Constructing the Cámara Santa: Architecture, History, and
Authority in Medieval Oviedo
by
Flora Thomas Ward
A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements
for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy
Department of Art
University of Toronto
© Copyright by Flora Thomas Ward 2014
Constructing the Cámara Santa: Architecture, History, and Authority in Medieval Oviedo
Flora Thomas Ward
Doctor of Philosophy
Department of Art
University of Toronto
2014
Abstract
My dissertation examines the Cámara Santa of the Cathedral of Oviedo as both a
medieval and modern monument, shaped by twelfth-century bishops and twentieth-century
restorers. I consider the space as a multi-media ensemble, containing manuscripts, metalwork,
and sculpture, arguing that we must view it as a composite—if fragmented—whole. My analysis
focuses on the twelfth century, a crucial period during which the structure, decoration, and
contents of the Cámara Santa were reworked. A key figure in this story is Bishop Pelayo of
Oviedo (d. 1153), who sought to enhance the antiquity and authority of the see of Oviedo by
means of the cult of its most important reliquary: the Arca Santa. I argue that this reliquary
shapes the form and function of the twelfth-century Cámara Santa, considering the use of the
space in the context of liturgy and pilgrimage. Finally, I consider the sculpture that lines the
walls of the space, arguing that it animates and embodies the relics contained within the Arca
Santa, interacting with the pilgrims and canons who used the space. Thus, this sculpture
represents the culmination of the long twelfth-century transformation of the Cámara Santa into a
space of pilgrimage focused around the Arca Santa and the memory of the early medieval
patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, a memory which abides to this day. What is importantly new
about my project is this historiographic frame, combined with a theoretical approach that
challenges traditional methods and interpretations. I foreground the importance of the Cámara
ii
Santa for both regional and national identity. My reflexive reading of the medieval and modern
histories of the Cámara Santa offers alternative interpretations for a space whose meaning has
long been presented as ideologically fixed.
iii
a mis hermanas ovetenses,
Gema, Vio, y Maipi
iv
Acknowledgments
This dissertation could not have been completed without the support of numerous
colleagues in Canada, Spain, and the United States. First and foremost, I would like to thank my
supervisor, Jill Caskey, and the members of my committee, Adam Cohen and Mark Meyerson,
for their invaluable guidance throughout this process. Thanks also to Conrad Rudolph and M.
Michèle Mulchahey, who helped polish the final product.
The research and writing of this dissertation were made possible thanks to the generosity
of several organizations and institutions. At the University of Toronto, I received support from
the Connaught Scholarship and Graduate Expansion Fund of the University of TorontoMississauga. My research in Oviedo was made possible by a Samuel H. Kress Travel Fellowship
and a Fulbright Full Grant. The research leading to these results has received funding from the
European Research Council under the European Union's Seventh Framework Programme
(FP7/2007-2013), ERC grant agreement no. 263036.
While in Oviedo, my research was facilitated by several generous individuals. I would
like to thank the dean and chapter of the Cathedral of Oviedo, especially Don Augustín Hevía
Ballina, for opening the cathedral archive and allowing me to photograph material within it. At
the University of Oviedo, Raquel Alonso Álvarez provided much-needed guidance and support
at every step of my research process, while Javier Fernández Conde opened many doors along
the way. In Madrid, I benefitted from the company my colleagues at the Center for Humanities
and Social Sciences, especially Glaire Anderson, Julio Escalona Monge, Alexandra Gajewski,
Jennifer Ní Ghrádaigh, José Antonio Haro Peralta, Julie Harris, Therese Martin, and Stefanie
Seeberg.
Outside of Spain, the community of scholars specializing in medieval Iberia is relatively
small, but its members are both immensely knowledgeable and tremendously generous. I would
like to thank John Williams for his feedback and insight over the course of my degree. James
D’Emilio also generously shared his knowledge at several points during the development of my
dissertation. In London, Miriam Rosser Owen of the Victoria and Albert Museum helped me
develop my thinking about the casket of St. Eulalia.
Finally, I would like to thank my family and friends, without whose support none of this
would have been possible. Thanks to Piers Brown for constantly pushing me to develop my
v
thinking in new ways, to Amanda Dotseth for discussion about architecture and everything else,
to José Manuel López for chauffeuring me to countless Romanesque churches, to Julia Perratore
for sharing her photographs and explaining Aragón, and to Shannon Wearing for being my
comrade in cartularies. Thanks also to the tremendous community of current and former graduate
students at the Department of Art in the University of Toronto, including Anna Bücheler,
Rebekah Carson, Sarah Guérin, John McQuillen, Betsy Moss, and Tianna Uchacz. My deepest
gratitude goes to my parents, James Liphus Ward and Victoria Thomas.
vi
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments.................................................................................................................... v
List of Figures .......................................................................................................................... vii
List of Appendices ................................................................................................................... xvii
List of Abbreviations ............................................................................................................... xviii
Introduction – The Cámara Santa between Memory and History ........................................... 1
Chapter 1 – Constructing the Past: Architecture and Memory in the Cámara Santa............... 8
Chapter 2 – Forging the Past: Bishop Pelayo and Medieval Historiography .......................... 44
Chapter 3 – Framing the Past: Relics and Reliquaries in the Cámara Santa ........................... 89
Chapter 4 – Touching the Past: The Cámara Santa between Modern Restoration and Medieval
Ritual........................................................................................................................................ 137
Conclusion – Monuments, Memory, and the Dead ................................................................. 174
Bibliography ............................................................................................................................ 182
Appendices............................................................................................................................... 220
vii
List of Figures
Introduction
Figure 1. The Cámara Santa after the blast of 12 October 1934 (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La
destrucción,” plate 1).
Figure 2. Franco carrying the Cross of Victory, Oviedo, 7 September 1942 (Photo: Fernández
Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).
Figure 3. Arca Santa in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).
Figure 4. Cross of the Angels in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).
Figure 5. Cross of Victory in situ, Cámara Santa, Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo: author).
Chapter 1
Figure 1.1. Plan of the Cathedral of Oviedo, with a detail of the area around the Cámara Santa
(Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 328-29).
Figure 1.2. Destruction of the cloister near the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La
destrucción,” plate 10).
Figure 1.3. Destruction of the Chapel of Covadonga, also known as the Chapel of San Ildefonso
(Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 13).
Figure 1.4. The Arca Santa and the Cross of the Angels in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo:
Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” plate 16).
Figure 1.5. The Cross of Victory in the ruins of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, “La
destrucción,” plate 17.
Figure 1.6. Plan by Luis Menéndez Pidal of the crypt of Santa Leocadia and nearby buildings
(Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 4).
Figure 1.7. Section of the Cámara Santa, looking towards the east (left) and west (right) (Photo:
Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 18-19).
Figure 1.8. Closing the vault of the crypt, 15 September 1938 (Photo: Hevia, “Notas sobre la
reconstrucción,” 38).
viii
Figure 1.9. Fragments from the exterior of the Cámara Santa, reassembled, 15 May 1939 (Photo:
Hevia, “Notas sobre la reconstrucción,” 38).
Figure 1.10. Exterior of the Cámara Santa with the new opening onto the Pilgrims’ Cemetery
(Photo: García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 23).
Figure 1.11. Plan by Menéndez Pidal for the new grille in the Cámara Santa (Photo: Menéndez
Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 23).
Figure 1.12. Map of Franco’s procession (Map: James Liphus Ward).
Figure 1.13. Ruins of Calle Uria, Oviedo, in the 1930s from the series of postcards, “Oviedo.
Ciudad Mártir” (Photo: Biblioteca Ramón Pérez de Ayala, Ast R C 75-6, series 1, nos. 5 and 6).
Figure 1.14. Víctor Hevia’s statue of Alfonso II in front of the Cathedral of Oviedo (Photo:
Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).
Figure 1.15. Bust of Alfonso II (Photo: Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, title page).
Figure 1.16. Franco in the Cámara Santa, with the Liber Testamentorum in front of him (Photo:
Fernández Cuesta, La crónica del milenario, unnumbered photograph).
Figure 1.17. Fernández Buelta and Hevia’s reconstruction of the Palace of Alfonso II (Photo:
Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 24-25).
Figure 1.18. The Cámara Santa in the ninth (above) and twelfth centuries (below), as imagined
by Víctor Hevia (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 96 and 100).
Figure 1.19. Ecclesiastical complex of medieval Oviedo, with the individual insitutions labeled
as follows: (1) Cathedral of San Salvador; (2) Cámara Santa and crypt of Santa Leocadia; (3)
Santa María del Rey Casto; (4) location of the original church of San Vicente; (5) cloister and
dependencies of San Vicente; (6) San Pelayo; (7) cloister of San Pelayo; (8) archaeological
remains between the cathedral and episcopal palace (Photo: Carrero Santamaría, “La ‘Ciudad
Santa,’” fig. 1).
Figure 1.20. View of the walled up doorway between the Tower of San Miguel and the Chapel of
Covadonga (Photo: author).
Figure 1.21. Plan of the basilica of Santa Eulalia de Mérida (Photo: Mateos Cruz, La Basílica de
Santa Eulalia de Mérida, 51).
ix
Figure 1.22. Plan of the archaeological site at Es Cap des Ports (Photo: Godoy Fernández,
Arqueología y liturgia, 167).
Figure 1.23. Menéndez Pidal’s plan of the Pilgrims’ Cemetery, noting location of tombs and the
portico (Photo: Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa,” 26).
Chapter 2
Figure 2.1. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.2. “Pelagius episcopus me fecit,” BN MS 1513, fol. 3v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.3. Miniature of Julian Pomerius and Wamba, BN MS 1513, fol. 38v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.4. Miniature of Sebastian and Pelayo, BN MS 1513, fol. 43v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.5. Miniature of Sampiro, BN MS 1513, fol. 48v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.6. Miniature of Pelayo and Bermudo, BN MS 1513, fol. 64r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.7. Alfonso VI sends envoys to Rome, BN MS 1513, fol. 67v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.8. Pope Urban II with envoys, ACO MS 1, fol. 79v-80r (Photo: author).
