوغيره aliquo inciso membro εἰς λευκότητον ὀνύχων بياضّاألظفارّوعالجّ VII.xxvii albugo et crossities الداحس et asperitas unguium περὶ καύσεως πυρός عالجّ َح ْرقّالنار VII.xxviii incendium ignis [deest] الجرحّالكائنّمنّضغطّ VII.xxix uulnus pedum الخ فّ propter ocreas uel alia calciamenta [deest] عالجّال ُشقاق VII.xxx fissura manuum et pedum

225

CHAPTER 4:

CISTERCIANS AND MEDICINE IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY

4.1 Introduction

As we have seen with particular clarity in the case of Constantine the African and medicine at Monte Cassino, the institutional landscape of the long twelfth century might mean that figures and institutions developed and diversified in more isolation from one another than might be common in another age. Unlike the power of the pontificate under Innocent III, the circulation of knowledge among the mendicants, or the role of Paris as both intellectual hothouse and center stage during the scholastic era, much of the eleventh and twelfth centuries lacked a comparable . To be sure, some circulatory systems were developing or well established; religious reformers were masters of networking and communication, books—such as the new medical translations—might spread quickly through monastic scriptoria, and the ramifying networks of students meant that teachers might see their influence spread broadly in a short time.343

But in general, the intellectual world of the twelfth century was marked by a startling diversity—a petri dish perhaps, or, to borrow from Horden and Purcell, a

343 The clearest example of this is probably the spread and influence of the Porretans, but this kind of network of students can also be seen in patterns of episcopal appointment and influence (as with Brun of in an earlier century).

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rich terrain of microclimatic variation, where individual monasteries, cathedral schools, and courts developed their own ecologies; where suggestive erotic lyric or learned speculation might be patronized by the bishop of one town, while staid biblical commentary might be found in a monastery or school a short distance away.

This complexity, diversity, and decentralization in twelfth-century institutions allowed some groups to stand apart from more common attitudes, sometimes even in a spirit of critique. Twelfth-century Cistercians were one such example of subcultural defiance. In a period where books became increasingly available and learning became increasingly sophisticated, they sharpened their critiques of the idle pursuit of knowledge (curiositas).344 At times these Cistercian critiques were so vociferous that they have caught the ear of modern scholars, coming to stand as a symbol of the new age, of a clash between the brash spirit of inquiry in the period and the reflective monks who assumed a stance of meditative critique.

4.2 The Two Williams

A central instance in our narrative of this clash has been the conflict between

William of Conches and William of St.-Thierry.345 William of Conches was a master

344 Cf. Newhauser, "The Sin of Curiosity and the Cistercians," in Erudition at God's Service, ed. Sommerfeldt, 71-95.

345 In her Peter Lombard, for example, Marcia Colish figures debates over the physical nature of the world as a contest between a "Chartrian challenge" and the scholastic defenders of orthodoxy.

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at Chartres, noted both as a grammarian and a natural philosopher.346 William of St.-

Thierry had begun his career in much the same way, as a student in the cathedral school of Liège and then Reims, but then turned to a lengthy career as a monk: first as a Benedictine monk at St.-Niçaise and then as abbot of St.-Thierry for fifteen years.347 After having come to know Bernard of Clairvaux, he conceived a strong desire to become a Cistercian. Bernard was able to put him off for a time, but in

1135 William finally became a Cistercian in the monastery of Signy, where he was able to devote himself to writing.348 William of St.-Thierry's works make clear that he was a learned, sophisticated theologian with a deep knowledge of Augustine and the patristic tradition.349

Like Bernard, William developed a strong sense of the proper boundaries of theological discussion. With Bernard, William became involved in the run-up to the second condemnation of Abelard's works at Sens in 1141. William wrote a letter to

Bernard and Geoffrey, the bishop of Paris, detailing the theological problems in

Abelard's works.350 After he had engaged with the problems of Abelard's works,

346It is typical of the reductive narratives of the twelfth century that William is almost always regarded chiefly as a natural philosopher, even though his contemporaries (or at least John of Salisbury) esteemed him most highly as a grammarian.

347For discussion of William's biography, cf. Milis, "William of St. Thierry, his Birth, his Formation, and his First Monastic Experiences," in William, Abbot of St. Thierry, Cistercian Studies Series 94 (Cistercian Press, 1987), 9-33, and Ceglar, "William of Saint Thierry: the chronology of his life," Ph.D. dissertation, Catholic University of America, 1971.

348Ceglar, “Wi iam of Saint Thie y,” 169.

349For basic orientaions on William, cf. Bell, The Image and Likeness; Cvetkovic, Seeking the face of God: the reception of Augustine in the mystical thought of Bernard of Clairvaux and William of St Thierry, as well as the foundational works of Jean-Marie Déchanet.

350Clanchy, Abelard: A Medieval Life, 297 and passim.

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William turned to the works of William of Conches. Once again, he wrote a letter to

Bernard of Clairvaux describing the theological problems in the schoolmaster's works. Beyond a simple enumeration of the problems in the schoolmaster's works and their rebuttal, William of St.-Thierry's letter is a harsh attack, unstinting in its abuse. The letter describes William of Conches as a "little snake (regulus), of obscure name and no authority, but who nevertheless corrupts the common air with pestilential venom."351 He goes so far as to cast aspersions on the Christian faith of

William of Conches: he suggests that the schoolmaster's faith is "made up" (ficta)

(echoing 1 Tim. 1:5) and insists that William of Conches would not have made such claims if he were a true believer. The monk even suggests that William of Conches be denied the Eucharist.352

William of St.-Thierry is so vociferous in his condemnation, it appears, because he feels that William's Philosophia has repeated the errors of Abelard that

Bernard and William of St.-Thierry had just been engaged in refuting. As Abelard had identified the persons of the Trinity with their attributes, William had identified the three persons of the Trinity with God's potentia, sapientia, and voluntas.353 It is understandable, then, that William of St.-Thierry might have seen William's

351 William of St.-Thierry, De erroribus Guillelmi de Conches ad S. Bernardum, ed. Leclercq, 382.

352 Ed. Leclercq, 391: "Sed sicut audio ab eis qui eum noverunt, vicinus quidem olim fuit, sed ab eis de quibus dicit, tam longe recessit, ut nisi redeat in domum, de qua praevaricatus est, nec paschalis sacramenti particeps ulterius debeat fieri, nec ad esum agni dignus sit sive advocari, sive admitti."

353William's triad is close to, but not identical with, Abelard's. Abelard had tended to speak in terms of the Trinity as potentia-sapientia-bonitas/benignitas; cf. disc. in Dronke, Fabula, 181, esp. n. 1.

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Trinitarian position as completely unacceptable, a blatant repetition of what

Abelard had said. William of St.-Thierry claims that Abelard and William of Conches seem to be "of one spirit," both in their manner of speaking and in the similarity of their going astray.354 Even though modern scholarly attention has focused on the critique of natural philosophy in this letter, the majority of the letter is taken up with such Trinitarian issues.

William of St.-Thierry supports his critique of William of Conches by drawing upon biblical and patristic precedent. He sees the claims of the schoolmaster as in clear contrast to the Pauline dictum that the preaching of a novel gospel should be subject to anathema.355 His condemnation rests on the position that the identification of the persons of the Trinity with distinct attributes is tantamount to denial of the Trinity, and is thus pagan, not just heretical. He notes that this sentiment can be found in the ancient councils of the Fathers, their tractates, and in their deeds and writings.356 To make this case, however, he turns first and foremost to Augustine. Recent scholarship on William of St.-Thierry has emphasized the

Augustinian stamp of William of St.-Thierry's thought, and this text furnishes no exception. Extensive quotations from Augustine make up the bulk of his argument, while other Church Fathers tend to be cited in order to support Augustine's positions.

354"Hic autem homo... et Petrus Abaelardus... et modo loquendi et similitudine errandi unius spiritus sunt." Ed. Leclercq, 384, lines 62-65.

355Ed. Leclercq, 384-5.

356Ed. Leclercq, 385, lines 80-90.

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The monk's critique only comes to natural philosophy when he additionally condemns William of Conches' Philosophia because the schoolmaster had even ventured to add his own problematic statements to those of Abelard; in particular, he had attempted to give naturalistic explanations of several events in the creation account of Genesis. William had explained the creation of both Adam and Eve as purely physical processes that were stated metaphorically in scripture; William contends that the creation of Eve, for example, was from clay rather than Adam's rib.

William of St.-Thierry finds this highly offensive. He claims that the schoolmaster had "arrogantly" preferred his own "invention" to the truth of the account.357 The criticism here is essentially the same as that leveled earlier in the letter. In both cases, William of Conches has strayed from established truth: in the former case, in his understanding of the Trinity, and here, in a novel allegorical interpretation of the account of creation.358

Some of William of St.-Thierry's ire here may be due to the fact that he feels that the schoolmaster has slighted the typological sense of scripture. In interpreting the creation of Eve as a metaphorical representation of a natural phenomenon,

William has robbed scripture of an important typological prefiguration of the piercing of Christ's side during the crucifixion. At any rate, William of St.-Thierry insists that the schoolmaster's error was attempting to "philosophize" about God

357"Nimis arroganter veritati historiae suum praefert inventum." Ed. Leclercq, 390, lines 293- 94.

358It is apparently less of an issue for William of St.-Thierry that Augustine had himself been willing to be quite liberal with the literal sense of the account of creation in his De genesi ad litteram.

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physice, in physical terms.359 Interpreting according to the physical sense (physico... sensu) had led him to the "invention" that he arrogantly preferred to the truth of scripture.

Given William of St.-Thierry's attack on William of Conches, it is even tempting to see him as broadly anti-intellectual, despite his background in the schools. William of St.-Thierry is suspicious of the novelty of William of Conches' philosophy,360 and William of St.-Thierry's repeated descriptions of the schoolmaster as a physicus and a philosophus seem to suggest that the monk is suspicious of physici and philosophi more generally. A clear contrast is intended between the (purported) philosopher and "our philosophers" of the church whose statements William of St.-Thierry insists on following.

A recurrent theme in William's critique of the schoolmaster is William of

Conches' presumption in attempting to resolve questions of the faith that the

Church Fathers even hesitated to answer confidently, such as the nature of the divine generation of the Son from the Father. William of St.-Thierry disagrees vehemently with William of Conches' claim that it was difficult, but not impossible, to understand it. This leads William of St. Thierry to a clear statement of what he sees as the proper, reverential attitude towards patristic precedent:

Thus let us speak whatever we speak from the fathers, from our teachers and leaders (doctoribus et ductoribus nostris),

359"Physice de Deo philosophatur." Ed. Leclercq, 389, lines 247-48; and against William's interpretation of the creation of Adam, 389-90.

360He speaks of the schoolmaster's "novam... philosophiam," 382.

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bringing forth their meanings in their very words, adhering to their footsteps, presuming nothing on our own account. (384)

Along similar lines, he had emphasized the problematic character of human reasoning at the beginning of his letter, where, addressing himself to God, the monk insists that, if the human being is properly conformed to God, he or she will understand the nullity of all human understanding that the human being forms for him or herself about God.361 William of Conches' understanding of God, by contrast, lacks this necessary humility; William of Conches' God, according to the monk, is

"thought out for himself" (excogitatus). Where William of Conches had claimed that it was difficult, but not impossible, to discuss the divine generation, William of St.-

Thierry disagrees vehemently.

Even making allowance for polemic and invective, the monk's attack on the schoolteacher is harsh. It seems to have found its mark, too: William of Conches' later reworking of the Philosophia, the Dragmaticon, backs away from some of his statements in the Philosophia. His claims about the creation of Eve, for example, are completely abandoned to reflect William of St.-Thierry's criticisms. Moreover, the stance of the later work is less assertive in some respects: he explicitly asks for correction (from a religiosus, no less), and describes the Philosophia as a youthful indiscretion.362

361"Da mihi intellectum tuum de te, quem per illuminantem gratiam format veritas tua et amor tuus in ratione hominis, quam conformat sibi, ut in ipso intelligam quam nullus sit intellectus omnis humanus, quem de te per se humana ratio format sibi." Ed. Leclercq, 384, lines 49-52.

362 For a reasoned comparison of the two recensions of the work, considering the natural philosophical dimension of the work in particular detail, cf. Elford, " Developments in the Natural Philosophy of William of Conches: A Study of His Dragmaticon and a Consideration of Its Relationship 233

However, the schoolmaster was not entirely cowed by this attack. In his

Dragmaticon, William of Conches returned to the natural philosophical speculations that William of St.-Thierry had reacted so strongly to. Though he seems chastened on some points, he was as stubborn as William of St.-Thierry on others. Despite the abundance of patristic speculation about the waters above the firmament, for example, William of Conches insisted these authorities were wrong. Physically speaking, it would have been impossible for waters to have existed above the firmament. More than this, however, the waters above the firmament seem to have violated William of Conches' sense of the persistent and abiding order and goodness in the cosmos, to have affronted him on a deep theological, perhaps even personal, level. William argues that it is justified to contradict the teachings of Bede in this matter (and church authorities more broadly) because they were discussing natural philosophical matters:

In those things which pertain to natural philosophy, if they err in any matter, it is permitted to affirm something other than what they say. Even if they were greater than us, they were human nevertheless.363

At first glance, then, this collision appears to show a clear line of demarcation between the two Williams, and even two twelfth-century intellectual worlds. What could be clearer than William of St.-Thierry's insistence on closely following the lead

to the Philosophia," Ph.D. dissertation, University of Cambridge, 1983, at xi for a discussion of the creation of Eve.

363 Dragmaticon, III,2.3, ed. Ronca, CCCM 152: "In eis quae ad fidem catholicam uel ad institutionem morum pertinent, non est fas Bedae uel alicui alii sanctorum patrum contradicere. In eis tamen quae ad physicam pertinent, si in aliquo errant, licet diuersum adfirmare. Etsi enim maiores nobis, homines tamen fuere."

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of the Church Fathers, and William of Conches' refusal, even after having been attacked, to let patristic authority guide his natural philosophical speculations?

Furthermore, their stances seem to line up neatly with their institutional allegiances: William of Conches, an influential teacher in the flourishing, innovative schools of northern France, and William of St.-Thierry, whose adopted Cistercian order was well known for its narrow focus on the study of scripture and patristic exegesis. This is indeed one of a series of conflicts that shapes the way we see intellectual life in the twelfth century, a celebrated case in a history of conflict between new forms of learning and countervailing forces, conceived variously as a traditional worldview, conservatism, or theological reaction. At times, modern scholars have even maintained the old partisan lines: scholars of theology give an interpretation strongly shaped by the perspective of twelfth-century theologians, while a small group of Chartrian sympathizers sees the century largely from their perspective.364

Even though our sense of the connections between these men has narrowed to this conflict, there is much less of a gap between these two men than we might expect. For one, this was a conflict between two men who were quite similar intellectually. Both shared a background in the literary texts and liberal arts that were the foundation of education at the time, and both expressed themselves in texts with rhetorical and literary polish. More than this, however, they shared a preoccupation with the operation of the natural world and the nature of the human

364One might place Richard Southern or Marcia Colish in the former group, and Edouard Jeauneau in the latter group.

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being; and for both men, these subjects were imbued with deep ethical and religious significance. Furthermore, this shared preoccupation was expressed in the naturalistic turns of phrase and concepts with which they described phenomena.

Finally, both men made use of the medical translations produced in Italy in the late eleventh century; these texts have long been recognized as an important source of philosophical and medical knowledge for the natural philosophers of the long twelfth century, but their influence on William of St.-Thierry allows us to see how pervasive they truly were.

Despite his vehemence, therefore, William of St.-Thierry was less distant from the schoolmaster than has often been supposed. In the same way that William of Conches believed it was right and proper to correct Bede on the nature of the suprafirmamental waters, we will see that William of St.-Thierry sought to revise

Augustine in the light of current medical thinking. This correction, moreover, was not a minor point of interpretation, but a substantial revision of Augustine's theory of cognition—despite the centrality of Augustine's theory of cognition as a

Trinitarian analogy. We may suspect, then, that the vehemence of this conflict was rooted in the commonalities between the two men—a case of the "narcissism of small differences" rather than two figures who were worlds apart.

4.3 Cistercians and Medicine

Against the background of William's polemics, the place of medicine among twelfth-century Cistercians is an important and understudied test case for their attitude towards learning; by contrast with other fields, however, our evidence is

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contradictory. On the one hand, Bernard of Clairvaux is apparently unequivocal in his condemnation of the use of medicine by Cistercians; furthermore, these pronouncements were given administrative force in rules promulgated for the

Cistercian order in 1157 and 1175.365 On the other hand, medical themes do recur in

Bernard's writings. Even more surprisingly, several leading lights of the twelfth- century Cistercians draw upon or were visibly interested in medical knowledge when composing their theological anthropologies.

There have been few attempts to resolve this paradox. Bernard McGinn notes the existence of this tension, but does not really explicate it.366 David Bell, on the other hand, sought to explain it away, by pushing the evidence as far as it might go to argue for the presence of medicine among Cistercians. Despite Bell's efforts, evidence for medicine among Cistercians in the twelfth century remains rather thin.

Eliza Glaze, for example, notes that even Bell's attempt to rehabilitate Bernard and other Cistercians "turned up little (if any) positive evidence for the twelfth century."367

Contributing to this dilemma, however, is the fact that there have been few efforts to comprehensively describe or contextualize the attitude towards medicine

365In Canivez, Statuta I:65 and I:84, and Waddell, Twelfth-century Statutes from the Cistercian General Chapter, quoted in Bell, "The English Cistercians and the Practice of Medicine," at 158, n. 51.

366 In his introduction to Three Treatises on Man, McGinn calls Bernard's attitude to medicine "ambiguous" (79), and notes the contrast with other Cistercians, but does not discuss it at any length.

367G aze, “The Perforated Wall,” 201 n. 20. It should be noted that there are a handful of Cistercians beyond William of St.-Thierry who do appear to have some medical knowledge. Aelred of Rievaulx is referred to as medicus at a few points, while Alcher of Clairvaux is asked for medical information by Isaac of Stella.

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in the works of Bernard. In what follows, then, I will consider several passages in which medicine occurs in Bernard's writings, discussing them in depth. Though an exhaustive consideration of medicine in his texts remains a scholarly desideratum, the general tendency of Bernard's thought is quite clear. Bernard's writings leave little doubt that he looked down on medicine and disparaged it when writing to other Cistercians. In a long monastic and Christian tradition, Bernard did draw upon medicine as a metaphor for (spiritual) care. But where for other writers, extended metaphor might open the door to discussion of actual, contemporary medical practice, even Bernard's medical metaphors admit only the barest elaboration. But this thoroughgoing severity is not quite the entire story. It seems likely that Bernard did know more about contemporary medical practice than he chose to let on among fellow Cistercians, and did acknowledge this to some extent in his writings to those outside the Cistercian circle. Following this discussion of medicine in Bernard's writings, I will consider medical knowledge in Cistercian treatises on the soul, where it had quite a different status. In particular, the contrast between medicine in

Bernard's writings and William of St.-Thierry's De natura corporis et animae will allow us to appreciate something of the quality of each man, in a kind of double portrait.

4.3.1 Bernard of Clairvaux and Medicine

At first glance, it may not seem terribly surprising that Cistercian authors drew upon medical knowledge. In a variety of forms, medicine had long been part of monastic existence, and infirmaries and medical care were well established in

Benedictine houses by the twelfth century. Monastic scriptoria played a central role

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in the transmission of medicine to the high Middle Ages, both in the transmission of humble texts and well-known translations from Greek and Arabic, as scholars such as Heinrich Schipperges and Eliza Glaze have shown.368

Bernard of Clairvaux himself seems to have had extensive personal experience with medical care. In good ascetic tradition, he seems to have seriously damaged his health and digestive system by excessive self-denial. This might be regarded as a hagiographical commonplace, but is substantiated by further information we have about his life: Bernard's health was apparently so bad that the bishop William of Champeaux felt compelled to intervene and force Bernard to submit to a year of convalescence under the medical care of a professional.369

Furthermore, in the course of these periods of illness, Bernard came to know the medically well-informed William of St.-Thierry (who was then a Benedictine). These medical problems recurred in the course of his life, and must have thoroughly familiarized Bernard with the contemporary standards of medical care.

But despite what must have been a considerable exposure to medical practice and illness, Bernard nevertheless took a rigid stance on earthly medical care.370 This becomes clearest when he writes to the Cistercian brothers of Santi

368 Schipperges, Die Benektiner in der Medizin des frühen Mittelalters, (Leipzig, 1964); Glaze, "The Perforated Wall."

369 Cf. disc. in McGuire, "Bernard's Life and Works," 28.

370On Bernard and medicine, cf. Hiss, Die Anthropologie Bernhards von Clairvaux, 120-22; Bell, "The English Cistercians and the Practice of Medicine;" idem, "The Siting and Size of Cistercian Infirmaries in England;" Le Blevec, "Maladie et soins du corps dans les monastères cisterciens," in Horizons Marins, ed. Dubois et al. (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1987), 1:171-82; Schipperges, "Heilkunde bei den Zisterziensern: Zur Gesundheitsfürsorge und Krankenversorgung der 'Grauen Mönche' im Mittelalter," in Eberbach im Rheingau, 93-103; Glaze, "The Perforated Wall."

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Vicenzo e Anastasio a Trevi (SS. Vicentii et Anastasii trium fontium ad aquas) in

Rome. This text gives Bernard's approach to medicine in nuce. Bernard notes that these monks live in an unhealthful area near the malarial swamps of Rome, and he expresses sympathy for their travails. But he is harsh in his condemnation of their attempts to go beyond the most basic forms of medical care (de vilibus ... herbis, et quae pauperes deceant). Bernard's reasoning is that the real threat is "weakness of the soul" (infirmitas animarum); furthermore, attempts to secure medical care are problematic, "indecent for monastic life and contrary to purity" (religioni indecens et contrarium puritati), and are especially problematic with respect to the honestas and puritas of the Cistercian order. He lists several problematic medical practices: buying species, seeking out doctors, and accepting potiones. David Bell, who tried to read Bernard's condemnations of medical treatment against the grain, argues that such condemnations are merely cautions against the dangers of being self-willed

(propria voluntas). But Bell's attempt does not really wash, and this letter offers telling evidence of Bernard's beliefs about the proper place of medicine among the

Cistercians. In this letter, we can see how Bernard went out of his way to tell the monks at SS. Vicenzo e Anastasio how to practice medicine at their monastery in order to establish the boundaries of acceptable medical care. Moreover, this text shows that Bernard did attempt to enforce his vision of the appropriate degree of medical care upon monasteries under his control.371

371It may be worth noting the institutional dimension of this letter: SS. Vicenzo e Anastasio was in the lineage of Clairvaux, and thus it may have only been in these monasteries that Bernard attempted, or was able, to take a rigorist line on medical practice.

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This single letter surely does not imply that medical care was completely disregarded in the Cistercian order, however. Bernard's Life of Malachy, for example, gives evidence that the monks attempted to provide medical care when Malachy was near death, providing and warm poultices (medicamenta and fomenta).372 But even in the case of Malachy, Bernard takes the opportunity to disparage earthly medical practitioners. In his Homily on the Death of Malachy,

Bernard describes Malachy's accurate prediction of his own death. This is contrasted with the knowledge of the physicians (medici), to whom "there appeared no sign of serious illness, much less of death."373 More broadly, then, Bernard does not seem to have wanted to obviously diverge from the provision of medical care laid out in the Regula Benedicti, but he seems to possess a rigid unwillingness to go beyond the minimum in observing the Rule in matters of self-care. Bernard insists in his thirtieth sermon In cantica canticorum that Paul had indeed allowed Timothy to take some wine, but that he insisted it not be too much: "vino, modico quod ille adiunxit non praetermittas."374 ["Take wine, but do not neglect that he said 'a bit.'"]

We may well be justified in seeing this admonition and others like it as a reaction against what must have been significantly more liberal standards of medical care in

Benedictine monasteries.

372Life of Malachy, trans. Meyer, 88.

373Trans. Meyer, 98. Bell inexplicably attempts to read this passage against the grain as providing evidence that Cistercians did make use of medici from outside of the monastery to provide medical care. "The English Cistercians," 144.

374In Cant. Cant. 30.12, quoted in Bell, 144 n. 24.

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Bernard's warnings to Cistercians against earthly medicine could be multiplied, but it is more revealing, I believe, to consider just how scrupulous

Bernard was in his use of medical metaphors. Acts of healing figure prominently in the New Testament, of course, and a long tradition makes use of the imagery of

Christus medicus.375 Given his personal experience of medicine, Bernard would have certainly been knowledgeable enough about medicine to give rich descriptions of the experience of illness and contemporary medical practice. Bernard does makes use of this imagery to a limited extent, but it is informative that he only uses these medical metaphors in the most general way, without drawing on any details of actual medical practice. His fifteenth sermon on the Song of Songs, for example, takes up the powers of the name of Jesus, describing how it offers light, food, and medicine (lux, cibus, and medicina). Tellingly, Bernard spends even less time describing the name of Jesus as cibus than medicina, but his discussion of medicine remains at the most general level. When invoked, for example, the name of Jesus soothes and anoints (lenit et ungit). Bernard invokes both the commonplace and spiritual senses of medicine, but his description remains abstracted from medical practice or any imagined medical situations. There is little use of learned medical terminology: he refers to electuaries (electuarium) and unguents (unguentum), and he says that he makes "a confectio, the like of which no doctor is able to make."376

375For a salutary revision of Harnack's conception of early Christianity as a religion centered on miraculous healing, cf. Ferngren, Medicine and Healthcare in Early Christianity. For a contemporary example, Ivo of Chartres also made use of medical metaphors; cf. discussion in Sprandel, Ivo von Chartres und seine Stellung in der Kirchengeschichte, at 20-24.

376Ed. Leclercq, 87.

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These terms are commonplace and unremarkable; the former two, for example, can both be found in Isidore's Etymologies.377 Furthermore, Bernard draws a contrast between the efficacy of the name of Jesus with the chancier success rate of earthly medicine. Even in his treatment of this traditional theme, therefore, and even where he emphasizes the inefficacy of earthly medicine, Bernard is willing to discuss medical care in only the most general terms. The same tendency recurs elsewhere in his works. His fourth sermon In vigilia nativitatis, for example, begins with a reference to Christ as physician (medicus). This metaphor is scarcely fleshed out, however, and Bernard attends much more closely to the perfection of Jesus and

Mary. This avoidance of medical themes is striking, and seems to suggest that

Bernard was reluctant to open the door to any consideration of earthly medicine in a Cistercian context.

One of the few places in which Bernard discusses contemporary medical theory is also his sharpest condemnation, his thirtieth sermon on the Song of Songs

§5, where he draws a contrast between medical knowledge and the faith, personified as Hippocrates and Jesus.378 Of these two masters, he asks, which will his listeners choose to follow? (216) Medical differentiae are not found in any of the

Gospels, the prophets, or in the apostolic letters, he insists; Hippocrates and his followers teach to make "healed souls,"379 while Christ and his disciples teach to lose them (217). The knowledge of Hippocrates has been revealed by flesh and blood,

377 Ed. Lindsay, Vol. 1, Book IV, 9.10 (electuaries) and 12.6 (unguents).

378 Text edited in Leclercq, 216-217.

379 “Animas salvas,” echoing John 12:25, but in a curious choice of words.

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but Romans 8:6 notes that the wisdom of the flesh is death.380 As Bernard continues, his condemnations of medicine become increasingly strident: Hippocrates and Galen are really of the schola epicuri, he claims, and the bringing of foreign teaching

(peregrinum dogma) into the church is a sin381 (217). Tellingly, this sermon is one of the few places where Bernard draws on medical knowledge in addressing his fellow

Cistercians. He gives medical quotations that sound like Hippocratic aphorisms, and he twice uses the medical term complexio.382 But he appears to draw upon medical knowledge only in order to denounce it more harshly.

Revealingly, the most extensive use of medical knowledge and terminology in

Bernard's writings is not addressed to his fellow Cistercians at all, but rather to

Benedictines (and William of St.-Thierry specifically). In his Apologia IV.7, written for William between 1121-1125, Bernard discusses the Cistercian order metaphorically as the appropriate form of medicine for him.383 Because he had been sold to sin, Bernard explains, he was feeling such a great lassitude of the soul that for him a stronger potion (potio) was necessary.384 Then, to illustrate the

380"Sapientia... carnis mors est." Ed. Leclercq, 217.