Figure 2.9. Pope John and the messengers Siderius and Severus, ACO MS 1, fol. 5v (Photo:
author).
Figure 2.10. Papal privileges, BN MS 1513, ff. 70v-71r, 71v-72r, and 72v-73r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.11. Letter of Paschal II, ACO MS 1, ff. 83r and 83v, details (Photo: author and Liber
Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis).
Figure 2.12. Privilege of Paschal II, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 17 (Photo: author).
Figure 2.13. Privilege of Urban II, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 7 (Photo: author).
Figure 2.14. Decree of Alfonso V and Elvira, BN MS 1513, fol. 102r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.15. Decree of Fernando I and Sancha, BN MS 1513, fol. 106r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.16. Cross from the vetustissimus ovetensis, BN MS 1346, fol. 1v (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.17. Pelayo at Covadonga, BN MS 2805, fol. 23r (Photo: BN).
Figure 2.18. Pelayo at Covadonga, RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 16v (Photo: RAH).
Figure 2.19. Alfonso II praying in the Cámara Santa, ACO MS 1, fol. IIIv (Photo: author).
x
Figure 2.20. Ordoño I and Mummadonna, ACO MS 1, fol. 8v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.21. Alfonso III and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 18v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.22. Ordoño II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 26v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.23. Fruela II and Jimena, ACO MS 1, fol. 32v (Photo: Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae
Ovetensis).
Figure 2.24. Bermudo II and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 49v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.25. Alfonso V and Elvira, ACO MS 1, fol. 53v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.26. Bishop Martin, ACO MS 1, fol. 74v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.27. Bishop Pelayo and two canons, ACO MS 1, fol. 78v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.28. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO series A, folder 2, no. 14
(Photo: author).
Figure 2.29. Signatures of Bishop Pelayo and the scribe Pelayo, ACO MS 1, fol. 99v (Photo:
author).
Figure 2.30. Crucifixion with donors, Pantheon of the Kings, San Isidoro, León (Photo: Martin,
Queen as King, plate 96).
Figure 2.31. Archbishop Adulfus, ACO MS 1, fol. 3v (Photo: author).
Figure 2.32. Successive royal signatures, León Cathedral Archive, no. 2 (Photo: Millares Carlo,
Tratado de paleografía española, vol. 2, plate 110).
Chapter 3
Figure 3.1. Arca Santa, general view (Photo: Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” fig. 1).
Figure 3.2. Detail of the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic
Archive, folder 14, photo 53, no. 84495).
Figure 3.3. Detail of the Crucifixion from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno,
RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 57, no. 25255).
Figure 3.4. Detail of Dimas, the good thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez
Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 55, no. 84497).
xi
Figure 3.5. Detail of the angels atop the crucifixion of Dimas, from the lid of the Arca Santa
(Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, folder 14, photo 54, no. 84496).
Figure 3.6. Detail of Gestas, the bad thief, from the lid of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno,
RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 64, no. 84503).
Figure 3.7. Front of the Arca Santa, before its restoration (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA,
Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 32, no. 84478).
Figure 3.8. Right side of the Arca Santa (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive,
folder 14, photo 47, no. 84490).
Figure 3.9. Left side of the Arca Santa with the Infancy narrative (Photo: Gómez Moreno,
RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 14, photo 41, no. 84484).
Figure 3.10. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder
2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).
Figure 3.11. Document describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa, ACO series B, folder
2, no. 9(A) (Photo: author).
Figure 3.12. Detail of the monogram of Urraca, ACO series B, folder 2, number 9(A) (Photo:
author).
Figure 3.13. Detail of monograms, ACO series B, folder 2, no. 9(B) (Photo: author).
Figure 3.14. Account of the Arca Santa in the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 1r (top) and
1v (bottom) (Photo: author).
Figure 3.15. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v
(Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).
Figure 3.16. Account of the Arca Santa, Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 3r
(Photo: Bibliothèque Municipale).
Figure 3.17. Casket of Arias (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. O4).
Figure 3.18. Gundisalvus Diptych, open (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).
Figure 3.19. Gundisalvus Diptych, closed (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. EB2).
xii
Figure 3.20. Casket of St. Eulalia (Photo: Gómez Moreno, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder
14, photo 69, no. 84476).
Figure 3.21. Casket, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid, acq. no. 50867 (Photo: Maravillas
de la España medieval, vol. 1, cat. no. 21).
Figure 3.22. Casket, San Isidoro (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47).
Figure 3.23. Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, now lost, formerly located in the right corner of the
image (Photo: author).
Figure 3.24. Four painted relief panels in the Cathedral Museum of Oviedo (Photo: Museo de la
Iglesia, cat. nos. E29, E30, E31, and E32).
Figure 3.25. Panel with Sts. Eulogius and Vincent and the arms of Charles V (Photo: Museo de
la Iglesia, cat. no. E31).
Figure 3.26. Panel with Sts. Eulalia and Lucretia and the arms of Bishop Cristóbal de Rojas y
Sandoval (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no. E32).
Figure 3.27. Panel with Alfonso II and the archangel Gabriel (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no.
E29).
Figure 3.28. Panel with Alfonso VI and the Virgin Mary (Photo: Museo de la Iglesia, cat. no.
E30).
Figure 3.29. Anonymous photograph of the Cámara Santa with the four panels in situ (Photo:
Archivo Provincial de Asturias, box 83735/3).
Figure 3.30. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso VI (Photo: Archivo Provincial de
Asturias, box 83735/33).
Figure 3.31. Anonymous photograph of the panel with Alfonso II (Photo: Archivo Provincial de
Asturias, box 83735/32).
Chapter 4
Figure 4.1. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.2. Simon and Judas Thaddeus, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.3. Thomas and Bartholomew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
xiii
Figure 4.4. Peter and Paul, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.5. James and John, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.6. Andrew and Matthew, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.7. James the Lesser and Philip, from the apostolado of the Cámara Santa (Photo:
author).
Figure 4.8. Diagram showing the disposition of the sculptural iconography in the Cámara Santa
(Diagram: James L. Ward).
Figure 4.9. Christ in Majesty surrounded by the apostles, capital above Andrew and Matthew
(Photo: author).
Figure 4.10. Three Marys at the tomb of Christ, front of the capital above Peter and Paul (Photo:
author).
Figure 4.11. Holy Family and unidentified figures, left face of the capital above James and John,
Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.12. Annunciation with a scene of the Virgin and the prophet Isaiah, and the boar hunt,
front of the capital above James and John (Photo: author).
Figure 4.13. Harrowing of Hell and the boar hunt, right face of the capital above James and John
(Photo: author).
Figure 4.14. Section, plan, and details of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Amador de los Ríos,
Monumentos arquitectónicos de España, unnumbered plate).
Figure 4.15. Interior of the Cámara Santa (Photo: Parcerisa, Recuerdos y bellezas, 45).
Figure 4.16. Cámara Santa, photograph from around 1898/1899 (Photo: Archivo Provincial de
Asturias, Comisión Provincial de Monumentos, box 83735/3).
Figure 4.17. Santiago and John, Cámara Santa (Photo: Archivo Mas).
Figure 4.18. Apostles on the floor of Víctor Hevia’s workshop after the explosion of 1934
(Photo: Alejandro Ferrant, RIDEA, Photographic Archive, folder 11, photo 73).
Figure 4.19. Restored apostles of the Cámara Santa (Photo: La Nueva España, 7 September
1942).
xiv
Figure 4.20. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the figures of Simon and Judas (Photo: author).
Figure 4.21. Detail, restoration made by Hevia to the staff of James (Photo: author).
Figure 4.22. Plan of the cathedral and cloister (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, unnumbered plan).
Figure 4.23. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of
Simon and Judas Thaddeus (right) (Photo: author).
Figure 4.24. Capital from the destroyed cathedral cloister (left) and capital beneath the feet of
Paul (right) (Photo: author).
Figure 4.25. Entry to the chapter house, with reliefs of Peter and Paul above the doorway (Photo:
author).
Figure 4.26. Photograph showing the location in the chapter house where two of the relief panels
now in the cloister were found (Photo: Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo
primitivo, 161).
Figure 4.27. Cloister relief, Peter (Photo: author).
Figure 4.28. Cloister relief, Paul (Photo: author).
Figure 4.29. Cloister relief, Nicholas of Bari (Photo: author).
Figure 4.30. Cloister relief, unidentified female figure (Photo: author).
Figure 4.31. Cloister relief, unidentified male figure (Photo: author).
Figure 4.32. Cloister relief fragment, unidentified male figure (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo,
vol. 2, cat. no. 67).
Figure 4.33. Figure of Santiago, Santa Marta de Tera (Zamora) (Photo: Enciclopedia del
Romanico en Zamora, 141).
Figure 4.34. Series of relief panels from the Romanesque Cathedral of León (Photo: Boto Varela,
La memoria perdida, figs. 26-29).
Figure 4.35. Apse with column figures, San Martín, Uncastillo (Aragón) (Photo: Julia Perratore).
Figure 4.36. View of the carved pilasters between the apse and ambulatory, Santo Domingo de la
Calzada (Photo: author).
xv
Figure 4.37. Apostles in the apse of La Seo de Zaragoza (Photo: Iñiguez, “El ábside de La Seo de
Zaragoza,” fig. 1).
Figure 4.38. Apostles from the apse of San Juan in Alba de Tormés (Salamanca) (Photo:
Enciclopedia del Románico en Castilla y León: Salamanca, 76).
Figure 4.39. Column figure from the apse of San Martín, formerly in Fuentidueña (Segovia)
(Photo: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, acc. no. L.58.86).
Figure 4.40. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María de
Lebanza, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 98).
Figure 4.41. Capital with Christ (left) and the three Marys at the tomb (right), Santa María la
Real, Aguilar de Campoo, Palencia (Castilla-León) (Photo: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no.
97).
Figure 4.42. Detail of the microarchitecture on the pedestals in the Cámara Santa (Photo: author).
Figure 4.43. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Cámara Santa (Photo:
author).