381 The phrase "schola epicuri" is striking, and seems to derive from Seneca's letters (Ep. ad Lucilium 6).

382Cf. 216 and 217 for aphorismic quotations, and 217 and 218 for uses of the word complexio.

383 The dating of the work is still somewhat uncertain: for example, cf. McGuire, "Bernard's Life and Works," at 34; and Reilly, "Bernard of Clairvaux and Christian Art," at 280 in A Companion to Bernard of Clairvaux (Brill, 2011) for conflicting interpretations.

384Ed. Leclercq, vol. 3, 87.

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proposition that different kinds of medicine are appropriate for different diseases, he discusses the proper care of those with different sorts of fever in some detail:

Diverse diseases require diverse medications, and stronger medications for stronger diseases. Take two people who are suffering from fevers, the one from a quartan, the other from a tertian. But recommend that the one who suffers under quartan fevers take water, pears, and cold things for a tertian fever, although nevertheless he himself should abstain from these things, and take wine and other warm things himself, because they are suitable for him.385

This passage shows several things. First, Bernard was indeed well acquainted with the principles of Galenic medical theory, in that he understands the principles of humoral imbalance and curing by contraries. Such a basic knowledge of Galenic theory must certainly have been commonplace, particularly among the literate, but this is the only hint Bernard gives that he grasps the mechanics of the system.386

Furthermore, Bernard knows the different kinds of periodic fever, and which dietary substances would be appropriate for treatment in each case. Finally, the tone with which he introduces medical theory in this passage merits notice. Bernard does not act as though he is drawing upon a recherché piece of knowledge, but is completely nonchalant about his discussion of the therapeutic regimen for periodic fever. It is just this kind of medical metaphor that one would expect to appear in

385"Et diversis morbis diversa conveniunt medicamenta, et fortioribus fortiora. Fac duos homines febribus anxiari, quartanis unum, alterum tertianis. Commendet autem, qui quartanis laborat, tertiano aquam, pira et frigida quaeque sumenda, cum tamen ipse ab his abstineat, vinumque et cetera calida, utpote sibi congruentia, sumat. Quis, rogo, hinc eum recte reprehendat? Si diceret ille: 'Cur tu aquam non bibis, quam ita laudas?', annon recte responderet: 'Et tibi eam fideliter tribuo, et mihi salubriter subtraho?'" Ed. Leclercq, vol. 3, 88.

386 His use of the word complexio in his Sermons on the Song of Songs does suggest a knowledge of the terminology of the system, but not necessarily its operation.

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Bernard's writings more frequently, given his biography and education, but which is almost completely absent.

The contrast between this passage and the rest of his works suggests, I think, that Bernard knew contemporary medicine, but that he was almost entirely unwilling to mention it to his fellow Cistercians. It is doubtless significant that his

Apologia is addressed to William of St.-Thierry, who was well-versed in medical theory and recent medical translations, and who would have easily understood

Bernard's allusion. In addressing the Apologia to a wider audience, then, Bernard was willing to draw upon medical knowledge in addressing those outside the

Cistercian order, but almost completely rigid in excising medical language and knowledge from what he said to his fellow Cistercians. Moreover, this passage helps us to see that Bernard's warnings against medicine to his fellow Cistercians were part of a coherent and well-executed program. Bernard had set his face against the practice and knowledge of medicine by his fellow Cistercians, and his influence in this regard most likely accounts for the prohibitions of medical practice within the order in 1157 and 1175. Against the context of twelfth-century Benedictine medicine, Bernard's resistance likely has even sharper force: despite the increasing role of schools in medical training, Benedictine monasteries played a central role as repositories of medical learning in the period. The works of Constantine the African, after all, had been translated in a Benedictine house, and circulated rapidly within

Benedictine networks in England and northern Europe.

Bernard of Clairvaux's approach to medicine is only one example of a broader characteristic of twelfth-century Cistercians, however. Even though many

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Cistercians were quite learned, often with a background in the schools, they nevertheless took a critical approach to the value of learning.387 In particular,

Cistercians were increasingly attentive to the risks of curiositas in this period: "idle" curiosity, but also inquiry into things that were not beneficial to human life.388 That is to say, Cistercians were not simply hostile to any forms of learning. Rather, they were rigorously critical in the kinds of learning they were willing to pursue. In particular, Cistercians appear to have privileged biblical commentary, theology, and those subjects that could usefully be applied to the interpretation of scripture. This is the picture given by library records and the intellectual activities of Cistercians in the period.389 Similarly, Cistercians were willing to engage in some inquiry into mathematical subjects, but they were not preoccupied with new developments in arithmetic—the translations of Ibn al-Khwarizmi's works on algebra, for example.

Rather, they composed works examining number symbolism, which could then be applied to the interpretation of scripture.390 This is not to suggest that they were entirely opposed to novel trends in learning, however: Constance Bouchard has illustrated that the Cistercians were early recipients of the glossa ordinaria, though

387 Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

388 Cf. Newhause , “The Sin of Cu iosity.”

389 Cf., for example, the twelfth-century catalogue of the manuscripts of Clairvaux in Troyes, MS Bib. municipale 32, discussed in Vernet, La bibliotheque de l'abbaye de Clairvaux du XIIe au XVIIIe siècle, vol. 2. This seems to be a tendency of Cistercian libraries throughout the history of the Order; cf. disc. in Bell, "Libraries and Scriptoria," in the Cambridge Companion to the Cistercian Order, edited by Mette Birkedal Bruun (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 140-150.

390Cf. the discussion in Beaujouan, "The Transformation of the Quadrivium," in Benson & Constable, Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, at 483; and Lange, Les données mathematiques des traités du XIIe siècle sur la symbolique des nombres (Copenhagen, 1979).

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it is perhaps unsurprising that Cistercians were early recipients of biblical commentary.391 The Cistercian approach to the understanding of the soul, however, shows an originality not evident in their otherwise restrictive approach to learning; and this approach likely owes much to William of St.-Thierry's work on the soul.

4.4 The Cistercian De anima Tradition

The effort to understand the human soul and its place in the body was one of the characteristic intellectual pursuits of twelfth-century thinkers: texts on these questions circulated in large numbers of manuscripts, received attentive commentary, and were the subject of new texts, despite (or perhaps because) a wealth of ancient, patristic, and early medieval works. By the early twelfth century, the basic contours of the understanding of the soul in the Latin West were well established along Augustinian and Platonic lines. The soul was immaterial, though the precise mechanism by which it interacted with and was united to the body was unclear, as was the dividing line between the operations of the soul and the body.

Humans had souls; animals did not, according to most thinkers; and there was debate among natural philosophers about whether heavenly bodies might have souls. Even this brief résumé makes clear that many issues were unresolved, however, and much depended on the relative status of different authorities: natural philosophers, reading Plato, were willing to speculate about the World Soul, which theologians countered with their authorities—sometimes vehemently.

391Bouchard, "The Cistercians and the Glossa Ordinaria."

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Furthermore, according to McGinn, "technical questions of psychology were thus directly related to a wider anthropological and spiritual program designed to provide a theoretical basis for man's return to God."392 Like the Victorines, several

Cistercians sought to tease out "the nature and powers of the soul" that enabled human ascent to God. Bernard of Clairvaux himself wrote rhapsodically about the soul's relationship to God, but was less preoccupied with technical psychological quandaries and did not treat the issue systematically. Several Cistercian thinkers did take up the systematic treatment of the issue, however. As we will discuss in further depth, William of St.-Thierry composed a De anima treatise; and after William, several other twelfth-century Cistercians took up the genre: Isaac of Stella wrote an

Epistola de anima, addressed to Alcher of Clairvaux; Aelred of Rievaulx wrote a

Dialogus de anima; and an anonymous writer turned back to these texts (those of

William and Isaac in particular) in composing a work De spiritu at anima later in the twelfth century.393

These De anima treatises are somewhat heterogeneous, and scholars have divided over whether to see them as part of a single tradition. A division has often been made, for example, between the De anima treatises of William, Isaac, and the anonymous De spiritu et anima, on the one hand, and Aelred's Dialogus de anima on the other, and there is much to support such a division.394 While the first group of

392 McGinn, Three Treatises, 19-21.

393 For bibliography on Cistercian de anima texts, cf. McGinn's introduction to Three Treatises on Man: A Cistercian Anthropology, but also Webb, An Introduction to the Cistercian De Anima.

394 Cf. Webb, An Introduction to the Cistercian 'De anima,' but also McGinn's choice not to include Aelred in his Three Treatises.

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scholars drew on an eclectic body of sources and tended to occasional cosmological speculation, Aelred's Dialogus is much more narrowly focused, and draws almost exclusively on Augustine. More broadly, Teresa Pierre has questioned whether we can see anything distinctive and unitary about Cistercian treatises; she argues that the influence of Bernard on these texts has been overstated, and that it is better to see these Cistercian texts as part of a larger twelfth-century phenomenon than a narrow Cistercian de anima tradition.395 McGinn, by contrast, follows Gilson in contending that "it was Bernard who was responsible for the importance of anthropology in the Cistercian movement," and, by extension, Cistercian de anima texts.396

Some meaningful commonalities do exist among these Cistercian de anima texts. Like other twelfth-century thinkers on the soul, for one, these Cistercian writers are concerned with the classification of the powers of the soul.397

Furthermore, we may also see some similarities in their approach to animals.

Generally speaking, Augustine had sought to establish an ontological and cognitive gap between humans and other animals, and had consequently seen a sharp division between memory, reason, and will in human beings and mere sense and motion in animals that gives the appearance of these faculties. Both Isaac of Stella and Aelred

395 Pierre, "'That We May Glorify Him in Our Bodies:' William of St.-Thierry's Views of the Human Body," Ph.D. dissertation, University of Toronto, 1997 at 194ff.

396 McGinn, Three Treatises, 77. McGinn's inclusion of William of St.-Thierry's work likely derives from his dating of the work to William's time at Signy; on which, cf. below.

397 Michaud-Quantin, "La classification des puissances de l'âme au XIIe siècle," Révue du moyen âge latin 5 (1949), 20-34; and cf. discussion in McGinn, Three Treatises, 84ff.

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of Rievaulx focused on the continuities between humans and animals, and found ways to attribute these cognitive faculties to animals in a way Augustine had been unwilling to. Isaac argues that these cognitive faculties in animals are an image of human cognition, just as human cognition is an image of the Trinity. Aelred incorporates cognitive faculties in animals by quoting Augustine against himself.

Both figures, therefore, observed the Augustinian line on these cognitive faculties, while also attempting to remedy its perceived defects. They do this, I think, because both want to emphasize the integral place of human beings in a divinized cosmos.

Augustine's sharp ontological and cognitive gap is in tension with this sense of the human place in the natural order. Their adjustments to the Augustinian picture of animal cognition, therefore, brought human beings into a closer relationship with the rest of creation.398 Whether this attitude towards animals was shared more widely in twelfth-century writers on the soul, however, merits further study.

Similarly, it is not entirely misguided to see William of St.-Thierry's influence as giving the later Cistercian de anima tradition a distinctive character. In several ways, his De natura corporis et animae established the parameters of the genre, and features of his work were taken up in later authors. It was exemplary to such an extent, in fact, that the anonymous De spiritu et anima from the late twelfth century quotes extensively from William's work.399 Two features of his text were particularly influential. First, William's work betrays a real concern for the

398 Scholarship on animals in the Middle Ages has seen the twelfth century as a point of transition in attitudes towards animals, and Isaac and Aelred seem to reflect this change. Cf. Salisbury, The Beast Within, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2011).

399 McGinn, Three Treatises, 55-74 and passim.

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operation of the natural world (the elements, the organs of the body, etc.), which stands in contrast to the indifference towards it in many Cistercian writers.400 Isaac of Stella and the De spiritu et anima both follow William's interest in the natural world: the De spiritu et anima continues William's interest in the functioning of the human body, while Isaac continues William's interest in relations between the microcosm and macrocosm, between the human being and the entire cosmos.401

Second, given Bernard of Clairvaux's antipathy towards medicine, William likely played a decisive role in establishing the legitimacy of drawing upon medicine for later writers in the tradition. Earlier in the Christian tradition, scholars had drawn upon the writings of physicians to refine their accounts of the human body and soul, particularly in late antiquity. Nemesios of Emesa in the Greek East, for example, had drawn upon Galenic medicine to refine his account of the soul and its operation in the human body. In the Latin part of the Empire, Augustine and other writers had also used medical theory. At a crucial point of Book VII of the De genesi ad litteram, when attempting to resolve the problem of the interaction between the soul and the body, Augustine himself draws on contemporary medicine to contend that though the cognitive faculties of memory, reason, and will are associated with

400 There is a contrast, I believe, between the lack of interest in natural phenomena among Cistercians, and that which we can see among . Compare Honorius Augustodunensis in the previous chapter, for example, with Cistercians who made only occasional reference to natural phenomena in their exegesis. For an alternate explanation, cf. Newman, The Boundaries of Charity, 82ff.

401 For William's interest in microcosm-macrocosm issues, cf. Lemoine, "L'homme comme microcosme chez Guillaume de Saint-Thierry;" for Isaac's, cf. McGinn, The Golden Chain. Pierre's contention that these works belong to a larger twelfth-century tradition would also explain these themes in these texts; Hugh of St. Victor's interest in the natural world in the De tribus diebus, for example, has clear parallels with these thinkers.

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different parts of the brain, these cognitive faculties are actually located in the incorporeal soul.402 In this way, Augustine can acknowledge and accommodate the findings of medical scholars on the brain—in keeping with the principle expressed in Book II of the De doctrina Christiana, that all truth is from God, and nothing true can contradict God—while also allowing him to preserve the location of these cognitive functions in the incorporeal soul.403 Cassiodorus' De anima follows

Augustine's use of the medical tradition by including a couple of medical anecdotes.

But despite these antecedents, William's influence on the later Cistercian de anima tradition was likely the decisive one. In the first instance, William quite concretely supplied the later tradition with a body of medical theory that would have likely been otherwise inaccessible.404 More than this, however, it seems plausible that

William's interest in medicine legitimized later interest in medicine, and sensitized

Cistercian thinkers to the use of medicine in the Fathers. After William had made heavy use of it, Book VII of Augustine's De genesi ad litteram recurs frequently in

Cistercian psychology treatises, and appears to have been a central touchstone. Even

Aelred of Rievaulx seems to have been aware that Augustine drew upon natural

402Cf. Augustine, De genesi ad litteram, VII, 13,20 ff.

403Gary Ferngren has also argued for a complex interplay between Christian thinkers and medical writers in formulating an idea of philanthropy. Ferngren, Medicine and Health Care in Early Christianity.

404 Cf. Isaac of Stella's request to Alcher of Clairvaux for medical information, discussed below.

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philosophy and medicine, though it does not figure prominently in his own Dialogus de anima.405

Understanding William's treatise on the body and the soul, however, requires that we gain a deeper sense of William's unique place in the Cistercian order as both an ardent Cistercian reformer and a product of early twelfth-century school culture.

On the one hand, William has much in common with other Cistercians. He was focused on the inner human being, and expresses concern about the proper ends of learning. He was capable, for example, of a surprising ferocity when he felt that scholarly inquiry had transgressed acceptable boundaries, as in his attack on

William of Conches.

On the other hand, despite the skepticism he expressed towards the schools, he was nevertheless a product of them, and bears their influences.406 As discussed above, William's career began with studies in the cathedral schools of Liège and

Reims. The influence of the schools is evident in his work. He was willing to draw upon the knowledge of Ovid he had received in the schools in writing his Epistola ad fratres de Monte Dei, and we will shortly see how he drew upon recent medical translations in his work on the nature of the body and the soul.407 Furthermore, we

405 Aelred of Rievaulx speaks of "that man of inimitable subtility, who made use of physicis rationibus"—which could refer to explanations of either a natural philosophical or medical nature. Ed. Talbot, 691, who refers to De gen. ad litteram, PL XXXIV, 362, and Bylebyl, "The Medical Meaning of Physica," Osiris 6 (1990), 16-41 on the shifting meaning of physica in the twelfth century.

406 The chronicle of Signy, for example, notes his reputation for learning: "in litterarum sciencia peritissimus habebatur, ita ut septem liberalibus artibus esset sufficienter imbutus." Ed. Delisle, Bibliothèque de l'Ecole des Chartes 55 (Paris, 1894), at 646.

407Perhaps in order to make William seem more modern, scholars have tried to see him as significantly more open to novel bodies of knowledge: Jean-Marie Déchanet and Etienne Gilson both 254

saw earlier that William sharply attacked William of Conches for speaking about nature as a hypostatized, independent force in the operation of the world, considered in isolation from the providential, active role of God in the operation of the cosmos. But William of St.-Thierry's writings themselves contain passages where he speaks of nature as operating in just such an autonomous manner.

The beginning of William's De natura et dignitate amoris, to pick one example, explains the force of love in naturalistic terms. William here defines love as

"a force of the soul, which bears the soul to its place or its end." To explain the mechanism of this force, William turns to natural phenomena, explaining their operation in general, philosophical terms:

Indeed every creature, whether spiritual or corporeal, has both a place to which it is naturally drawn, and a certain natural weight by which it is drawn [in this manner].408

Furthermore, he explains, as the philosopher (philosophus) said truly, weight does not always draw downwards, alluding to the doctrine that air and were drawn upwards to their natural places. Even his evident regard here for the philosophus contrasts with his polemical pronouncements; the philosopher here is clearly being

sought to see a substantial influence of Greek philosophy on his works, and Michel Lemoine's edition of his De natura corporis et anime extensively catalogues William's borrowings from medical translations while being significantly less assiduous in tracing the theological sources and analogues of his thought.

408Ed. Davy, 1, p. 70. "Est amor anime naturali quodam pondere ferens eam in locum vel finem suum. Omnis enim creatura sive spiritualis, sive corporea, et certum habet locum quo naturaliter fertur, et naturale quoddam pondus quo fertur."

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thought of in a positive light, as someone who is able to truthfully determine the state of affairs in the physical world.409

William frames his discussion in this manner to ultimately make the case that the soul has a pondus, or weight, that draws it inexorably to God. The idea is

Augustine's, but one that William gives particular emphasis: he takes it and puts it at the center of his work on the human love for God.410 Furthermore, William's discussion is pervaded with naturalistic language and explanatory appeals to what happens naturally: "naturali quodam pondere," "naturaliter," "naturale quoddam pondus." William's goal is ultimately to explain the inexorable character of the soul's attraction to God, but he puts it in the naturalistic language that was widespread at this point in the twelfth century. It is William's familiarity with contemporary thought about nature, I would like to suggest, that predisposes him to seize upon this naturalistic way of thinking about the soul's relationship with God. All the same, it would be unwise to press this point too hard: William is after all here speaking of the soul's inexorable attraction to God, a clearly Augustinian theme. It is therefore impossible to level a charge against William that he had innovatively attempted to bring physical explanation in where it was inappropriate, as William believed the schoolmaster had done in describing the creation of Eve physice. But it is striking all

409The philosophus in this case seems to be Augustine. Davy notes that this claim seems to refer back to De civ. dei XI, 28. But it is unusual to refer to Augustine as the "philosopher," and it seems more likely—for someone trained in the schools—that William has here misattributed a quotation to Plato.

410De natura et dignitate amoris, ed. Davy 1, p. 70. The Augustinian sources are Conf. XIII, 9,10 and De civ. dei XI, 28.

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the same that William chooses to give this kind of naturalistic metaphor such prominence at the beginning of one of his major works.

In his attack on William of Conches, William had been sharply critical of the schoolmaster's willingness to think of a hypostatized, independently acting natura in matters of the faith.411 But, in a sense, this is just what William of St.-Thierry is doing here. William of St.-Thierry seems to share the tendency of his contemporaries in the schools to think of nature as something independent and operating according to its own principles, and even to think about a wide range of phenomena in just such naturalistic terms. William employed the same kind of reasoning in an even more surprising way in his work on the nature of the body and the soul.

4.5 William's De natura corporis et animae

William of St.-Thierry's work De natura corporis et animae is an extended discussion of the human being, both body and soul. It is divided into two separate sections, and was likely composed in stages; the first section treats the nature of the body, while the second considers the nature of the soul.412 In what follows, I will analyze the sources important passages of the work, while attempting to give some sense of the character and purpose of the work as a whole.

411This is clearest in De erroribus, Ed. Leclercq, 390, lines 281-289, in the discussion of the creation of Adam and Eve secundum physicam.

412 For discussion of the process of composition of the work, cf. below.

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William begins his work with a rich mélange of themes common to twelfth- century thinkers. William begins by noting the Delphic oracle's encouragement to self-knowledge, and adduces a similar saying of Solomon in the Song of Songs. This effort at self-knowledge, William argues, is a part of the contemplation of wisdom

(sapientiae contemplationem). In his usual fashion, however, William is not afraid to take a few jabs at those who pursue natural knowledge in an unedifying way. Those not dwelling in the contemplation of these things will necessarily fall prey to the

"vanity of curiosity" (curiositatis vanitas). Sensation (sensus), he notes, is scarcely sufficient to enable the human being to know himself unless aided by grace.

Furthermore, this knowledge is of no benefit unless it leads the human being to God, to Him who is above. By examining the inner and outer of the human being, the microcosm, William argues that we will proceed to the author of visible and invisible things, and from the body to the soul. This introduction, then, shares many of the features of other works engaged in what Chenu called the "essentially religious discovery of the universe through a discovery of Nature" in the twelfth century: the reference to the ascension from visible things to the invisible, for example, echoes Romans 1:20, and was a commonplace of contemporary thinkers.

Unlike contemporary natural philosophers—and in a very Cistercian manner—

William emphasizes that the first order of business must necessarily be the contemplation of the human being; and the arrangement of his discussion makes clear that the soul of the human being is to be regarded as superior to the outer, corporeal dimension of the human being. William similarly sounds a cautionary note

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by asserting the inadequacy of sensus without the assistance of grace, and by noting that the result of this kind of inquiry is of little use unless it leads to God.

William explains the sources of the work by noting that he will draw partly from the works of philosophers and natural philosophers (philosophi uel physici), and partly from the teachers of the church (ecclesiastici doctores), gathering together what they have said. William even claims that he will merely be collecting the findings and even the very texts of other writers.413 In the De natura corporis, the first of the two major parts of the work, William gives an account of the construction of the body from the four elements and the four humors; and he describes processes in the body such as digestion. In describing these phenomena, he draws extensively from medical works translated recently by Constantine the

African and Alfanus of Salerno.414 As is becoming clear, these texts were beginning to circulate widely in Benedictine monasteries throughout Europe during William's career (in addition to their well-known influence on twelfth-century philosophi and physici), and it may have been due to William's long career as a Benedictine that he had access to these works.415

413 It is usual to take "physicus" in the early twelfth century to mean natural philosopher, but, given that William's sources are medical texts, it may be that this is a very early use of "physicus" to mean medical practitioner. Cf. Adelard of Bath's use of physicus, and Aelred's; but cf. also physicus in William's De erroribus Guillelmi de Conches to clearly mean natural philosopher.

414Some of the medical sources of William's text have been elucidated in the 1988 edition of the De natura corporis et animae by Michel Lemoine. Lemoine posited the existence of a medical florilegium that served as William's immediate source; given the early circulation of these works in Benedictine houses, this may well be unnecessary.

415For a preliminary statement of this research, cf. Green, "Salerno on the Thames," 221ff.

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As discussion of the body progresses, it becomes clear that William's central interest is not simply in recounting a series of physiological processes. Rather, in his discussion of the body William's central concern is with the different powers described in contemporary medical literature: the different virtutes and vires that are at work in the human body. In particular, William is deeply preoccupied with the senses and the operation of the cognitive faculties.416 William acknowledges this attention to the powers of the human mind when he concludes his discussion of the human body.417 William notes that he has had occasion to give an account of the exterior human being. Then he corrects himself, noting that he has also had occasion to talk about some of the features of the inner human being.

At this point, at the conclusion of the De natura corporis, William takes the opportunity to critique the approach of philosophers and physici to the inner human being. He notes that he has discussed those things which philosophers and physici were able to discover by means of experience (experientia) and reason (ratio) in seeking the dignity (dignitas) of human nature. He sharply criticizes them, however, because they have attempted to include the rational soul (animam rationalem) "in the number of these things" (in horum numero)—the rational soul, by which the human is the incorruptible image of God and by means of which the human surpasses all of the animals.

416 Something McGinn asserts of Cistercian de anima texts more generally; cf. Three Treatises, 19.

417§ 48, p. 123, ed. Lemoine; § 10, trans. McGinn, p. 123.

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As in his preface, William's criticism here is somewhat obscure. It is not entirely clear, for example, in what manner these figures have offended William's sensibilities. William criticizes the physici and philosophi for being overly concerned with external matters, and for failing to do justice to the rational soul of the human being. In particular, the target of his criticism is that these naturally inclined thinkers overstep their bounds in attempting to explain the human soul in material terms. As we will discuss in greater detail shortly, one way to interpret this passage is to see it as a defense of Augustine's location of reason in the incorporeal soul.

Teresa Pierre's work on the role of the body in William's thought suggests that

William's concern here is to safeguard thought and will against mechanistic and perhaps astrological threats to its autonomy. On the other hand, and although little unambiguous evidence exists to support this hypothesis, some scholars have seen his interjection here as directed quite specifically against William of Conches.418

Regardless of how we interpret William's displeasure here, it is clear that the incorporeal soul is the subject in the De natura corporis on which he felt obligated to intervene and correct the claims of the philosophers. But there is an uncertainty here, because it is not at all clear that William has truly broken with the physici and philosophi he lambastes.

418 Cf. disc. in Pierre, "That we may glorify Him in our bodies," 206ff. The identification of William's unnamed antagonists here with William of Conches is suggestive, but William claims here that a broader group of physici and philosophi were thinking about the soul in this manner; if his quarrel had been with William (who he had little reluctance to criticize sharply), why wouldn't he have said so directly?

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Many philosophers and medical writers in antiquity had described the activities of the human being in purely material terms, though these controversies had long subsided by the twelfth century. Nevertheless, as earlier scholars on the understanding of the soul have shown, deep problems remained when attempting to explain the connection between the immaterial soul and the physical body.

Augustine had offered one set of answers to these questions in Book VII of his De genesi ad litteram, where he engaged most directly with the immateriality of the soul and its interaction with the body. It is in just this connection that Augustine had turned to medical texts, which allowed him to provide an up-to-date account of cognitive functions, but also to give an account that preserved the dignity of the soul. As recent scholarship has shown, William was deeply influenced by

Augustine's thought on a range of matters, and William's turn to medical texts itself may well be inspired or licensed by Augustine's example. But what is intriguing in

William's discussion of the operation of the brain in the De natura corporis is that he seems to have felt inclined to follow contemporary medical translations instead of

Augustine, while still attempting to maintain some kind of fidelity to Augustine's location of the cognitive faculties in the soul.

Augustine had allowed for the possibility that the cognitive faculties of memory, reason, and will might be associated with different parts of the brain, but he had insisted that these cognitive faculties were themselves incorporeal.

Augustine had insisted that that "the air which is diffused through the obeys the will to move the limbs, but is not itself the will" and "that middle part of the

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brain passes on the message of the movement of the limbs to be held by the memory, but is not itself the memory."419

As noted above, William's condemnation of certain unnamed philosophers in

De natura corporis makes clear that William believed the anima rationalis was indeed incorporeal. But William's discussion of the faculties of the brain shows that he was not entirely faithful to Augustine's conception of the faculties of the soul. He locates both memory and reason in the brain, "reason (ratio) placed in the middle... memory (memoria) in the rear."420 The third major cognitive faculty that accompanies memory and reason is not will, as it had been in Augustine, but imagination (phantasia), as it appears in contemporary medical texts.421 More surprisingly, William makes both memory and imagination corporeal, created by the animal spirit (spiritus animalis) as it passes into the brain. William does not explicitly explain the origin of reason, but he is clear that reason is "contained" in the middle part of the brain,422 and is thus also quite possibly corporeal.423 In making this unexpected break with Augustine, it is not simply the case that William

419De genesi ad litteram, VII.19,25, trans. Hill, p. 336.