Figure 4.44. Sculpted heads of the Calvary scene, western wall of the Chapel of Santa María del
Rey Casto (Photo: La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 92).
Figure 4.45. St. George, stucco head and painted body, Saint-Chef-en-Dauphiné (Isère) (Photo:
Sapin, Le Stuc, 206).
xvi
List of Appendices
Introduction
Appendix 1. Genealogical Chart of the Kings of Asturias, ca. 718-910
Chapter 2
Appendix 2.1. Contents of the Alcalá Codex, BN MS 1358
Appendix 2.2. Contents of the Batres Codex, BN MS 1513
Appendix 2.3. Contents of the vetustissimus ovetensis, BN MS 1346
Appendix 2.4. Description of the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1
Chapter 3
Appendix 3.1. Inscription from the Lid of the Arca Santa
xvii
List of Abbreviations
ACO
Archivo de la Catedral de Oviedo
AGA
Archivo General de la Administración
BAH
Boletín de la Academia de Historia
BIDEA
Boletín del Instituto de Estudios Asturianos
BN
Biblioteca Nacional
BRAH
Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia
BRIDEA
Boletín del Real Instituto de Estudios Asturianos
CCCM
Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis
CNRS
Centre national de la recherche scientifique
CSIC
Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas
IDEA
Instituto de Estudios Asturianos
MGH
Monumenta Germaniae Historica
PL
Patrologia Latina
RIDEA
Real Instituto de Estudios Asturianos
xviii
Introduction: The Cámara Santa between Memory and History
I felt dizzy with such comings and goings of towns with strange names,
with such a parade of kings and of battles, with such intricacy of
relationships, marriages, and distributions of inheritances. Kings came and
were killed so quickly that there was no cause to grieve their death, since
one did not have time to know them. So great was the bustle that I wished
1
that they had been finished off all at once, killed in a single battle.
So great was the schoolboy Miguel de Unamuno’s confusion about the intricacies
of medieval history that he was driven to fantasize about a single, apocalyptic battle in
which all the kings who so bedeviled his history lessons would be wiped out, erased from
both history and memory. Fortunately, as he goes on to narrate, Unamuno (1864-1936)
was able to recall only the sketchiest details of Spanish medieval history from his school
days; those kings and their endless battles did not burden the memory of this renowned
writer and intellectual of the early twentieth century. The weight of history, however, was
not so easily shrugged off for many of his compatriots.
The generation after Unamuno wrote his recollections of childhood was a time of
turbulent change. The past erupted into the present with ever-increasing intensity. The
conflicts of the present were inscribed onto the past, and the tangible monuments of that
past became the sites of not only of abstract intellectual conflict, but also very real
violence. As if in fulfillment of the schoolboy Unamuno’s fanciful daydream, on the
morning of the twelfth of October, 1934, four hundred kilograms of dynamite were
detonated in the heart of the Cathedral of Oviedo, in a small building known as the
Cámara Santa (Figure 1). All of the relics of the power and sanctity of those tedious kings
were “finished off all at once” in a single powerful explosion. The weight of all the
1
“Me mareaba aquel ir y venir de pueblos, con nombres raros, aquel desfilar de reyes y de guerras, aquel
intrincamiento de parentescos, matrimonios y repartos de herencias. Venían reyes y los mataban tan pronto
que no había lugar a acongojarse de su muerte, pues no había tenido uno tiempo de conocerlos, y era tal el
trajín, que se deseaba hubieran acabado de una vez con todos matándolas en una sola batalla.” Unamuno,
Recuerdos de niñez, 125.
19
history contained within—the pressure of the past upon the present—was blown up as
much as the building itself.
In September 1942, eight years after this dramatic explosion, General Francisco
Franco participated in massive civic processions in Oviedo to celebrate the Cámara
Santa’s reconstruction, carrying a tenth-century jeweled cross through the city’s streets
like a latter-day medieval monarch (Figure 2). Symbolically, this procession wedded the
architectural restoration of the cathedral with Franco’s “restoration” of a conservative,
Catholic Spain. As these events suggest, the Cámara Santa is far from ideologically or
politically neutral, an anodyne monument innocent of involvement in the “bustle” of
contemporary life. This dissertation explores how the Cámara Santa was mobilized for
ideological purposes in the modern era, and considers how the overtly ideological
meanings attached to the structure have shaped scholarship of the medieval site.
According to the standard narrative of Asturian art, the first building on the site of
the cathedral, dedicated to San Salvador, was erected by Fruela I (d. 768) in the eighth
century. Following its destruction by Muslim raiders, the cathedral was rebuilt during the
reign of Fruela’s son, Alfonso II (d. 842). Alfonso II is also said to have built the Cámara
Santa in order to house the precious Arca Santa, a reliquary chest containing numerous
relics of saints and biblical figures, assembled in Jerusalem by disciples of the apostles in
the years after Christ’s death (Figure 3). In 808, the same monarch donated to the
cathedral a jeweled cross that was miraculously made by a pair of angels, from which it
receives its name, the Cross of the Angels (Figure 4). This cross functions as the emblem
of the city of Oviedo and is found on everything from city buses to Christmas
decorations, official municipal correspondence to manhole covers.
While the Cross of the Angels is the symbol of the city of Oviedo, another
medieval cross is the symbol of the entire Principality of Asturias. In bright yellow on an
azure background, the tenth-century Cross of Victory dominates the region’s flag. This
cross was donated in 908 to the Cathedral of Oviedo by Alfonso III (d. 910) in emulation
of his august predecessor Alfonso II’s donation of the Cross of the Angels (Figure 5).
While this tenth-century cross was decidedly not made by angelic hands (an inscription
records the more prosaic site of its manufacture at the royal fortress of Gauzón), its
20
legendary associations have given the cross a near-sacred status. According to popular
belief, the wooden core of the jeweled cross was the very cross carried in the 722 battle
of Covadonga by the warrior-king, Pelayo.
Covadonga is the legendary birthplace of the Reconquest, a term given by modern
historians to the centuries-long struggle to restore Christian order following the eighthcentury Muslim invasion of the Iberian peninsula. According to the classic account of the
Reconquest, the territorial expansion of the Muslim invaders was halted at the battle of
Covadonga by a group of Asturian fighters under the leadership of Pelayo, said to be the
progenitor of the line of Asturian kings who made Oviedo their capital (see Appendix 1).
According to this reductive teleology, the Christian kings of Asturias are the progenitors
of the Reconquest—and of the kings of Castilla and León who finally accomplish their
mission of Reconquest in 1492, unifying Spain and forming the basis for the modern
state. Within this narrative, Asturias—Oviedo in particular—becomes the point of origin
of medieval Spanish history and modern national identity.
The ninth-century Cámara Santa did not, of course, reach the twentieth century
unscathed. During the twelfth century, both the ninth-century fabric of the cathedral and
the records of its early history were reworked in order to grant antiquity and authority to
the diocese. I argue that the textual, pictorial, and monumental transformations of the
twelfth century have come to frame our understanding of the Cámara Santa. This ninthcentury structure was a small, two-storey building, whose upper storey became known as
the Cámara Santa. This space was not, so far as we know, vaulted, and there are no
references to interior decoration. The Cámara Santa did not begin life as a monumental
reliquary built by Alfonso II to house the Arca Santa. Rather, documentary sources
indicate that it was built in the late ninth century as a treasury, whose interior was not
intended for a wide audience but rather was built to be a secure place to store precious
royal and ecclesiastical possessions. The Cámara Santa was radically transformed in the
twelfth century in terms of both its form and its function. The space was expanded and
vaulted, and later in the twelfth century an elaborate program of decoration, including
sculpture and painting, was added. As I argue, these changes to the building must be
interpreted in tandem with the changing meaning and function of the treasury from a
small stronghold to a far more public site of pilgrimage, in which the spiritual and
21
material treasures of the Asturian Monarchy were displayed to pilgrims. The most
important of these treasures by far was the Arca Santa, and this reliquary is central to the
transformation of the structure and meaning of the Cámara Santa that occured over the
course of the twelfth century. I argue that the Arca Santa was installed in the Cámara
Santa during the late eleventh century, and its cult gained wide diffusion beginning in the
early twelfth century thanks to the writings of Bishop Pelayo of Oviedo (d. 1153). The
architectural setting of the reliquary was adapted in the late twelfth century in response to
the success of the cult of the Arca Santa and to changes in the organization of the
cathedral chapter, whose canons served as the curators of the space.
The simplicity of this schematic synchronic narrative of the history of the Cámara
Santa is belied by complex layers of meaning granted to the space within both our
twelfth-century sources and later twentieth-century reconstruction. Rather than
reconstruct a single original, authentic Cámara Santa stripped of associations,
transformations, and interpretations, I am concerned with exploring these layers of
meaning and how they work with—and against—the physical building, its contents and
decoration. I examine the long life of the building, its contents and decoration, in order to
highlight the role played by the site in developing narratives of local and national history.
This is not, therefore, a work of traditional architectural history; the building acts as a
conceptual container, laden with centuries of meaning. The organization of this
dissertation is thus strongly diachronic. While each chapter is grounded in analysis of
twelfth-century material, I bring in other historical frames of reference. Each chapter
functions like a diptych, in which the reader is invited to contemplate the ongoing
dialogue between historical periods and artistic media that are typically isolated from one
another. This conversation across time and media is crucial to our understanding of the
Cámara Santa as a complex, composite monument with multiple pasts and forms.