420Ed. Lemoine, § 26, p. 99.

421This comes from Constantine the African's discussion of cognition.

422 Trans. McGinn, 114, ed. Lemoine, 97: "inter quos medius uentriculus rationem continet et intellectum."

423If reason is "contained," it seems that it cannot be part of the soul, which is mysteriously present in the entire human body. Later in the work, there seems to be a contrast between reason and the animus/mens, what McGinn translates as the "intellectual soul." The lack of clarity about the precise origin of reason in the may be significant; it may be that reason descends into this part of the human brain, even that this corporeal kind of reason is nevertheless a dimension of the image and likeness of God in the human being.

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has forgotten his Augustine.424 His employment of sensation and movement in the same passage strongly suggests that William has Augustine's discussion of the incorporeal nature of the human soul in the back of his mind. Augustine had emphasized that sensation and movement were to be found in the front and back of the brain respectively; and William makes room for sensation and movement

(sensum and motum) in the brain as well. But where Augustine had wanted to keep memory and reason incorporeal, to preserve memory, reason, and will as a

Trinitarian analogy, William locates reason (ratio) and memory (memoria), as well as imagination (phantasia), in the brain itself. William's account of these cognitive functions is strikingly concrete: each of these cognitive functions, even reason, has its own lobe in the brain:

Each of its functions has its own dwelling, a certain lobe in which its power is contained. Between them is the middle lobe, which contains reason and discernment.425

Even though his critique of the physici and philosophi suggests that William felt other thinkers had gone too far in materializing the anima rationalis, then, his discussion of the brain is nevertheless closer to contemporary medical texts than

Augustine in several crucial respects.

The De natura animae, by contrast, gives an account of the soul that is much closer to Augustine's. As has been mentioned, the De natura animae is the second part of the work that has come down to us as the De natura corporis et animae;

424 Recent research on William by Cvetkovic, for example, shows that he knew his Augustine remarkably well.

425Trans. McGinn, 114.

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furthermore, William's own account makes clear that the two parts of the finished work were composed separately.426 In this division of the work, William maintains that humans have access to the Trinity by means of the characteristics of the human soul, much as Augustine had, and even talks about the human soul as an image of the

Trinity. In this section of the work, he describes the aspects of the soul that reflect the Trinity as mens, cogitatio, and voluntas.427 Mens and animus seem to occupy much the same role as the rational part of the soul, and also seem to be the part of the soul William referred to earlier as the anima rationalis. Furthermore, he strenuously argues against philosophers who wanted to place "intellectual power"

( nte ect em… t tem) in "certain parts of the body," placing the soul in the brain or the heart; William insists, rather, that "the intellectual soul must be seen to govern all the individual parts by a mysterious power and union with each."428

Despite the proliferation of terminology between the two divisions of the work and its compositional history, there may nevertheless be reason to believe that William sought to keep the terminology of both sections distinct. We may be able to discern a hierarchy, for example, between the incorporeal rational soul and corporeal reason, located in the brain. When discussing the hand, for example, he says that

426 In the Epistola ad fratres de Monte Dei, William explains: "Est aliud opusculum nostrum De natura animae, scriptum sub nomine Iohannis ad Theophilum, cui ut de toto homine, quasi congruere uidebatur, aliquid perstringerem, praemisi etiam De natura corporis, hoc ex eorum qui corporibus medentur, illud autem ex eorum qui curandis animabus inuigilant libris decerpens." (Quoted in the introduction of Lemoine, De n t e co p et e ’âme, 22.)

427Ed. Lemoine, § 101, p. 191; trans. McGinn, p. 144.

428Trans. McGinn, 130. 265

"with the hand serving the mouth, the mouth serves reason and through it the intellectual soul which is spiritual and incorporeal."429

All the same, it is not entirely clear how well systematized and integrated

William's account of the functions of the brain and the soul is, especially across both the De natura anime and the De natura corporis. It is certainly complex: in the brain, two systems of localized functions coexist, with Augustinian sensation and motion crowding in with the Constantinian imagination, reason, and memory. Furthermore, all of these cognitive functions (and the spirits of the body in general) are the instruments of the soul, which has its own faculties. In its complexity, it is unclear whether each part of this schema has a distinct role—particularly whether the corporeal reason and the intellectual soul (or rational soul) have clearly understood roles, or whether the division between the two is vague or ad hoc (or even, given the compositional history of the work, entirely incompatible). At times, for example, the corporeal reason seems to play little role, as when it is an intermediary for thought in the intellectual soul and its expression by means of the body.430

Nevertheless, the close consideration of the features of William's interpretation brings the originality of his text into sharp focus. The De natura corporis is not merely derivative, as he had claimed in the preface. It is not a simple regurgitation of the doctrines of the philosophi and the physici, nor is it neatly pious and traditional. His interpretation of cognition cuts against Augustine's in De

429Trans. McGinn, 131.

430It may be that the corporeal reason is meant to exercise a kind of "executive function" in the body, but it is difficult to substantiate this possible interpretation.

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trinitate, where much of the emphasis had been on the incorporeal nature of cognition, and Book 10 of Augustine's work in particular, which discussed how memory, reason, and will served as a privileged way that human beings can come to understand the nature of the Trinity.

There are two ways to gloss William's divergence from Augustine here. The first is simply to temper the current scholarly enthusiasm for what might be called a

"hyper-Augustinian" interpretation of William's thought. Reacting to figures like

Gilson and Déchanet and their claims for Greek influence on William, scholars such as David Be and Ca men Cvetković have st ong y emphasized the Augustinian character of William's thought—to a degree, it seems at times, that William is reduced to a mere echo of Augustine.431 In many of his other works, of course,

William does hew much more closely to Augustine—even, at times, following

Augustine's emphasis on memory-reason-will as a means of approach and unity with God. Furthermore, we may be able to detect an increasing Augustinian influence as William's career continued.432 But in the De natura corporis et animae,

William's approach seems to be much more in line with that of Gregory of Nyssa

(whom he knew in Eriugena's translation) and Nemesios of Emesa (whom he knew in the translation of Alfanus of Salerno). Nemesios, in particular, seems to be a particularly intriguing parallel for William; like William, he had combined a wide

431 By contrast, Teresa Pierre's analysis of the De natura corporis et anime in her 1997 dissertation on the body in William focuses on the influence of Gregory of Nyssa; she thus implicitly follows Gilson and Déchanet, but with more careful attention to the sources likely available to William.

432 The Epistola ad fratres de Monte-Dei emphasizes memory, reason, and will as a means of approach to God; cf. disc. by Poirel in the Oxford Handbook of the Trinity, 173-4.

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range of theological, philosophical, and medical materials, in a way that is richly textured but also daring at times.

The second way to interpret William's stance is to reconsider the dating of the work, and its first half in particular. Scholars have long been agreed that this work was a product of William's maturity and, in fact, a work that he composed after he had retired to write at Signy in 1135. McGinn, for example, notes that a consensus exists among modern scholars that the work was composed at Signy, and suggests that we may very tentatively date the work to around 1140.433 But there may be compelling reasons to rethink this assumption. First, and in line with Bernard's criticisms of medicine, twelfth-century Cistercians appear to have had very little access to medical works. There seems to be very little new medical knowledge that enters the Cistercian de anima tradition after William, and the eagerness with which

Cistercians sometimes inquire after medical information may suggest it was not readily available.434 Records of their libraries, too, contain very few medical works, and I have been able to find no evidence that would suggest that new medical translations were available within Cistercian houses.435 It may have been difficult, therefore, for William to get access to new medical translations while at Signy,

433McGinn, Three Treatises, 28, and n. 118.

434 As in Isaac of Stella's Epistola de anima, where he requests further medical information from Alcher of Clairvaux.

435 Cf. Eliza Glaze, "The Perforated Wall." We will be able to say whether Cistercians were reading new medical translations with greater certainty upon the completion of the twelfth-century medical manuscript project headed by Monica Green. We have to wonder whether the manuscripts that William is reputed to have brought to Signy included any medical works; cf. disc. in Déchanet, William of St.-Thierry: The Man and his Work, Cistercian Press, 1972.

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unless he had brought medical texts with him. Work on twelfth-century medical manuscripts, however, is revealing that Benedictine monasteries in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries were a privileged channel for the transmission and reception of new medical translations.436 This fact makes it seem likely that the first part of William's De natura corporis et animae was written, at least in part, during his tenure as a Benedictine monk at St.-Niçaise or St.-Thierry; and his experimentation in balancing medical and theological authorities may derive from an earlier period in his life, when he was less hypersensitive to theological impropriety.

On the other hand, scholars have been right to note that thematically

William's De natura corporis et animae is very much of a piece with the Cistercian focus on the inner man. It seems likeliest, therefore, that the work was composed in stages, with an earlier précis of the new medical learning combined at a later date

(perhaps even at Signy) with a discussion of the human soul. Either way, however, it seems clear that William's approach to Augustine in this work is significantly less doctrinaire than many current interpretations would suggest.

In the De natura corporis et animae as it has come down to us (and particularly in its first section) William attempts a complicated balancing act between the patristic tradition and contemporary medical theory, between the

Augustinian picture of cognition and the soul and the account of the brain and its faculties in the translations of Constantine the African. In this work, as in his attack

436 Green, "Salerno on the Thames," 221ff.

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on William of Conches, William insists on the proper ends of knowledge, and makes a certain amount of noise in critiquing the philosophi and physici. In practice, however, his text actually has much in common with William of Conches. In his

Dragmaticon, William of Conches had contended that it was permissible to critique the fathers of the church like Bede when they spoke in matters of physica. William of

St.-Thierry's attitude in the De natura corporis is something very much like the schoolmaster's: his work implicitly suggests that Augustine was, in fact, incorrect in describing reason and memory as incorporeal, and that recent medical translations were closer to the mark.437

Furthermore, the consideration of medicine helps us to better understand

William's relationship to Bernard of Clairvaux, and to appreciate him on his own terms. The consideration of the works of both men allows us to see that a genuine contrast existed between William and Bernard in their attitudes towards medicine.

It is too simple, therefore, to think of William of St.-Thierry as "perfectly orthodox," as Déchanet did; or to privilege his polemics and see him as Bernard's attack dog.438

While William and Bernard both indulged in cutting invective at times, William appears to have had a more expansive sense of the value of learning. Bernard, on the other hand, was so rigidly self-controlled and negatively disposed towards medicine that he scarcely allowed himself to speak of it metaphorically.

437We may of course have to qualify what William really means by the term ratio; it may end up being something much more humble than the Augustinian understanding of the term.

438 For the former, cf. Déchanet, William of Saint Thierry: The Man and His Work, (Cistercian Publications), 1972; in From Paradise to Paradigm, Otten refers to William as "the academic spy" of Bernard (p. 84).

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4.6 Natural Knowledge in the Twelfth Century and the "Conflict Model"

The example of William of St.-Thierry shows with particular clarity the place of natural knowledge and naturalistic ways of thinking in the twelfth century.

William's discussions of the soul's relationship to God are pervaded with the language and imagery of natural philosophy, and his account of the soul's relationship to the human body in the De natura corporis draws upon the medical translations of the eleventh century to give an account of the soul and the body that is Augustinian but also deeply and surprisingly marked by contemporary medical theory. This use of natural knowledge in William, the poster child of theological conservatism in the twelfth century, should prompt us to reconsider our narratives about natural philosophy and theology in the period. In particular, William of St.-

Thierry serves as a cautionary example that we are ill-served by reducing the thinkers of the long twelfth century to a neat dichotomy, as much of the earlier scholarship has done.

This tendency to see twelfth-century thought as characterized by conflict has distracted us from the central intellectual trends in twelfth-century thought. The effort to understand the soul, for example, was a central project in the twelfth century, across a wide range of thinkers: new texts on these questions were produced, texts on the soul circulated in large numbers of manuscripts, and these texts received attentive commentary. Gibson calls the soul one of the "characteristic preoccupations of twelfth-century Platonism."439 The canon regular Hugh of St.

439Gibson, "The Study of the Timaeus in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries," 189.

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Victor wrote an influential work on the soul, De unione spiritus et corporis,440 but he also brought it up at the beginning of his educational work, the Didascalicon, just after discussing the nature of philosophy. Quoting Porphyry, Hugh notes that "the most excellent good of philosophy has been prepared for the human soul," and thus any consideration of philosophy must necessarily begin with a consideration of the soul and its powers.441 He continues by discussing the three powers of the soul, quoting in extenso from Boethius.442 Furthermore, De anima texts circulated in immense numbers: there were at least 61 copies of Cassiodorus' De anima (as a separate treatise) in the twelfth century, and quite a few more that circulated with the other twelve books of his Variae, while works of Augustine on the soul were even more ubiquitous. Translators in both Spain and Italy undertook the translation of works on the soul, and these translations were eagerly taken up.443 William of St.-

Thierry's interest in the soul and its relationship to the body, therefore, was part of a much wider preoccupation with the soul among twelfth-century thinkers, whatever

440 Ed. Piazzoni, "Il 'De unione spiritus et corporis' di Ugo di San Vittore," Studi medievali, 3rd ser., 20 (1980), 861-888. The work's influence is noted by McGinn, Three Treatises, 88, who draws attention to the influence of the work on Isaac of Stella.

441Trans. Taylor, §2, p. 48.

442§ 3, 48-50.

443 Works bearing on the soul were translated by Gerard of Cremona, for example, and Dominicus Gundisalvus seems to have taken a decided interest in the soul: he was responsible for the translation of the De differentia spiritus et animae from Arabic into Latin, as well as the considerable body of Avicenna's psychological works. Furthermore, Gundisalvus wrote two original works on the soul, a De anima and a treatise De immortalitate animae. In Italy, scholars undertook the translation of Aristotle's De anima, and theological works by Nemesios of Emesa, John of Damascus, and the Greek Fathers, with a wealth of information on the soul and the nature of the human being.

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their institutional allegiances.444 But despite the ubiquity of the interest in the soul in the twelfth century, the subject has received little attention from modern scholars, and much editing and even basic surveying work remains to be done. Part of this is surely because twelfth-century works on the soul relate awkwardly to modern disciplinary boundaries; but this is also because we have employed unfruitful ways of thinking about the thought of the twelfth century.

In fact, scholarship on the twelfth century even reveals traces of a partisan approach, where some figures are seen as praiseworthy, and others as problematic—whether the divide is between laudable, forward-thinking thinkers and their reactionary antagonists, or between the defenders of tradition and reckless innovators who would imperil it. In the case of natural philosophy, this has resulted in an attempt to divide twelfth-century thinkers between those who are on the side of a novel conception of nature and the world, and those who are mired in

(or attempting to preserve) a "conservative" view of the world.445 Approbation and disapprobation often lurk just beneath the surface of scholarly debate, and modern preconceptions have shaped the way we see figures of the period. To pick two leading scholars, Marcia Colish's treatment of the Chartrians in her magisterial Peter

Lombard is uncharacteristically glib and dismissive; she even calls Thierry of

444 In her 1997 dissertation on William of St.-Thierry, Teresa Pierre makes the reasonable suggestion that we should reframe twelfth-century De anima treatises as being as much as about the body as the soul per se.

445The description is Valerie Flint's, with perceptible animus, for Honorius' Imago Mundi. Chenu's conception of an earlier "symbolic mentality" posits a similar irreconcilable chasm between the symbolic mentality and those who share a new, rational conception of the world. For more on the problematic nature of mentalities, cf. G.E.R. Lloyd, Demystifying Mentalities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990).

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Chartres' Hexameron "unsettling," even though we have little evidence contemporary readers found the work objectionable.446 From the opposite side,

Richard Dales describes Thierry's Hexameron as "startlingly daring and original," but he tellingly omits any discussion of the clear theological content of the work.447

There may even be some justification in seeing this partisan fight over twelfth- century thinkers as a kind of proxy debate over modern science, between a defense of scientific inquiry and critique of its Promethean hubris. Similarly, this interpretation echoes the "conflict model" of the relationship between religion and science.448

Such a division between conservatives and innovators is problematic for several reasons: for one, it inclines us to think of the natural philosophers as lacking theological commitments, and theologians as intrinsically opposed to any sort of natural knowledge and nature study; and it obscures the many commonalities shared across this putative divide. To consider only one side of the problem, this dichotomization has meant that the theologians of the period have been considered to be monolithically opposed to the scientific or natural philosophical inquiry, ignoring the fact that many theological thinkers were also preoccupied with the

446 I: 304. In defending this interpretation, she has recourse in the first instance to Clerval, who Southern's research on Chartres has shown to be quite unreliable.

447 Dales, "A Twelfth-Century Concept of the Natural Order," 183-4.

448For more about different ways of conceptualizing the science-religion divide, including a refinement of Ian Barbour's fourfold model of science and religion, cf. Stenmark, "Ways of Relating Science and Religion," in The Cambridge Companion to Science and Religion, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 278-295. In some ways, it may be justified to think of Chenu's shift from a symbolic mentality to a scientific mentality as a kind of sublimation of the conflict model.

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natural world. Honorius Augustodunensis' Imago Mundi, for example, synthesizes a great deal of information about the physical world. While the work includes a great deal of traditional material, including traditional etymologies, parts of the work may suggest that Honorius was engaged in reasoning about natural phenomena on his own initiative.449 Similarly, in his De tribus diebus, Hugh of St. Victor drew upon works of Stoic and Platonic physics in order to demonstrate the providential arrangement of the physical world, as Dominique Poirel has recently shown.450

Furthermore, the twelfth century saw a profusion of texts discussing the account of creation in Genesis. Some authors (such as Guibert of Nogent) turned to

Genesis for moral and allegorical meanings, but many sought to apply natural knowledge to the interpretation of the six days of creation.451 As is well known, for example, Thierry of Chartres sought to explain the account of creation in Genesis as a series of natural phenomena; he saw the creation of the dry land, for example, as a thoroughly natural process that occurred after the evaporation of some of the earth's waters. The application of knowledge about the natural world to the interpretation of Genesis was more widespread than just Thierry, however. A brief

449 Many of Honorius' sources have been traced by Valerie Flint, but a more sympathetic reading of the work might better describe the considered use of sources in the workand perhaps even uncover independent speculation. Honorius' own reasoning may be able to be found in I.47, where he makes the somewhat strange claim that just as heat comes from fire, cold comes from water.

450 Hugh of St. Victor, De tribus diebus, ed. Poirel, Brepols: Turnhout, 2002, passim. Despite Poirel's findings, it is worthwhile to heed Boyd Coolman's comment that Hugh seems to view the creation of the world (the opera conditionis) as of lesser dignity than the work of restoration accomplished in human history. Cf. Coolman, The Theology of Hugh of St. Victor: An Interpretation, at 33-4.

451 Fo discussion, cf. F ei e gs, “The Medieva Latin Hexame on f om Bede to G osseteste," (PhD diss., University of Southern California, 1981), at 91ff. For discussion of Guibert, cf. 94ff.

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example from Abelard's Expositio in Hexameron, however, will help us to appreciate the complexities of applying knowledge about nature and the natural order to the interpretation of Genesis in the period.

Abelard's Expositio has largely been written off by modern scholars because its goals, commitments, and conclusions fail to conform to modern preconceptions.

Scholars of theology and exegesis have found Abelard's attempt to preserve the literal six days of creation and his furnishing of the work with a moral interpretation traditional and uninteresting, while scholars of natural philosophy in the twelfth century have found Abelard's insistence on a sharp separation between God's initial creation and the subsequent operation of the natural order vieux jeu when compared to the much more novel approach of Thierry of Chartres' hexameral work.452 The work is richer than these characterizations suggest, however.

In his discussion of the growth of the grass on the third day, Abelard notes that in the current operation of the physical world the growth of plants requires a certain temperate quality (temperies) that we experience in spring. But during the world's creation, he notes,

I do not see at all in what manner (qua ratione) the world might have had this temperate quality that we now experience in spring, since the sun was not yet created, from the approach of which this temperate quality is now produced. Indeed, the world seems to have existed in a colder state than on wintry days now when the sun heats the earth a small amount. For these reasons, therefore, according to the nature of things, there is no question that the earth would have been able to

452For the former, cf. Colish, Peter Lombard, I:323ff.; for the latter, cf. Dales, "A Twelfth- Century Concept of the Natural Order," 181ff.

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germinate or preserve the existence [of plants]. But, just as we noted above, in those works of the six first days only the will of God obtained, when even nature itself was being created.453

Abelard is here quite attentive to the actual text of Genesis; he is engaged in negotiating between his belief that the actual process of creation can be recovered from the text of Genesis and a strong conception of the regular order and operation of the physical world. In this case, the statement in Genesis 1:11 that at God's command the earth brought forth the green grass, that which bears seed, and the fruit tree, should be interpreted to mean that these things did literally happen, even though the lack of the sun complicates the interpretation of the text.

Thierry, by contrast, had argued that the creation of matter (which he locates at the very beginning of creation) necessarily implies the creation of celestial fire; and that the celestial fire implies the existence of both heat and light. Thierry argues that this heat alone, combined with moisture and earth, was sufficient to enable the creation of earth and plants.454 By contrast, Abelard insists that the text of Genesis gives no mention of the sun. He appears to believe it is not the warmth of fire alone that is necessary for plant life, but the temperateness uniquely produced by the sun.

It is perhaps overstated to see Abelard's text as a response to Thierry, but we can see that Abelard's contrasting approach here is informed by careful reading and a clear sense of the operation of the natural world, not some kneejerk

453"Sed profecto non uideo qua ratione hanc temperiem, quam nunc experimur in uere, mundus habere posset, sole nondum condito, ex cuius accessu ipsa nunc fit temperies." Ed. Romig, § 149, 38.

454 Cf. Häring, "The Creation and Creator of the World in Thierry of Chartres and Clarembald of Arras," AHDLMA 22 (1955), 137-216, at 149.

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conservatism.455 He believed that there must be clear periods of "then" and "now" because the account of creation given in Genesis is problematic secundum physicam: how can the earth produce plants before the creation of the sun which we know is necessary for their germination? This brief example will not serve as a comprehensive analysis of Abelard's rich work; like the place of medical knowledge in William of St.-Thierry, however, it suggests that greater effort is needed to excavate the role of natural and medical knowledge in the twelfth century.

Differences between natural philosophers and theologians in the period certainly did exist, but to focus exclusively on divisions or disciplinary boundaries is to come at the question from the wrong direction, and to mischaracterize the thought of the period.

A few figures did resist the application of knowledge about the natural world and the human body to theological matters, but closer inspection reveals that we should qualify our assessment of the status and the stances of these thinkers. As we saw earlier in the chapter, William of St.-Thierry was unstinting in his abuse of those who pursued knowledge in an unedifying way, but he clearly did regard some investigation of nature (and the nature of the human being in particular) as edifying.

Dronke points out that some figures believed that "the opening of Genesis, read literally, invalidated any attempt at a scientific explanation of creation: creation was a miracle of God's goodness, unaccountable and inaccessible to human

455 On the other hand, Colish has suggested that, despite Abelard's distance from their concerns, he "was well aware of the Chartrain project and responsive to some of its concerns." Peter Lombard, vol. 1, p.323.

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reasoning."456 It is suggestive, however, that the exponents of this belief were not influential, central figures, but minor scholars like Arnold of Bonneval and Rahewin of Freising.

Rather than being riven by a conflict between traditionalists and innovators, then, there is evidence that twelfth-century thought is characterized by deep commonalities in the attitudes and assumptions of many thinkers, across whatever nascent disciplinary boundaries existed. These thinkers investigated many of the same questions—such as the nature of the soul or the account of creation in

Genesis—and displayed some of the same methods and assumptions in doing so. As we have seen, both William of Conches and William of St.-Thierry seem to have believed that it was licit to revise patristic thought in the light of current medical or scientific knowledge. The commonality between these two men is simply part of a much broader conviction in twelfth-century thought that theology and natural knowledge should exert a reciprocal influence on one another; in texts of the period, discussions of the natural world frequently transitioned into discussions of God

(and vice versa).457 Romans 1:20 and its claim that the invisible things of God might be understood through the creation were ubiquitous in the twelfth century; across genres and disciplines, thinkers used it to justify their belief that the (textual and theoretical) investigation of the natural world might lead to the better knowledge of

456Dronke, "New Approaches," 137.

457 This is true even among natural philosophers; Adelard of Bath's Questiones naturales, for example, claims that the natural philosophy of that work would be followed by a work on theological matters.

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God.458 (In a more mystical spirit, this verse even seems to have been important for

Bernard of Clairvaux.459) This emphasis on investigation of the natural world as a licit form or corollary of theological inquiry is a marked shift from earlier centuries, and is remarkably pervasive in the twelfth century.460 The most compelling reason that it is problematic to see twelfth-century thought as split between natural philosophy and theology, therefore, (and by extension between science and religion) is because it is to impose a modern conceptual division on an intellectual world where no such division existed—twelfth-century thinkers were clear that the investigation of the natural world and the investigation of God were deeply complementary.

4.7 Conclusion

Over half a century ago, Chenu argued for the centrality of the "essentially religious discovery of the universe through a discovery of Nature" in the twelfth century, and it is a kind of scholarly commonplace that the investigation of the natural world and reflection on the creation were central, perhaps even dominant interests in the long twelfth century. At the same time, however, the subject has

458 A quick search in the Brepols Library of Latin Texts (A) for "inuisibilia dei," for example, shows just how ubiquitous this verse was in the twelfth century (perhaps especially among those educated in northern French schools), cited across a wide variety of genres by theologians like Peter Lombard, philosophers like Peter Abelard, mystics like Richard of St. Victor, monks like Bernard of Clairvaux and Aelred of Rievaulx. Furthermore, the currency of this verse in the period contrasts to its earlier neglect, and to its lesser importance later (although it seems to have been a favorite verse of Aquinas).

459 The same LLT-A search for "inuisibilia dei" (cf. previous note) turns up 17 references to this verse in Bernard's works.

460 Cf. Dronke, "New Approaches to the School of Chartres," 137.

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received little comprehensive treatment. In part, the careful elucidation of this subject has eluded our grasp because these texts sit so awkwardly within modern disciplinary boundaries and so thoroughly confound our expectations. Texts by ostensible natural philosophers shift from natural philosophy to ethics to theology, while Plato's Timaeus was read for its lessons on friendship as well as its account of the creation of the world.

Furthermore, the varied institutional and intellectual landscape of the twelfth century complicates any effort to give a synoptic overview of this theme in the twelfth century, as texts were clearly conditioned by the contexts in which they were produced: Abelard wrote a philosophically and theologically rich interpretation of the account of creation in Genesis, for example, after a career in the heady intellectual climate of the Parisian schools; while Honorius drew upon the rich bibliographical resources of a Benedictine monastery in order to create the modest Imago mundi for the education of the pastorate. These two works are part of the same phenomenon, but it would be a mistake to overlook their differences. At the same time, the content of these works belies any easy reduction to institutional context: the innovative, even radical, schoolman produced a work that was deeply indebted to patristic exegesis, while the pastorally minded monk was strongly influenced by the Eriugenian conception of the natural world, and probably recent

Platonic thought as well.

As the number of figures cited in this discussion suggests, the discovery of the universe and of the natural world in the twelfth century (as Chenu dubbed it) is a vast subject. Nevertheless, this chapter has suggested that we do violence to the

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intellectual life of the long twelfth century if we reduce the thought of the period to a tidy cleavage between conservatives and innovators. Among others, the example of

William of St.-Thierry has shown that, even for a well-known polemicist, these lines were still unclear, and that scholars were engaged in coming to terms with what must have seemed like a flood of both new and old texts with only an inchoate sense of disciplinary and theological boundaries. Thinkers were grounded and shaped by particular institutions, but—for the twelfth century in particular—it is too simple to assume that intellectual commitments map onto institutional context in any simple way. Rather, we gain a richer sense of the terrain if we attend to the questions and concerns that were driving inquiry; listen for assumptions that underlay the debates in the period; and attempt to grasp the elusive, protean texts of the twelfth century in all of their complexity.

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CONCLUSION

In the sixth book of his Anglicanus Ortus, Henry of Huntington gives eloquent voice to many of the features of intellectual life in the long twelfth century. The prologue of the book begins by quoting one of the most famous lines of Virgil's second Georgic, "Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," [Happy is he who can know the causes of things] endorsing a search for causes widely shared by twelfth- century thinkers. Rather than continuing the quotation with Virgil's portentous, hexametrical sentiments about fate, however, Henry rounds off his elegiac couplet with a claim that it is the causes of health that are especially worthy of scrutiny.