I begin by considering the physical structure of the Cámara Santa in light of
twentieth-century restoration. Our knowledge of the archaeology of the larger site
depends almost entirely on the excavations performed in the wake of its destruction in
1934, while the reconstruction carried out after these excavations has shaped our
contemporary experience of the monument. I highlight the ideologically charged
meanings given to the Cámara Santa by partisans of both left and right before, during,
22
and after the Spanish Civil War. After the victory of the forces led by Franco, the tiny
treasury of Oviedo Cathedral played a prominent role in the strategies of legitimation of
the new Francoist government, as reconstruction became not just an architectural, but
also a political, necessity. In contrast to these politically conservative, nationalist
interpretations of the Cámara Santa, in the second half of the chapter I reconsider the
early form and function of the space: a two-storey structure, a treasury atop a crypt. I
explore the concept of the treasury, both the collection of precious objects and their
architectural frame, and its relationship to the commemoration of the dead. I argue that
the early Cámara Santa gradually opened up over the course of the eleventh and twelfth
centuries as the form, function, and meaning of the space was transformed into a site of
memory of monarchs past and a site of pilgrimage to the venerable relics housed there. I
propose an interpretation of the Cámara Santa not as the ideologically fixed monument it
has become, but as a fluid container for changing meanings over the course of the Middle
Ages.
In the second chapter, I look more closely at the historiographic material that
informs the ideological interpretation of the Cámara Santa implicit in its twentiethcentury restoration and ongoing valorization. I focus on the textual production of the
early twelfth-century bishop of Oviedo, Pelayo (d. 1153). Pelayo oversaw the production
of the Liber Testamentorum, an illuminated cartulary containing copies of documents
attesting to the privileges and possessions of the cathedral, and the Liber Cronicorum, a
universal chronicle that grants Oviedo and its early medieval monarchs a privileged
status. I argue that his historiographic labors produce a set of meanings and
interpretations of the early medieval history of the Cámara Santa and its precious
contents that inform subsequent adaptations of the site. I aim to show, however, how
closer study of the Pelagian corpus complicates our vision of the Asturian past and the
interests and intentions of its twelfth-century interpreters. While much of early medieval
Asturian historiography has been interpreted as an attempt to bring Visigothic Toledo
back to life in Oviedo, I argue that we see a much more complex and ambivalent attitude
towards the legacy of the Goths in the writings of Pelayo. The relationship between
Oviedo and Rome, rather than Oviedo and Toledo, was of primary interest to Pelayo.
Finally, I consider the visual rhetoric of Pelayo’s cartulary, exploring the memorial
23
function of the images. The images of the Liber Testamentorum witness and re-enact the
reciprocal relationship between monarchs and bishops, presenting an idealized vision of
royal patronage of the Cathedral of Oviedo, whose memory is kept alive down to the
present day.
The centerpiece of Pelayo’s historiographic project, and of the space of the
Cámara Santa itself, is the large reliquary chest known as the Arca Santa. Bishop Pelayo
recounts how this ark, assembled by disciples of the apostles in the Holy Land, made its
perilous way to Asturias and finally to the Cámara Santa by the early ninth century. I
dedicate the next chapter to this enigmatic ark and the texts and objects surrounding it. I
argue that the Arca Santa, specifically as it is described and interpreted in the texts of
Pelayo, is the key to understanding the Cámara Santa, its subsequent devotional use and
decoration. I explore part of that subsequent use in the second portion of this chapter,
which examines a pair of sixteenth-century painted and gilded panels depicting the
opening of the Arca Santa. I locate the Arca Santa within a constellation of objects and
images, activated by liturgical performance and pilgrimage that together conserve the
memory of the reliquary’s contents and royal patrons.
The final chapter concentrates on the late twelfth-century decoration of the
Cámara Santa, which consists of a group of twelve sculpted apostles flanking the north
and south walls of the space, as well as the sculpted heads of Christ, the Virgin, and John
above the western entrance. This sculptural decoration animates and embodies the
narrative of the Arca’s apostolic origins, interacting with the pilgrims who come to see
and revere the relics, as well as the canons who controled access to this sacred space. The
presence of these pilgrims is difficult to discern; the destruction of the building
eliminated their physical traces, an erasure underscored by the disciplinary narratives of
art history that have focused on questions of style and dating, rather than audience and
reception. I take a critical look at the historiography of the sculpture of the apostolado,
and its emergence in the nineteenth century as an art historical monument. A crucial
figure in this analysis is the sculptor Víctor Hevia (1885-1957), whose multiple
interventions in the sculpture between 1900 and 1942 shape the ongoing study and
reception of the Cámara Santa. Hevia and his restorations function as a hinge within this
24
chapter, which moves between making and meaning in the twelfth century and the
twentieth.
My approach stems from the fundamental fact that the medieval Cámara Santa no
longer exists. What was left of it was blown up in 1934, and the monument that was
rebuilt over the next eight years is a hybrid historicist creation. Reconstruction did not
replace the Cámara Santa, but rather multiplied it, adding yet another layer to this
complex structure, one that must be studied in conjunction with its earlier incarnations.
Rather than viewing these events as unrelated to the medieval history of the site, a mere
modern postscript, I argue that these events underscore the extent to which medieval and
modern are woven together, imbricated within each other on both a structural and
symbolic level. To separate medieval from modern is to ignore the restored monument
before our eyes, and to drain the site of the power that makes it resonate through the
2
centuries and down to the present day. The Cámara Santa confronts us with the fact that
history and its monuments belong entirely neither to the past nor to the present, but,
somewhat uncomfortably, to both.
2
A small but growing number of publications are using this sort of diachronic approach to architecture:
Camerlenghi, “The Longue Durée;” Trachtenberg, Building-in-time; Marquardt and Jordan, eds., Medieval
Art and Architecture; Marquardt, From Martyr to Monument; Nelson, Hagia Sofia, 1850-1950.
25
Chapter 1 Constructing the Past: Architecture and Memory in the
Cámara Santa
Let me begin by describing a visit to the Cámara Santa today. While visitors are
free to wander around the nave and transept of the Cathedral of Oviedo, they enter into a
deliberately musealized space when they wish to see the Cámara Santa. First, a ticket
must be purchased in a small chamber off of the south transept, rehabilitated following
restoration for its use as a ticket office and souvenir shop. There is no guided tour,
although visitors are provided with a small leaflet describing the Cámara Santa. From
there, the visitor’s route is set out: first up the stairs installed in the Romanesque tower
known as the torre vieja, then into a large antechamber in the upper storey. This is a
large, empty space, free of any interpretation or explanation, and decorated only with
color photographs of the Cross of the Angels and Holy Shroud. Most tourists spend little
time in this space, which is unsurprising, given that they are given no context for what
they are looking at. Most head directly down the small flight of stairs, underneath the
fifteenth-century doorway decorated with a sculpture of a pair of angels holding a
depiction of the famous cross donated by Alfonso II, and into yet another antechamber,
the Tower of San Miguel. This is another completely uninterpreted space, though the
large plaque dedicated to Víctor Hevia Granda on the right of the doorway into the
Cámara Santa does hint at its tumultuous history of destruction and restoration. Passing
through another doorway, tourists reach the Cámara Santa itself, brightly illuminated,
revealing its magnificent sculpture in all its (lamentably dusty) glory. A large metal grille
separates the main nave of the chamber from the apse area, where the relics are kept. Yet
another layer separates visitors from the famous Arca Santa, for the reliquary is kept in a
sealed glass case.
Inside the Cámara Santa, the visitor relies on the pamphlet purchased with the
ticket, which describes the construction of the building by Alfonso II in the early ninth
century to house the cathedral’s famous collection of relics. This space was, so we are
told, used as a private chapel by the king himself, whose palace was nearby. In this
interpretation, the Cámara Santa is blessed with both royal and divine favor. Despite the
emphasis placed on the sacrality of the space’s contents, there is little room for displays
26
of religious devotion. The Cámara Santa, as far as I know, has no contemporary liturgical
use, and the only relic that is regularly used, the Holy Shroud, once part of the collection
in the Arca, is now kept in another location. To all intents and purposes, the Cámara
Santa has been voided of its sacred contents; now, its air of sacrality comes from its
status as an artistic monument. And not just any monument, but one which has been
resurrected through restoration.
Today’s visitor to the Cámara Santa encounters an artistic monument replete with
historical significance, whose form and meaning is presented as whole, fixed, and
unchanging. It is a shrine to the Asturian monarchy and its saintly kings, particularly
Alfonso II. Despite the importance granted to this site in modern memory and medieval
history, it is strangely difficult for the visitor to get any sense of the building’s past; the
walls are smooth, and recent repairs appear to have been made with modern Portland
cement, a glaring anachronism in a medieval space. The Cámara Santa feels above all
like a modern monument, a mere repository for the historical meaning attributed to it,
which is not visible in the structure itself. In this chapter, I confront the alienation of the
building from its own past by examining the history of transformation of the site in both
the medieval and modern eras. I seek to recover a sense of the Cámara Santa as a space
whose meanings and functions shifted over its long history, rather than as the
ideologically fixed monument that it has become.
This chapter functions as a diptych, in which the modern and medieval halves
work together to create a diachronic dialogue. I examine the structure of the Cámara
Santa, both its medieval origins and adaptations, as well as how it was reconfigured
during the processes of destruction and restoration during the first half of the twentieth
century. First, I analyze the rhetoric of a series of texts from the 1930s and ’40s in order
to situate the building in a complex network of conflicting narratives about the past and
its monuments. These debates continue to resonate down to the present day, as shown in
the introduction. I then turn to the rituals surrounding the reconsecration of the Cámara
Santa, whose overtly ideological National Catholicism has effectively been erased from
memory, but which, I argue, remains implicit in the ongoing preservation and promotion
of the site. I also consider how scholarship on the medieval monument, including its
27
archaeological excavation in the 1940s, has been shaped by the ideological concerns of
early Francoism.
The hinge in this diptych is the figure of José Cuesta Fernández, canon and
archivist of the Cathedral of Oviedo, who wrote the most thorough and authoritative
guide to the cathedral during the post-war period. Cuesta is a crucial figure in the making
of the modern Cámara Santa, as well as for the interpretation of the medieval site. After
tracing the outlines of Cuesta’s still-influential historical narrative, I consider the
medieval origins and transformations of the Cámara Santa. My analysis builds on recent
scholarship in order to explore alternative interpretations of the space and its function that
do not fit easily within the ideological narratives that so dominate the study of early
medieval Asturian art and architecture.
I focus on competing interpretations of the structure’s form and function, placing
it within the context of the early medieval city of Oviedo. Fundamentally, the original
Cámara Santa must be understood as part of a two-storey complex, consisting of a
treasury above a crypt. These two distinct spaces are frequently conflated, as if “Cámara
Santa” were a shorthand way of referring to both storeys of the structure. I wish to
distinguish between these two separate spaces, whose function and meaning were
distinct, but complementary. The distinction between these two spaces was collapsed at
some point over the course of the late eleventh and twelfth centuries, when the cult of the
relics (and perhaps even some of the relics themselves) literally moved upstairs to the
Cámara Santa. As we will see, this chronology coincides with the emergence of the cult
of the Arca Santa, the cathedral’s most important reliquary, which I discuss in chapter
three. With the Arca Santa taking pride of place in the Cámara Santa, the former
thesaurum transformed into a site of pilgrimage, and I argue in my last chapter that the
late twelfth-century decoration of the space engages directly with this new function as a
site of pilgrimage. The twelfth-century incarnation of the Cámara Santa must thus be seen
as distinct from its early medieval meaning and function, which I explore in this chapter.
From 1934 to 1942: The Destruction and Restoration of the Cámara Santa
On the morning of 12 October 1934, four hundred kilograms of dynamite
exploded in the crypt of Santa Leocadia, beneath the upper storey chapel dedicated to San
28
Miguel (see plan, Figure 1.1). The crypt was almost entirely destroyed, while the upper
storey fared slightly better. The chapel San Miguel, a barrel-vaulted space consisting of a
larger, high-ceilinged nave and a smaller apse-like area at the east end, maintained a large
part of the north wall, but the south wall and vault were destroyed (see Figure 1). The
section of the cloister that abutted the south wall was badly damaged (Figure 1.2), and the
wall separating the area immediately in front of the Cámara Santa and the chapel to the
north, now dedicated to the Virgin of Covadonga but then known as the Chapel of San
3
Ildefonso, was destroyed (Figure 1.3). The precious relics housed in the Cámara Santa,
including the Arca Santa, Cross of the Angels (Figure 1.4), and Cross of Victory (Figure
1.5), were recovered from the rubble, and were restored along with the building itself.
Nearly one month after these dramatic events, on 9 November 1934, Manuel
Gómez Moreno, one of Spain’s foremost experts on medieval art and architecture, gave a
report to the Academy of History in Madrid about the destruction of the Cámara Santa.
His heartfelt account reveals how the academic discourse of art history could intersect
with political rhetoric. The learned context and tenor of his remarks contrast sharply with
the obviously passionate feelings the events of October inspire in him. He resorts to
historical parallels in order to express his outrage. “Not since the invasion of the
barbarians,” he writes, “has such a thing been witnessed, and any other comparison
remains obsolete, because such destruction has no precedents, even among the disasters
4
of the Great War.” In this historicizing interpretation, the revolutionaries become
3
Luis Menéndez Pidal, the architect responsible for the post-Civil War restoration of the Cámara Santa,
describes its destruction in his “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 7-9. A contemporary description of the
events of 1934 can be found in Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción de la Cámara Santa.” For modern
scholarship on the destructions of 1934, see the account by Madrid Álvarez, “La edad contemporanea,”
261-68. See also García Cuetos, El prerrománico asturiano and Chapapría and García Cuetos, Alejandro
Ferrant, vol. 2, 91-101.
4
“Desde la invasión de los bárbaros no se habría presenciado cosa igual, y cualquiera otra comparación
queda superada, porque una voladura así, ni aun entre los desastres de la Gran Guerra tiene precedentes.”
Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” 607.
29
5
twentieth-century equivalents of the invading hordes of barbarians of the Middle Ages.
Their destruction is pure vandalism, random and meaningless: “the remains of the famous
sculptures and reliquaries and sacred treasures that were the palladium of the Reconquest
6
lay about in a mad and unlikely dispersion.”
In the context of this reference to the Reconquest, Gómez Moreno’s barbarians
can be interpreted as the Arab armies that invaded the Iberian peninsula in the eighth
7
century. Early Francoist rhetoric forged a parallel between the medieval Reconquest of
the peninsula from the Muslims and the latter-day “Crusade” of the 1930s against leftwing, liberal “Moors.” Franco frequently referred to the battle of Covadonga in speeches,
8
representing himself as a latter-day Pelayo. Covadonga was not merely invoked as a
rhetorical trope; in 1939, the Virgin of Covadonga, the eighteenth-century cult statue that
had disappeared during the Civil War, was recovered and restored to the basilica at a
large ceremony presided over both by the Bishop of Oviedo and Franco’s wife, who was
9
from Oviedo. Covadonga was one of many historically significant and specifically
medieval sites in Asturias whose meaning and monumental form were shaped during the
dictatorship of Franco, underscoring the extent to which the physical sites of the past
5
This trope is far from unique to the twentieth-century Spanish context. Gamboni discusses it with
reference to a broader European context in his The Destruction of Art, 13-24.
6
“Un monte de cuatro a seis metros de altura, en que se revuelven enormes ladrillos, sillares, pedruscos,
tejas y maderas, con todo el detrito de lo hundido, rellenaban su ámbito, y entre medias, en una dispersión
loca e inverosímil, yacían los restos de las famosas esculturas y de los relicarios y preseas sagradas que
fueron paladion de la Reconquista.” Gómez Moreno, “La destrucción,” 608.
7
8
9
I am grateful to Mark Meyerson for his discussion with me of this point.
Barrachina, Propagande et culture, 142.
Boyd, “The Second Battle of Covadonga,” 57. As Boyd’s article makes clear, the history of
commemoration at Covadonga has roots far deeper than the period of Franco. The basilica and shrine there
today were erected in the late nineteenth century, largely thanks to the efforts of the bishops of Oviedo. The
statue itself dates to the period after the entire site was destroyed by fire in 1777, although there presumably
had existed an earlier, perhaps medieval cult image.
30
were imbricated in this rhetorical use of historical material by the new Francoist
10
regime.
Gómez Moreno does not explicitly politicize the Cámara Santa in his discourse,
but he uses arguments about the site’s value as an artistic and historical monument in
order to elicit outrage at its destruction. Left-wing texts produced in the aftermath of the
October Revolution likewise engage with the rhetoric of art history and its valorization of
the monument, although they take a more critical stance. Post-war rhetoric painted the
opponents of Franco as enemies of culture, history, and the church who reveled in the
destruction of works of art and, especially, religious buildings. It is, therefore, important
to explore the profound and complex ambivalence about the status of historical and
ecclesiastical monuments felt by contemporary left-wing writers.
La revolución fue así by Manuel Benavides (1895-1947) and Octubre rojo en
Asturias by José Díaz Fernández (1898-1941), both published in 1935 during the
immediate aftermath of the revolution, invoke both the language of scholarship and the
figures of scholars themselves, creating an image of the building as the literal
embodiment of the enemy.
11
In the voice of the reporter-cum-narrator, both Benavides
and Díaz Fernández ruminate over the meaning of the destruction of the Cámara Santa,
framing it as a conflict between logic and superstition, between military pragmatism and
historic preservation. According to Benavides:
A superstition among scholars about culture often tied the hands of the
revolutionaries. […] Those who had to shout most loudly about the loss
of the Cámara Santa—“Romanesque work of great value, constructed
by the king of Asturias Alfonso the Chaste and dedicated to St.
Michael,” as the shaggy chronicler of the government wrote—were the
first to sanction the conversion of its towers into a fortress with the
10
11
On the reconstruction at Covadonga, see Menéndez Pidal, La Cueva de Covadonga.
For more on the literary production of these figures, see Esteban and Santonja, Los novelistas sociales
españoles.
31
cross on high, a cross which only opens its arms to welcome the Civil
Guard.
12
Díaz Fernández is less strident than Benavides: “The miners knew nothing of
archaeology or history, and the scholars cowered in terror inside their dark cellars at that
13
time, while the cannon thundered and the machine gun roared from the tower.” Both
authors show a clear awareness of the debates surrounding the value of historic
monuments, and the specific art historical language in which these debates were
conducted.
Beneath this strident condemnation of, in Benavides’ words, the “superstition
about culture,” both authors offer evidence that opinion concerning the destruction of the
Cámara Santa was sharply divided among the revolutionaries. Benavides describes the
events leading up to the explosion. The revolutionary gunners had established their
position on Mount Naranco, a high ground to the north of the city center, in order to fire
on the positions still held by the Civil Guard—among them, the gothic tower of the
cathedral. One of the members of the revolutionary committee asks, “What are the men
on Naranco doing?” “Attacking the cathedral,” another responds. “What barbarians! They
are going to destroy an artistic jewel! I do not accept responsibility for this foolishness!”
To which the gunners on Mount Naranco reply, “And what good to us is this jewel?”
12
14
“Una superstición de bachilleres por la cultura ató muchas veces las manos de los revolucionarios. No
les servía el ejemplo de los enemigos. Los que habían de gritar más fuerte por la pérdida de la Cámara
Santa—“pieza románica de gran mérito, construída por el rey de Asturias Alfonso el Casto bajo la
advocación de San Miguel,” como escribió el lanudo cronista del Gobierno—fueron los primeros en
aprobar que se convirtieran en fortaleza sus torres con la cruz en lo alto, una cruz que sólo abre sus brazos
para acoger a la guardia civil.” Benavides, La revolución fue así, 283-84.
13
“Los mineros no sabían arqueología, ni historia, y los eruditos estaban a aquellas horas aterrados en sus
sótanos oscuros, mientras tronaba el cañón y tableteaba la ametralladora de la torre.” Díaz Fernández,
Octubre rojo en Asturias, 114.
14
“Al tercer cañonazo preguntó el Comité:
¿Qué hacen los del Naranco?
32
The transformation of the cathedral into an art historical treasure seems to correspond in
Benavides’ mind to its symbolic and military appropriation by anti-revolutionary forces.