Later in the book, Henry continues to discuss the medical care of the human body by providing a substantial amount of material drawn from Constantine the African's

Liber Graduum, a work that had been translated from Arabic approximately half a century earlier. But even though, as we have seen, Constantine sought to give his work a Greek veneer, Henry's Constantinian material is presented by an anonymous bearded figure who offers to supplement Henry's own material with "quod Arabs quondam, quod Serus et Yndus/ Inter eos peregrinantes docuere." ["What the Arab once taught, and what the Chinese and Indian, travelling among them." (trans.

Black)] Constantine's information is presented here as having both ancient

(quondam) and exotic roots, deriving from the teachings of Arabs, Indians, and the

Chinese. (Moreover, given the anonymity of this figure, it is unclear if Henry realized

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the Liber graduum had been composed by Constantine.461) In explaining his choice of spices, Henry alludes to the exotic origins of the spices in this section: those known to this mysterious bearded figure, he says, are unknown both to Henry and his audience. Moreover, these Constantinian teachings are quite nearly philosophical:

Henry at first confuses this bearded, "learned father" (docte pater) with or someone from the family of the Stoic philosopher Chrysippus. This, then, is how

Henry captures the appeal of Constantine's texts: as philosophical, exotic, and rather mysterious.462

The interest in Constantine's texts was not confined to Henry, however, as they circulated in remarkable numbers and among a surprising range of readers. In the previous chapter, we saw the way that the Benedictine and then Cistercian monk William of St.-Thierry incorporated Constantine's account of cognition and the human mental functions into his De natura corporis—even when this contradicted theological authorities like Augustine. Henry and William illustrate, then, the resonance of and even excitement that Constantine's translations found in the first half of the twelfth century. At the same time, however, they demonstrate the multivalent attractions of Constantine's texts: where William responded to the

461Fo this point, cf. Winston B ack, “‘ Wi Add What the A a Once Taught’: Constantine the Af ican in No the n Eu opean Medica Ve se,” in Herbs and Healers from the Ancient Mediterranean through the Medieval West: Essays in Honor of John M. Riddle, edited by Anne Van Arsdall and Timothy Graham (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), 153–186, who points out (158) that medical poets only rarely cite Constantine by name.

462For more on Henry's poem, cf. the work's edition and commentary, Winston Black, Anglicanus Ortus: A Verse Herbal of the Twelfth Century, ed. Winston Black (Toronto: Pontifical nstitute of Mediaeva Studies, 2012) as we as A.G. Rigg, “Hen y of Huntingdon’s He a ,” Mediaeval Studies 65 (2003): 213–92; for its use of Constantine, cf. B ack, “‘ Wi Add What the A a Once Taught’."

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philosophical depth of the Pantegni, Henry appears to have been attracted by the promise of new, exotic knowledge in Constantine's Liber graduum. Both men illustrate vital aspects of twelfth-century thought: William shows the developing maturation and sophistication of twelfth-century thinkers, while Henry's attraction to the knowledge of the Liber graduum echoes the evident desire of many twelfth century thinkers to look beyond the boundaries of the Latin West to find knowledge that was apparently both ancient and exotic. What is more, medicine and medical texts appear to have figured prominently in this landscape. Although we are only beginning to grasp the full scope of these developments, in this period medical practice appears to have become increasingly professionalized, increasingly textual and sophisticated, and increasingly influential in the culture more widely.

As we saw in Chapter 1, moreover, the early twelfth-century enthusiasm for medicine in the Latin West offers a surprising, suggestive parallel with contemporary Byzantium. In eleventh and twelfth century Byzantium, medicine went from being an occasional object of study for intellectuals to a dominant interest—even a craze—in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries as Byzantine intellectuals were eager to read medical works and to show off their medical knowledge. What is surprising about this intense interest, however, is that it does not appear to have resulted in any close relationship with the pragmatic, apparently untheoretical world of Byzantine medical practice. Only a handful of medical practitioners entered the world of polite Byzantine letters, for example, and no commentaries were produced on medical texts (despite the contemporary flourishing of commentary production). In this context, contemporary efforts to

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appoint teachers of medicine take on a different light: it seems that Byzantine elites

(and the emperor in particular) were concerned to foster the teaching of medicine as part of an effort to remake Byzantine medicine as a textual discipline. We have little evidence that this effort succeeded, however, and it is not until the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries that we have indisputable evidence, in Ioannes Aktouarios, for a Byzantine medical practitioner who combined medical practice with social prominence, literary ability, and a grounding in the textual tradition of Byzantine medicine.

This eleventh and twelfth century enthusiasm appears to have been only a temporary efflorescence, then, but it grew out of a long tradition of Greek thinkers who made use of medicine: for centuries, in fact, theologians—including Gregory of

Nyssa, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Nemesios of Emesa—used medical texts to inform their theological and anthropological discussions, while later writers like the mysterious monk Meletios composed a work on human and physiology, drawing heavily on medical works by Galen and others and Nemesios’ theological anthropology.463 In the Greek East, however, wide-ranging polymaths like Michael

Psellos remained the intellectual ideal, and figures often pursued medical interests in tandem with other subjects.464

463Meletios has often been dated earlier, but Moreno Morani, La Tradizione Manoscritta del “ e N t Hom n ” Neme o (Milan: Vita e pensiero, 1981), 147-55 has shown that the evidence of Nemesios' manuscripts (which Meletios used) means he must be placed after the twelfth or thirteenth century.

464Gregory Chioniades, for example, played an important role in the history of astronomy and pursued a career in the church, but also appears to have taught medicine during one of his brief 286

For centuries, intellectual life in the Latin West retained many commonalities with Byzantium: study and learning were carried on in monasteries and local schools, and most subjects were studied sporadically and in isolation as generalist intellectuals followed their interests where they led. As in the East, medicine was an occasional object of study. Monks, in particular, were enjoined to care for the sick by chapter 36 of the Regula Benedicti; this cannot automatically be equated with the pursuit of medicalized cure and the study of medical texts, but it might lead naturally in that direction.465 The use of medicine by thinkers was perhaps more muted in the Latin than the Greek tradition, but influential thinkers like Augustine and Cassiodorus had made use of medical texts at crucial points in their discussions of the nature of the soul, and these patristic influences helped to ensure the continuing privilege of classical medicine. Augustine and Cassiodorus even drew on medical discussions of dramatic brain injuries to inform their understanding of cognition.

In southern Italy, in particular, the prestige and sophistication of classical medicine was not lost on the monks of the rich, influential monastery of Monte

Cassino, whether due to the long-standing appeal of ancient medicine or direct influence from the Byzantine capital. As discussed in Chapter 2, the course of the eleventh century saw the monastery position itself as enjoying a unique link to the

sojourns in Constantinople. Cf. L. G. Weste ink, “La p ofession de foi de G égoi e Chioniadès,” Revue des Études Byzantines 38 (1980): 233–245.

465Fo the medica manusc ipts of ea y medieva monaste ies, cf. F o ence E iza G aze, “The Perforated Wall: The Ownership and Circulation of Medical Books in Medieval Europe, ca. 800-1200” (PhD disseration, Duke University, 1999).

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classical past: its monks composed classicizing hagiography, drew attention to the ancient roots of the monastery, and made numerous, often quite luxurious copies of ancient texts. Moreover, this cultivation of the past had tangible results, by allowing

Monte Cassino to make claims of privilege and possession over churches, monasteries, and lands across a wide swath of southern Italy. During the Norman conquests in southern Italy, moreover, its ostensible antiquity and real power and influence meant that Monte Cassino was ideally positioned to serve as an arbiter of regional legitimacy, and the monastery duly benefited from Norman largesse. In this charged context, Constantine's extensive program of translations played a substantial role in the monastery's cultivation of the classical past. By omitting their

Arabic sources and playing up his access to classical authorities like Galen and

Hippocrates, these translations further contributed to the "historical foreshortening" that helped to ensure Monte Cassino's dominant place in southern

Italy. In return, however, Monte Cassino's wealth, its active scriptorium, and its influence over and connections to a wide network of monasteries ensured the wide circulation of Constantine's texts in the twelfth century.

With their proliferation in the long twelfth century, however, these medical texts came to play a particularly important role as a source of medical knowledge.

For example, even though it does not appear to have served as a classroom textbook, Constantine's Viaticum was widely copied in the twelfth century.466

466Despite its many copies, the Viaticum received few commentaries and glosses in comparison with other texts; it seems to have been overshadowed by Gariopontus' Passionarius in particular.

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Constantine's works circulated quickly to English monasteries and then to a wider readership, and the Viaticum appears to have been a natural fit for cathedral schools and monasteries in need of a synoptic treatment of a wide range of ailments in a single codex, with substantial attention to therapeutics. The monks of Hildesheim, for example, sought to produce an "enhanced Viaticum" by combining Constantine's text with supplementary moral apothegms and the empirical findings of their teacher Northungus.467 Later in the century, Hildegard of Bingen made similar use of

Constantine's texts, combining both Constantine's medical theory and his remedies with her innovative interpretations of theology, cosmology, and medicine.468 Finally, material from Constantine's works was incorporated into the study and teaching of medicine in the twelfth century, first in Salerno and then across much of the Latin

West, and we can see that its content began to be incorporated into Practica texts soon after the turn of the twelfth century.

On the other hand, these proliferating medical texts also served as rich sources of knowledge about both the macro- and microcosmos. Constantine's

Pantegni presented an especially influential blend of philosophical and medical knowledge to readers in the first half of the twelfth century. William of Conches, for example, drew upon it as a source of element theory.469 As we saw in the previous

467BAV MS Pal. lat. 1158 preserves the best copy of this text; additional evidence of their efforts, including parts of this "enhanced Viaticum" that appear to have been copied from Pal. lat. 1158, can be found in Bamberg, Med. msc. 6.

468Cf., for example, Laurence Moulinier, ed., Beate Hildegardis Cause et Cure (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2003).

469Cf. ta o Ronca, “The nf uence of the ’Pantegni’ on Wi iam of Conches’s ’D agmaticon’,” in Con t nt ne the Af c n n ʻA ī n A -ʻA Al- gū ī: The P ntegn n Re te Text , ed. Charles 289

chapter, William of St.-Thierry also made use of the Pantegni, adopting much of the

Pantegni's physiological and material account of human cognition in his De natura corporis.

The end of William of St.-Thierry's life in 1148 or 1149 coincided with a turning point in the Latin West, however. Both from Greek and from Arabic, an increasing number of works of Aristotelian philosophy were being translated into

Latin, and these translations gradually brought about a shift in the educational and intellectual landscape of the Latin West: where earlier scholars had sought to synthesize a substantial body of early medieval sources, scholars working in the aftermath of this influx no longer saw the adroit synthesis of conflicting and sometimes incoherent classical and early medieval sources as their goal: the complex problems posed by Aristotelian texts came instead to serve as the agenda.

Further, the assumptions and presuppositions of Aristotelian thought came to be taken for granted.470 When adopted into the Latin canon, moreover, thinkers were often seen in terms of their utility to readers of Aristotle: became the commentator par excellence, while A -Ghaza was taken to be a mere Aristotelian epigone after a handful of his works were translated into Latin.471

Burnett and Danielle Jacquart, Studies in Ancient Medicine 10 (Leiden ; New York : E.J. Brill, 1994) and Ronca's edition of William of Conches' Dragmaticon, for example, where William makes substantial use of the element theory of the Pantegni.

470This was a gradual process, of course, and is to speak in very general terms. Grosseteste, for example, was no slavish Aristotelian; and later thinkers like Thomas Bradwardine revived earlier, Augustinian positions against the generally Aristotelian background of scholastic thought.

471On this, cf. Anthony H. Minnema, “A gaze Latinus: The Audience of the ’Summa Theo icae Phi osophiae,’ 1150-1600,” Traditio 69 (2014): 153–215.

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In studying the soul, earlier Latin scholars had wrestled with a disparate body of sources in seeking to understand the soul and its relation to the body; in the early twelfth century, for example, thinkers were confronted with the task of sifting through the diverse, competing claims made in both Plato's Timaeus and scattered statements of the fathers of the church.472 Two translations on the soul made almost contemporaneously at about mid-century established a new scholarly agenda, however. On the one hand, James of Venice translated Aristotle's De anima from

Greek into Latin; on the other, Dominicus Gundissalinus translated the comprehensive discussions of the soul from Avicenna's Kit b -Sh f as the De anima.473 As Hasse has put it, "the translations of these books provided the West with hundreds of folios of systematic, terminologically refined and strictly philosophical teachings on the soul, which are unparalleled in early medieval psychology."474

For generations, in fact, these translations have been seen as the real beginning of Latin inquiry into the soul, while the earlier tradition has been disparaged or dismissed. (Hasse's indispensable work on the early reception of these translations avoids these temptations.) More than this, when, where, and in

472For the early medieval tradition, cf. the lucid overview in Leslie Lockett, Anglo-Saxon Psychologies in the Vernacular and Latin Traditions (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011).

473For discussion of James of Venice, cf. L. Minio-Pa ue o, “ aco us Veneticus G ecus, Canonist and Translato of A istot e,” Traditio 8 (1952): 265–304; for Avicenna, cf. Dag Nikolaus Hasse, Av cenn ’ ’ e An m ’ n the t n We t: The Fo m t on of Pe p tet c Ph o oph of the So , 1160-1300, Warburg Institute Studies and Texts 1 (London: Warburg Institute, 2000). Charles Bu nett, “A a ic into Latin: The Reception of A a ic Phi osophy into Weste n Eu ope,” in The Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy, ed. Peter Adamson and Richard Taylor, 2005, 370–404, at 376-77, discusses the translation of works on the soul at Toledo.

474Hasse, Av cenn ’ ’ e An m ’ n the t n We t, 9.

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what form Aristotle had arrived in the Latin West has often been taken as the principal task of historians of twelfth-century thought, and scholars such as Richard

Lemay and Alexandre Birkenmajer sometimes reduced the vibrant twelfth-century astrological and medical traditions to mere vectors of Aristotelian transmission.475 In the past generation, the pendulum has made a salutary swing in the opposite direction, and scholars have largely moved past such problematic approaches. As I discussed in my introduction, however, this revisionist impulse has sometimes meant that scholars have overlooked both the pressing intellectual questions that prompted the creation of translations and the excitement about new sources we can see in Adelard, Henry, and the two Williams. In fact, it may well be the confluence of these questions and this impulse to look outward that gave rise to the seminal translations of James of Venice and Dominicus Gundissalinus at midcentury: from the perspective of contemporary thinkers, these translations must have seemed like late contributions to a flourishing debate, not the opening salvo of proper inquiry into the soul.

What is more, we may even be justified in taking a "pessimistic" view of these two Aristotelian translations, as inaugurating a narrowing of possibilities or even a

475Fo examp e, cf. A eksande Bi kenmaje , ““Le ô e joué pa es médecins et es natu a istes dans a éception d’A istote au X e et X e sièc es,” in Et e ’h to e e c ence et de la philosophie du moyen âge, ed. Birkenmajer (Wroclaw: Ossolineum, 1930), 73–87 and Richard Joseph. Lemay, Abu Ma`shar and Latin Aristotelianism in the Twelfth Century; the Recovery of A tot e’ N t Ph o oph Th o gh A c A t o og . (Beirut: American University of Beirut, 1962). This point is discussed in And eas Spee , “Reception-Mediation-Innovation: Philosophy and Theo ogy in the Twe fth Centu y,” in Bilan et Perspectives des Études Médiévales en Europe: Actes du premier Congrès E opéen ’ét e é év e , Spo eto, 27-29 Mai 1993, ed. Jacqueline Hamesse, 1993, 129–49, 132-33.

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period of loss.476 Where earlier contributors to debates on the soul operated in a range of institutional contexts, from monasteries and courts to urban and cathedral schools, participants in new discussions of the soul were overwhelmingly associated with the small number of schools that developed into universities, and especially the nascent university of Paris.477 Where investigations of the soul had served to open up lively, freeform discussions with little regard for disciplinary boundaries, post-

Aristotelian and post-Avicennian debates were, in some sense, carried out on a much smaller stage (though admittedly with the benefits of specialization, like clearer terminology and more coherent positions). In some respects, of course, the engagement with Avicenna, Aristotle, and eventually Averroes opened up new questions and new lines of inquiry (as illustrated by lively debates over Avicenna's account of the soul, for example, or Averroes' account of the intellect), but the terms of the debate often appear more narrowly constrained. Where William of St.-Thierry and his followers drew on contemporary medical theory, philosophical and medical thought drew apart in the scholastic era: interdisciplinary influences did occur, but with less frequency and perhaps less eagerness: Avicenna's De anima presented a picture of cognition that reflected contemporary medical theory, for example, but his Canon criticized physicians like Galen who strayed outside the boundaries of

476For contemporary pessimism about the cultural developments of the period, cf. C. Stephen aege , “Pessimism in the Twe fth-Centu y ’Renaissance’,” Speculum 78 (2003): 1151–1183.

477For example, only a handful of figures (including Michael Scot) discussed in Hasse, Av cenn ’ ’ e An m ’ n the t n We t were not closely associated with the growing universities. Later figures outside of the universities, like , did write on the soul, but they are relatively few in number; moreover, their independence from university discussions often ensured their marginality, as they often began from assumptions inconsistent with contemporary university debates. Cf. Mark D. Johnston, The Evangelical Rhetoric of Ramon Llull: Lay Learning and Piety in the Christian West Around 1300 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), passim, for example.

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their professional competence, and also found fault with Galen's tendency to expostulate on non-medical matters.478

Moreover, this was a time of relative decline for many of Constantine's translations, and the Pantegni in particular. Where Constantine's works (and especially the Pantegni) had served as essential handbooks of medical theory (and even philosophy) in the long twelfth century, the thirteenth century saw Avicenna's

Canon come to replace the Pantegni in the same role.479 The irony here, however, is that Constantine and his Pantegni appear to have been victims of their own success.

As we saw when discussing the Viaticum, Pantegni, and Constantine's relationship to contemporary medical practitioners in Chapters 2 and 3, Constantine advocated a highly textual and theoretical approach to medicine, which he defined in opposition to what had come before. It was the further development of Constantine's vision, in effect, that led to the eclipse of his own texts in the thirteenth century.

478Cf. Hasse, Av cenn ’ ’ e An m ’ n the t n We t, at 225, for the point that Avicenna's popularity may have been conditioned by the compatibility of Avicenna's psychology with medical theory. For interdisciplinary discussions in the scholastic era, cf. the works of Joseph Ziegler especially, as well as Peter Biller and Alastair J Minnis, eds., Medieval Theology and the Natural Body (Suffolk: York Medieval Press, 1997). Jordan even argued that we can see a growing reluctance to cite Galen with the growth of scholasticism, although this position has been critiqued in Joseph Ziegler, “’Ut Dicunt Medici’: Medica Know edge and Theo ogica De ates in the Second Ha f of the Thi teenth Centu y,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 73 (1999): 208–237. Cf. Y. Tzvi Lange mann, “C iticism of Authority in the Writings of Moses Maimonides and Fakhr Al-Dīn A -Rāzī,” Early Science and Medicine 7 (2002): 255–75 for discussion of Maimonides' critiques of Galen.

479For the philosophical content of the Canon and the overlap between medical and philosophy from the thirteenth century on, cf., for example, Nancy G. Siraisi, Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine: An Introduction to Knowledge and Practice, 1st ed. (University Of Chicago Press, 1990), 78ff. O'Boyle notes the absence of commentaries on the Pantegni in the thirteenth centu y; Co ne ius O’Boy e, The Art of Medicine: Medical Teaching at the University of Paris, 1250-1400 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 118, though it is likely too strong to say that interest in the work "died out."

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In much the same way, the partial eclipse of Constantine's texts is counterbalanced by the influential role played by the terminology he established and refined. In Chapter 3, we saw that Constantine's nosological terminology in the

Viaticum drew upon terminology that already existed in Latin to some extent—he made limited use of existing Latin and Greco-Latin terminology found in

Gariopontus' Passionarius, for example—but we saw that, in line with the cultural adaptations Constantine made for his readers, much of Constantine's terminology rendered the Arabic terms of his source text with Latin words and phrases that must have been comprehensible and transparent to Latin readers. Both the translation of

Avicenna's Canon made by Gerard of Cremona in the late twelfth century and many of the medical works produced in the twelfth century (and beyond) owed a heavy debt to Constantine's terminology: even when Constantine's works were read with less frequency in medical curricula, then, physicians often continued to speak in

Constantine's words.480

One of the most remarkable features of this period of eclipse for

Constantine's translations in the thirteenth century, however, is that the Arabic texts Constantine used so ambivalently were rapidly normalized as we move into the thirteenth century. As discussed in Chapter 2, Constantine almost never stated that his works were translations of pre-existing Arabic texts; rather, his most

480Fo this sentiment, cf. Ka Sudhoff, “Konstantin de Af ikane und die Medizinschule von Sa e no,” Sudhoffs Archiv für Geschichte der Medizin 23 (1930): 293–298 (who overstates Constantine's immediate impact on Sa e no); and Ge ha d Baade , “Die Entwick ung de medizinische Fachsp ache im hohen und späten Mitte a te ,” in Fachprosaforschung: Acht Vorträge zur mittelalterlichen Artesliteratur, ed. Gundolf Keil and Peter Assion (Berlin: Schmidt, 1974), 88– 123, 100ff., and esp. 104 (although Baader overstates the influence of Arabic termini on Constantine).

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important prefaces emphasize the pains he took to produce his texts, and gave the appearance that he had immediate access to the authoritative texts of classical medicine. His omissions of Arabic authorities in the body of his texts further compounded this impression. As discussed, some of this was surely due to the fact that Constantine's translations were patronized and supported by the monastery of

Monte Cassino, where intimate access to classical antiquity and its texts figured prominently in Cassinese identity and served its ideological needs. More than this, however, much of Constantine's reluctance here must have derived from the novelty of his undertaking.

As we saw, Constantine's translations omitted their Arabic authorities, but also made a conscious effort to cultivate ambiguity about just what his sources had been and to allow multiple interpretations of the origins of his texts. After all,

Constantine also emphasizes his foreignness and alludes to the exotic origins of his knowledge: he repeatedly names himself as Constantinus Africanus, and leaves open the possibility that he was indeed drawing on Arabic texts. And in a relatively short period after Constantine's translations, in fact, the attractions of Arabic texts came to outweigh their perils for readers in the Latin West. In fact, little over a century after Constantine's ambivalent use of his Arabic sources and Adelard of Bath's defensiveness about Arabic influences, scholastic writers were citing Arabic authors and texts openly and with increasing regularity.481 Most strikingly, a remarkable

481Cf. Bu nett, “A a ic into Latin.” fo an ove view of the t ans ation movement and A a ic inf uences on Latin phi osophy, Adam Fija kowski, “The A a ic Autho s in the Wo ks of Vincent of Beauvais,” in W en ü e enzen: Arabisches Wissen und lateinisches Mittelalter (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), 483–495 and Guy Gu dentops, “A a ic Sciences in the Mi o of Hen y 296

transition is apparent in the fact that Constantine's resolutely classicizing text was displaced by an authority named Avicenna.

Moreover, this shift is also remarkable in comparative perspective. It appears to represent a significant contrast, for example, with Byzantium. In the eleventh century, the polymath Symeon Seth had extensive knowledge of Arabic medicine but largely concealed his indebtedness. His dietary treatise, for example, made substantial use of Arabic pharmacological and dietary works, and even makes a plea for the merit of non-Greek sources. On the other hand, Seth nowhere refers to the

Arabic sources he had used, even when he cites Indian knowledge that gleaned from

Arabic works. In much the same way, he is silent about the fact that his critique of

Galen was apparently inspired by Arabic works of "doubts" about Galenic theory.

Even an eleventh-century translation (likely by Seth) of Ra z 's influential work on smallpox (a work famous for its differentiation between smallpox and measles) made excuses for the work's translation by explaining that smallpox had not been prevalent in Galen's day. Like Constantine, this reluctance derived in part from the fact that the prestige and esteem of classical Greek authorities overshadowed Arabic sources. Like Constantine as well, Symeon Seth illustrates the uncertainty and riskiness of associating with Arabic texts. What is striking in comparison with Latin writers, however, is that this suspicion of Arabic sources appears to have persisted

Bate’s Phi osophica Encyc opedia,” in W en ü e enzen: Arabisches Wissen und lateinisches Mittelalter, ed. Andreas Speer and Wegener (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2006), 521– 541 for discussion of the increasing citation of Arabic authors in individual scholastic authors, and Minnema, “A gaze Latinus,” at 167-8, for the initial uncertainty in receiving the Latinized Algazel into the body of scholastic authorities.

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in Byzantium, where the use of Arabic sources never seems to have been normalized to the same extent as in the Latin West. Suspicions of religious contamination attended Gregory Chioniades when he spent time in the territories of the Il-Khans in pursuit of their astronomical knowledge, for example, and he was forced to make a profession of faith before becoming bishop of Tabriz. It appears to have been only later—intriguingly, in fact, when scholastic Latin texts and their embrace of Arabic philosophers became influential in Byzantium—that Byzantines openly praised

Arabic authorities: George Gennadios Scholarios, for example, was highly complimentary to Averroes, but he had been substantially influenced by Latin scholastic thought.482 In general, however, Byzantium's assimilation of Arabic sources was thus fitful and partial in comparison with the Latin West.

Moreover, the translations produced in the Latin West and their rapid acceptance are significant because they complicate and nuance our narratives about the place of the Other in the world of the twelfth century. It is indisputable, for example, that the late twelfth century saw a substantial increase in the burnings of heretics and in the circulation of anti-Semitic stories and saints' lives. It is remarkable that, in parallel with a growing anxiety about foreign bodies in the midst of a Christian society, scholars embraced a growing number of texts from Arabic-

482For Scholarios' thought and its scholastic influences, cf. Marie-Hélène Blanchet, Georges- Gennadios Scholarios (vers 1400-ve 1472): n nte ect e o tho oxe f ce p t on e ’emp e byzantin (Paris: Institut fran ais d’études yzantines, 2008) and especia y Hugh Ch istophe Barbour, The Byzantine Thomism of Gennadios Scholarios and His Translation of the Commentary of A m n e Be ov on the ’ e Ente et E ent ’ of Thom A n , Studi Tomistici 53 (Vatican City: Li e ia edit ice vaticana, 1993). Fo his p aise of Ave oes, cf. Ma ia Mav oudi, “Exchanges with A a ic W ite s Du ing the Late Byzantine Pe iod,” in Byzantium, Faith and Power (1261-1557). Perspectives on Late and Culture, ed. S.T. Brooks, 2007, 62–75, 67.

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speaking and even Muslim milieux. Some of this embrace is surely due to the fact that texts were easier to control than human beings, especially in the increasingly well-established educational institutions of the Latin West. The allure of knowledge that was simultaneously exotic and ancient, as we saw in Henry of Huntingdon, likely also played a role in this acceptance. Strikingly, however, the growing adoption of a substantial amount of Arabic material in the classrooms and texts of the late twelfth- and thirteenth-century Latin West was marked neither by efforts to control and neuter these texts nor to play up their exotic origins. Rather, scholastic thinkers came to see Islamic and Jewish thinkers as worthy interlocutors who spoke in intelligible terms in attempting to come to terms with thorny points in Aristotle or Galen—or even with the nature of revealed religion—despite attitudes towards

Islam or Judaism that largely remained inflexible.483 In his hesitant, ambivalent attempts to draw Arabic medical texts into the world of Latin Christianity, and in the wide, influential circulation of his texts, Constantine the African played a central role in this evolution.

483For the concept of "mutual intelligibility," cf. Brian A. Catlos, Muslims of Medieval Latin Christendom, c. 1050-1614 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 515ff. For the reception of Arabic philosophy in Aquinas, for examp e, cf. David B. Bu e , “Aquinas and s amic and ewish Thinke s,” in The Cambridge Companion to Aquinas, ed. Norman Kretzmann and Eleonore Stump, 1993, 60–84. For discussion of the nature of revealed religion across confessional boundaries, cf., for example, Hasse, Av cenn ’ ’ e An m ’ n the t n We t, 154ff.

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