The ominously looming cross, which opens its arms only for the enemies of the Republic,
has been conflated with the jewels within the treasury of the Cámara Santa, and the
architectural jewel itself. The cathedral has become an embodiment of the enemy,
literally firing upon the revolutionaries, as is made explicit in Díaz Fernández’s account.
He describes how the order from the revolutionary committee to the gunners: “Do not fire
on the cathedral. That would give a bad impression of the revolution.” To which one
15
responds, “You don’t want us to fire on the cathedral. But the cathedral is firing on us.”
Atacan la catedral.
¡Qué bárbaros! ¡Van a destruir una joya artística! Yo no acepto la responsibilidad de ese desatino.
Creía honradamente que era preferible renunciar a rendir la catedral antes que destruirla. La
historia de España sublevaríase contra semejante atentado. Corrió la orden:
¡Eh, avisar a los del Naranco! ¡La catedral es una joya artística! La historia de España...
Enconstráronse con unos camilleros:
¿Muertos?
Heridos.
¿Dónde?
En la plaza de Porlier. Si no vuelan la catedral, no haremos cosa de provecho.
El Comité dice que es una joya artística.
Encogiéronse de hombros los camilleros. Un herido preguntó: ¿Qué dice el Comité?
Que la catedral es una joya artística.
Hubo que sujetarlo; el herido quería echarse fuera de la camilla, con un hombro deshecho por los
proyectiles de la catedral, para preguntarle al Comité qué entendía por joya artística.” Benavides, La
revolución fue así, 282-83.
15
“Donde se combatía con verdadera furia era en la plaza de la Catedral. Peña, a los artilleros del Naranco,
les había rogado desde el primer día:
33
The transformation of the cathedral into an enemy position was frequently
invoked as the reason why the Cámara Santa was destroyed. In his two-volume
compendium of 1984, Asturias 1934, Paco Ignacio Taibo strives for an even-handed
treatment of the events of October 1934. He lists all of the sites destroyed during the
course of fighting, juxtaposing those destroyed by revolutionaries with those destroyed
by government forces. He claims that, with a couple of exceptions, “all of the […] fires
16
and destructions were done in the midst of combat for military objectives.” This
insistence on the logic of revolutionary destruction is in sharp contrast to claims that the
revolutionaries were indiscriminate vandals who caused utter destruction. The artist
Ignacio Zuloaga’s (1870-1945) neat equation of 1937 summarizes this view: “A
conservative policy—that of the new Spain, that of Franco. A destructive policy—the
Red policy, the Bolshevist policy.”
17
While left-wing texts reveal deep ambivalence about the meaning of artistic and
historical treasures, after the outbreak of the Civil War in 1936, Nationalists
enthusiastically embraced the rhetoric of culture and the positive value of monuments
themselves.
18
If, as they claimed, the Republican strategy was one of total destruction,
the Nationalists responded with a strategy of total reconstruction. While the Civil War
--No tiréis contra la Catedral. Eso sería de mal efecto para la revolución. Pero la Catedral se convirtió en
posición estratégica de los revolucionarios, para defender el Gobierno civil. Algún obrero le dijo a Peña: -Tú no querías tirar contra la Catedral. Pero la Catedral tira contra nosotros.” Díaz Fernández, Octubre rojo
en Asturias, 113.
16
“En descargo de ambas fuerzas habría que decir que con la excepción del incendio de Avance y la
voladura del Instituto, atribuida a un grupo de incontrolados que querían deshacerse de los presos de
derecha, todos los demás incendios y voladuras se hicieron en combate y en función a objetivos bélicos.”
Taibo, Asturias 1934, vol. 2, 243.
17
Zuloaga’s remarks appear in English translation in the first issue of the journal Spain, 8. This journal
began publication in 1937 with an explicitly pro-Franco focus, oriented to foreign, English-speaking
readers.
18
On both Republican and Nationalist attempts to preserve artistic patrimony, see Viejo-Rose,
Reconstructing Spain, 38-42.
34
still raged, Franco established several bureaucratic entities responsible for the promotion,
preservation, and reconstruction of Spain’s monuments.
19
This campaign of
reconstruction was both architectural and ideological, striving to create national unity and
homogeneity under the leadership of Franco.
20
The formation of a national treasury of
historic monuments and works of art helped to constitute Spanish national identity, their
21
preservation acting as a strategy for legitimation for the new government.
In the case of the Cámara Santa, the historical monuments restored by the
Francoist government become not only didactic sites for the diffusion of state-sponsored
ideology, but also performative sites used to stage and legitimate Franco’s rule. When
Luis Menéndez Pidal y Álvarez (1896-1975) was appointed chief conservator of
monuments in Asturias in 1937, he was asked “about which projects it would be best to
undertake as soon as possible, in the interests of our Monuments, […] so that they might
serve as propaganda in foreign lands for the national cause.” He replied “without
hesitation that the first project undertaken in Asturias ought to be the reconstruction of
22
the Cámara Santa.” The Cámara Santa in particular thus had the power to embody the
19
As early as December 1936, Franco ordered that each province establish a committee for the oversight
of the national artistic patrimony. Alted Vigil, Política del Nuevo Estado, 75.
20
21
See discussion in Pérez Escolano, “Guerra Civil y Regiones Devastadas,” 139.
For a similar discussion of how Francoist artists used art-historical references to construct the
propagandistic image of Franco, see Basilio, “Genealogies for a New State.”
22
“Refiriéndome ya a la etapa que me es bien conocida en la reconstrucción de los Monumentos de
Asturias, por haber tenido ocasión de participar en ella, diré que al llegar a territorio nacional me
encomendó don Eugenio D’Ors, entonces Director General de Bellas Artes, me hiciera cargo de las ruinas
de nuestros monumentos, señalando con especial veneración a los restos de la Cámara Santa. Entonces el
Ilustre Arquitecto y nuestro amigo don Pedro Muguruza, me preguntó sobre las obras que convendría hacer
cuanto antes por interés hacia nuestros Monumentos, y también para que ello sirviera de propaganda en el
extranjero a favor de la causa nacional, respondiéndole sin vacilación que la obra primera a realizar en
Asturias debería ser la reconstrucción de la Cámara Santa, como así se hizo después, siguiéndole otras en la
Catedral y su Torre, obras que todavía hoy continúan por el gran interés que en ellas ha puesto desde un
principio nuestro invicto Caudillo, con la intervención de Regiones Devastadas, órgano creado para llevar a
35
early Francoist government’s sense of identity, and the monument’s reconstruction was
an important strategy of legitimation.
Reinforcing the site’s ideological importance, Menéndez Pidal left numerous
writings about his work at the Cámara Santa, as well as a series of drawings and plans
(Figures 1.6 and 1.7). It is worth noting, however, that most of these publications
occurred well after the completion of restoration.
23
Close examination of Menéndez
Pidal’s writings reveals not only the architect’s working methods, but also the
philosophical underpinnings of his practice of restoration. He states that he began by
reinforcing the ruins, then moving to reconstruct the vault of the crypt “with the same
24
stones that were recovered from the ruins” (Figure 1.8). He then dismantled the walls,
labeling all of the stones so that they could be re-used in the reconstruction (Figure 1.9).
After the crypt was complete, he rebuilt the walls of the upper storey. Work began on the
vault above the apse at the east end, moving on to the nave, and, finally, to the remaining
areas damaged in the explosion.
Menéndez Pidal introduced a series of changes to the monument, particularly to
the crypt of Santa Leocadia. He opened a doorway from the crypt onto the so-called
Pilgrims’ Cemetery to the east, so that the early medieval buttresses discovered during
restoration could be viewed (Figure 1.10). The crypt was then covered in what he terms
Roman-style concrete, despite the lack of evidence that such a covering had been used in
the Middle Ages. New stone window grilles, modeled on surviving stone grille in the
ninth-century church of San Julián de los Prados, were put in place in both the crypt and
upper storey. In the Cámara Santa, Menéndez Pidal installed a metal grille between the
space of the nave and apse, in emulation of what Ambrosio de Morales described in his
cabo reconstrucción nacional, como ha logrado tan brillantemente con los resultados conseguidos.”
Menéndez Pidal, Los monumentos de Asturias, 42. See also his “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 12.
23
Menéndez Pidal, “Catedral de Oviedo;” Los monumentos de Asturias; “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo.”
The earliest publication dealing with the restoration is the article he wrote together with Hevia Granda,
“Notas sobre la reconstrucción.”
24
Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 14.
36
sixteenth-century visit to the cathedral (Figure 1.11). Exterior sculptural elements,
including a series of metopes and corbels that had been damaged in the explosion, were
replaced with similar elements found in the area next to the so-called torre vieja (see
plan, Figure 1.1). Menéndez Pidal suggests that these pieces had been moved there from
the western facade of the Cámara Santa when the Gothic cloister was built. The precise
location of these structural elements remains unknown, and recent work on the
reformation of the tower during the eleventh century has not addressed whether or not the
sculpture reused in the Cámara Santa could have once been located here.
25
The architect emphasizes that “each ornamental sculptural element, ashlar block,
and uncut stone … occupied the same location in which it had been placed originally,
thus returning to form a part of the monument with the same order that it had before its
26
destruction.” As Pilar García Cuetos has pointed out, when placed in its post-war
context, Menéndez Pidal’s philosophy and practice of restoration at the Cámara Santa
take on an ideological valence.
27
The architect describes his restoration as an example of
the highest and purest anastylosis.
28
According to the 1931 Athens Charter, “[i]n the case
of ruins, scrupulous conservation is necessary, and steps should be taken to reinstate any
original fragments that may be recovered (anastylosis), whenever this is possible; the new
29
materials used for this purpose should in all cases be recognizable.” Despite Menéndez
Pidal’s invocation of anastylosis, his actual working practice reveals crucial discrepancies
25
26
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 68-69.
“Después de reconstruir de este modo cada elemento escultórico ornamental, sillares y mampuestos,
cada uno de ellos iba ocupar el lugar donde estaba su originario emplazamiento, volviendo así a formar
parte del monumento con la misma ordenación que tuvo antes de su destrucción.” Menéndez Pidal, “La
Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 14.
27
28
29
García Cuetos, El prerrománico asturiano, 118-32.
Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 17.
For the text of the Athens Charter, see Petzet and Ziesemer, eds. International Charters for
Conservation and Restoration, 31-32.
37
with the ideals of the Athens Charter. He describes how he dismantled the damaged
remains that were left standing, cataloguing all the stones, proceeding to rebuild the
structure “using the ancient stones that had been collected, together with other new
30
stones, made like those ancient ones.” He repeatedly underscores the authenticity of his
reconstruction, based on his reuse of original building materials. For Menéndez Pidal,
what is new should look old, and the historical integrity of the Cámara Santa is
maintained even as it is rebuilt in its entirety.
As Robert Ousterhout has argued in reference to the Byzantine interventions at
the church of the Holy Sepulcher, monuments built to house precious relics often acquire
the status of relics themselves.
31
Menéndez Pidal’s simultaneous and seemingly
contradictory commitment to both scientific anastylosis and complete reconstruction
reveals another aspect of Francoist medievalism. Like medieval builders before him,
Menéndez Pidal treats the Cámara Santa as an essential unity, its form, function, and
meaning unchanged despite repeated structural interventions. Moreover, he treats the
very stones themselves as if they were relics as reconstruction takes on a near-ritual
aspect. Enhancing this ritual aspect was the participation of Franco himself in the
reconstruction process, for he laid the final paving stone on 17 September 1939.
32
These
examples reveal the extent to which ideological ends have been woven into the physical
means of reconstruction. The working practices of Menéndez Pidal become an apt
metaphor for the ideological reconstruction of the Spanish past during this period. The
architect combined the stone salvaged from the site of the explosion with new stone in
order to produce an edifice that was whole and complete, bearing no scars of its recent
violent destruction. Similarly, Francoist rhetoric used fragments of historical matter to
30
“El apeo y consolidación de ruinas en los reducidos restos del venerable Monumento fueron los
primeros trabajos llevados a cabo, juntamente con el descombro de las zonas donde se iba a operar;
siguiendo después con el cierre de la cripta se completa la bóveda, empleando las baldosas antiguas
recogidas y con otras nuevasa hechas como aquellas.” Menéndez Pidal, Los monumentos de Asturias, 50.
31
32
Ousterhout, “Architecture as Relic,” 4.
Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 16.
38
fashion a new ideology of Spanish history, erasing the process of construction, effacing
signs of conflict, and naturalizing its product as already-existing historical truth.
This ritual quality implicit in Menéndez Pidal’s reconstruction technique becomes
explicit eight years after the initial destruction of the Cámara Santa, when the space was
reconsecrated in an elaborate ceremony. Franco’s personal involvement with the
reconstruction of the Cámara Santa culminated in an elaborate procession through the
streets of Oviedo in September 1942. Franco, along with a papal nuncio, members of the
military and Civil Guard, and representatives of the local and national governments, the
church and the University of Oviedo, carried the most precious relics of the cathedral
back to their home in the newly rebuilt Cámara Santa. The procession through the ruined
streets of Oviedo both celebrated the Cámara Santa’s reconstruction and also reminded
everyone of its initial destruction at the hands of the “reds” in 1934. The ceremonial
rhetoric of this procession joined in the relentless chorus of Francoist propaganda, which
reiterated again and again in stark, absolute terms the dichotomy between the valiant,
Christian Nationalist forces of Franco and the godless communists, veritable twentiethcentury barbarians.
Witnesses to the events of 1942 must have seen a curious mixture of ruin and
restoration. Despite the misery of the years immediately after the Civil War, considerable
money and effort was put into the reconstruction of a number of symbolic locations, as
well as the urban reconfiguration of the city as a whole to reflect the ideology of the new
ruling Falangist party. Streets were renamed, monuments built, and a new complex of
government buildings planned.
33
The new plan for the urban development of Oviedo was
completed in 1940, although work was still moving slowly in 1942 because of lack of
resources. Even the cathedral, whose iconic single tower had been badly damaged during
the Civil War, was still under reconstruction, and much of the city lay in ruins.
33
Archivo Municipal de Oviedo, vitrina 2, leg. 49, doc. 2: Ayuntamiento de Oviedo, Plan de Urbanización
de Oviedo, 2 vols.
39
The 1942 procession began at the exterior door of the cloister, next to the
episcopal palace, which had been practically leveled and was still in ruins (see map,
Figure 1.12). From there, it moved past the monastery of San Vicente and the nunnery of
San Pelayo, turning to follow the contours of the city’s medieval walls, which had been
partially dismantled during the fighting to create barricades. Leaving the medieval city,
the procession turned to pass the thirteenth-century monastery of Santa Clara, with its
reformed Baroque façade. Continuing farther away from the old city, it then passed by
the church of San Juan el Real, where Franco’s wedding ceremony had taken place in
1923. A nineteenth-century church of little historical significance except as the site of
Franco’s wedding ceremony, the inclusion of this site in the itinerary speaks to a
deliberate involvement—both personal and political—of Franco.
Next, the procession turned to move down almost the entire length of the Calle
Uría, Oviedo’s most important commercial street, which had seen particularly desperate
fighting during the 1934 revolution and subsequent Civil War. Photographs from the
1930s shows the scale of the destruction on this street, and much of it was still in ruins in
1942 (Figure 1.13). Reaching the end of the Calle Uría, the procession passed by the
major government buildings of the province and then the city, returning finally to the
cathedral square. The route chosen by the ceremony’s organizers includes most of the
city’s important buildings, particularly its civic and religious centers. It also highlights
the presence of Franco himself in the city, going out of its way to include San Juan el
Real.
The widely published photograph of Franco carrying the tenth-century Cross of
Victory through the city’s streets like a latter-day medieval monarch makes explicit a
powerful connection between medieval history and contemporary events (see Figure 2).
The newspaper caption deploys the rhetoric of Reconquest with unabashed fervor:
“Although his heart wavers, choked by the emotion visible in his face, the Caudillo of
Spain carries with a firm hand the Cross of Victory, the same Cross that the hands of
Pelayo carried one day in the mountains of Auseva. Pelayo began there the reconquest
that has so much in common with the one undertaken in July of 1936 by our
40
34
Generalísimo.” These events were commemorated not only in the local press, but also
in a contemporary monograph dedicated to the reconsecration of the Cámara Santa,
entitled La crónica del milenario de la Cámara Santa. Its author, José Cuesta Fernández,
was a canon of the cathedral and author of the authoritative guide book to the cathedral
still sold in local bookshops. The millennium of the book’s title refers to the 1,100 years
between the reconsecration of the Cámara Santa in 1942 and the death of King Alfonso II
in 842. Much was made of this pair of dates, and Alfonso II was a central figure invoked
in the ceremonies surrounding the reconstruction. As part of the festivities, Franco
unveiled a new statue of Alfonso II by the local artist and restorer of the Cámara Santa,
Víctor Hevia Granda, which still stands alongside the façade of the cathedral (Figure
1.14). A portrait bust of the medieval monarch adorns the title page of the La crónica del
milenario (Figure 1.15), and a facsimile copy of his famous testament is included in an
appendix.
This portrait bust of Alfonso II, as well as other aspects of the design and layout
of the book, deliberately emulates the most famous manuscript in the cathedral’s archive,
the Liber Testamentorum, an illuminated cartulary—or collection of documents—from
the early twelfth century. As I discuss in chapter two, the compiler of this cartulary,
Bishop Pelayo (d. 1153), privileges the role played by Alfonso II in the foundation and
endowment of the Cathedral of Oviedo, and the representation of the monarch presented
in the 1942 text is quite literally dependent on the image of him in the twelfth-century
cartulary. Moreover, Cuesta tells his readers how, following all of the ceremonies, Franco
“amused himself by leafing through some of the precious manuscripts of the cathedral
34
“Con mano firme, aunque el corazón vacile estrangulado por la emoción que le asoma a la cara, el
Caudillo de España porta la Cruz de la Victoria, la misma que un día, en las pefias del Auseva,
manutuvieron, también con imbatible firmeza, las manos de Pelayo, que inició una reconquista que tanta
similitud tiene con la que acometió en julio de mil novecientos treinta y seis nuestro Generalísimo.”
Manuel Prados y López, “El Caudillo, en Oviedo,” La Nueva España, 6 September 1942. The term
“caudillo” derives from the Latin capitellus, or “little head,” and refers to a military leader or warlord.
Franco adopted this term as part of his general strategy to cast himself as an early medieval warlord, like
Pelayo.
41
archive,” including the Liber Testamentorum (Figure 1.16). This manuscript thus became
another medieval monument conscripted to the Nationalist cause, along with the famous
relics such as the Arca Santa, Cross of Angels, and Cross of Victory that were processed
through the streets of the city. Utilizing the vast urban fabric as a stage, and the relics of
the cathedral as props, Franco represented himself as an early medieval monarch,
rendering tangible his ideology of Reconquest. As the ceremonies surrounding the
Cámara Santa’s reconsecration suggest, the Franco government self-consciously drew
upon the medieval past and its strategies of legitimation, both architectural and ritual.
Spiritual and secular authority became conflated as the sacred past was fused with the
sacralized present through the use of ritual and relics. Franco asserted and enacted a
continuity with the medieval past that deliberately erased moments of rupture and conflict
in order to produce the image of a unified Spain.
Excavating the Medieval Cámara Santa
The rhetoric of Reconquest continued beyond the heady early days of the regime,
and the historical ideas of early Francoism were solidified over the passage of years
through numerous touristic and scholarly publications. While far less dramatic and
overtly ideological, such texts in effect continue the work of the early 1940s. In 1957,
Cuesta Fernández published his popular guide to the cathedral. As Guillermo Estrada
Acebal points out in his introduction, this eclipsed other attempts, from Fermín Canella’s
35
encyclopedic Libro de Oviedo (1877) to Justo Álvarez Amandi’s brief 1929 guide. To
Estrada Acebal, this guidebook is not a meaningless tourist-oriented work, but rather
represents an attempt to preserve the history of the cathedral and the city as a whole in
the face of the destructive wars of the twentieth century. As he writes:
A great fear arose then among the people of Oviedo that we might be left
without any history—even worse, we were nearly left without a cathedral.
The Eumenides, the infernal furies, were unleashed above our city: the
revolutionaries of the month of October 1934 applied themselves with equal
zeal and ardor to their dynamite as the “red” artillerymen of ’36 to their
35
Estrada Acebal, “Prólogo,” in Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la Catedral de Oviedo, 1.
42
canons. [They worked] with such fury and skill in destruction that the Cámara
Santa, the holy relics, the tower, and the cloister were nearly lost forever.
36
The prospect of losing the cathedral is likened to losing history itself; here as elsewhere,
the identity of Oviedo is inextricably tied to its cathedral. The recuperation of the history
of the cathedral carried out by Cuesta thus takes on a wider significance as a sort of
textual reconstruction of the city’s sense of itself and its past. The Cámara Santa, so
central to that history, had recently been rebuilt, and the entire city was likewise under
reconstruction when the canon published his guidebook. Cuesta is thus a pivotal figure in
the production of the Cámara Santa as a modern monument; he makes only passing
references to the tumultuous recent history of the site, and has nothing but praise for its
reconstruction, although he does not discuss in depth precisely what was destroyed and
what was restored.
Cuesta’s narrative accompanies visitors as they move through the cathedral,
arriving at the Cámara Santa after having traversed the nave, aisles, and numerous side
chapels. The discussion of the Cámara Santa follows on the heels of his description of the
so-called New Cámara Santa, or Chapel of Santa Barbara, built in the mid-seventeenth
century in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to re-house the relics of the “holy chamber”
in more splendidly Baroque surroundings.
37
Cuesta leads visitors up the eighteenth-
century staircase from the south transept and into the large antechamber above. His
narration moves between past and present, remembering things as they were before the
destruction of the 1930s, describing now-lost, often liturgical, elements. From the large,
vaulted antechamber, Cuesta leads the reader down a pair of stairs and into a smaller
36
“Surgió también por entonces el gran temor para los ovetenses de Oviedo, porque si en efecto nos
quedamos sin historia, lo que es muchísimo peor, a punto estuvimos de quedarnos ¡oh dolor! igualmente
sin Catedral, porque desatadas las Euménides, las furias infernales sobre nuestra ciudad, con tanto celo y
ardor se aplicaron los revolucionarios del mes de Octubre del año 34, con su dinamita, como los artilleros
rojos del ’36, con sus cañones, con tanto furor y maestría en la destrucción, que a poco desaparecen para
siempre la Cámara Santa, las Santas Reliquias, la torre y el claustro.” Estrada Acebal, “Prólogo,” 1-2.
37
Ramallo Asensio, “Reactivación del culto.”
43
antechamber, closer to the Cámara Santa itself. This is the Tower of San Miguel,
discovered during the excavations undertaken following the explosion of 1934. From the
tower, we descend another pair of steps and reach the Cámara Santa itself (see plan,
Figure 1.1).
38
Cuesta’s description of the Cámara Santa starts with the twelve apostles that line
the north and south walls of the barrel-vaulted nave, and he highlights the recent
restoration of these sculptures by the artist and antiquarian Víctor Hevia Granda, who
also created the statue of Alfonso II. For Cuesta, the Cámara Santa is a sacred
architectural reliquary, decorated with rich sculpture and filled with precious relics.
While our canon-guide does not enter into debates surrounding the origins and functions
of the Cámara Santa, he does refer to the excavations carried out in the 1940s, which
were published in the Bulletin of the Institute of Asturian Studies between 1948 and
39
1951. Cuesta echoes the conclusions of these idiosyncratic excavations, particularly the
notion that the Cámara Santa was a sort of palatine reliquary chapel, attached to an earlier
royal palace via the Tower of San Miguel. As we shall see, the chronology and function
of the Cámara Santa are dependent upon one another, as arguments about the former are
used to sustain the latter, and vice versa. The interpretation of the Cámara Santa as
private chapel for the use of the king, specifically Alfonso II, has proved popular; it has
been widely accepted in the scholarship, and it is the one that visitors to the site are
40
presented with today.
38
39
Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la Catedral, 90-93.
See the monograph re-edition of these studies, published as Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas
del Oviedo primitivo. The articles that form this book are: “Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo: preliminares para
un estudio sobre lo hallado en las excavaciones,” BIDEA 2, no. 4 (1948): 73-102; “La Cámara Santa de
Oviedo: su primitiva construcción, su destrucción y su reconstrucción,” BIDEA 3, no. 6 (1949): 51-116;
“Nueva fase de excavaciones del Oviedo antiguo,” BIDEA 4, no. 10 (1950): 119-159; and “Tercera fase de
excavaciones del Oviedo antiguo,” BIDEA 5, no. 13 (1951): 113-128.
40
Among the scholars who support the interpretation of the Cámara Santa as a palatine chapel are: Helmut
Schlunk (“El arte asturiano en torno al 800,” although he omitted the Cámara Santa from a discussion of
44
The Executive Committee of the Trust for the Reconstruction of the Cathedral, of
which Cuesta was a member, facilitated the archaeological investigation of the area south
of the cathedral, near the Episcopal Palace. Starting in 1946, the journalist and amateur
archaeologist José Fernández Buelta (1894-1992), working together with the sculptor
Víctor Hevia Granda, excavated several areas around the Passageway of Santa Barbara,
between the Episcopal Palace and the southern aisle of the cathedral (see plan, Figure
1.1). The excavation soon expanded to include part of the nearby square to the south of
the cloister. Fernández Buelta uncovered a series of foundations that he interpreted as
pertaining to an early medieval palace, of which the Tower of San Miguel formed one of
a pair of towers (Figure 1.17). He argued that this palace pre-dates the Cámara Santa
itself, and even went so far as to suggest that Oviedo’s palace proves the city’s
foundation as a Roman settlement.
41
The Cámara Santa, in Fernández Buelta’s view, was initially built during the reign
of Alfonso II in the eighth century and substantially adapted in the twelfth. The
destruction of 1934 literally shed light on aspects of the construction process in the
Cámara Santa, particularly the difference between the early medieval structure and later
additions and modifications. According to Fernández Buelta, the wooden roof that
originally existed was replaced with a stone barrel vault during the early twelfth century.
The height of the ceiling was increased, and the exterior walls reinforced (Figure 1.18).
Fernández Buelta points in particular to the quality of mortar used during the distinct
Asturian palatine chapels in Las iglesias palatinas, and did not refer to any palatine function is his largely
formal analysis in “El arte asturiano en el reinado de Alfonso II”), Bango Torviso (“De la arquitectura
visigoda,” “L’ ‘ordo gothorum’ et sa survivance,” and “El neovisigotismo artistico”), Fernández González
(“Estructura y simbolismo”), Marín Valdés (“Oviedo. L’art àulic”), García Cuetos (“El culto a las reliquias
en Asturias” and her catalogue entry, “Los reyes de Asturias. La Cámara Santa de la Catedral de Oviedo,”
in Maravillas de la España medieval, vol. 1, 205-14), Arias Páramo (La Cámara Santa and his entry on the
Cámara Santa in García Guinea, Pérez González, and Arias Páramo, eds., Enciclopedia del Prerrománico
en Asturias, 241-58).
41
He develops these arguments in his conclusion to the first of the four articles in Ruinas del Oviedo
primitivo, “Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo,” 34-36.
45
building phases, in addition to the differences visible in the masonry—larger, evenly cut
blocks of white limestone in the twelfth century versus the irregular, smaller blocks of
42
sandstone from the earlier period.
While there is still scholarly consensus about the existence of two distinct phases
of construction and decoration in the Cámara Santa, disputes continue about the precise
chronology of these two phases. Debate revolves around whether to attribute the initial
construction of the Cámara Santa to the period of Alfonso II (d. 842) or Alfonso III (d.
910). On the one hand, such scholars as Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, Helmut Schlunk, and
Isidro Bango Torviso follow Fernández Buelta in attributing the Cámara Santa’s
construction to the reign of Alfonso II, and, indeed, to his personal agency.
43
On the other
hand, a dating to the period of Alfonso III in the late ninth century is favored by Juan
Uría Ríu, Francisco Javier Fernández Conde, César García de Castro, and Eduardo
Carrero Santamaría.
44
This chronological conundrum derives in large part from the problem that no
building even vaguely identifiable as the Cámara Santa is referred to in the ninth-century
chronicles written in or around Oviedo, namely, the Chronicle of Alfonso III, the
Albeldensian Chronicle, and the Prophetic Chronicle.
45
These key texts within medieval
Iberian historiography have a great deal to say about numerous other royal building
42
See his description in the fourth part of Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, “La Cámara Santa. Su primitiva
construcción, su destrucción y su reconstrucción,” 94-95, 102-103.
43
Sánchez Albornoz, “Construcciones del Rey Alfonso el Casto,” in Orígines de la nación española, vol.
2, 641-53; Schlunk, “El arte asturiano en torno al 800” and “El arte asturiano en el reinado de Alfonso II;”
Bango Torviso, “De la arquitectura visigoda,” “L’ ‘ordo gothorum et sa survivance,’” and “El
neovisigotismo artistico.”
44
Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas;” Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 114-15;
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 48-56; Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 45-48.
45
For all three chronicles, see the edition of Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, eds., Crónicas
asturianas.
46
projects in early medieval Oviedo, so the omission of the Cámara Santa is noteworthy.
The earliest chronicle to describe the Cámara Santa is the so-called Historia Silense, a
46
problematic text likely dating to around 1100. The Silense tell us that Alfonso II
constructed a basilica dedicated to St. Leocadia, above which was a second storey space
47
where the Arca Santa was kept, and where pilgrims came to venerate the relics. Pelayo,
bishop of Oviedo (d. 1153), offers a similar although more elaborate description of the
construction of the Cámara Santa in his account of the main reliquary of the cathedral, the
Arca Santa.
On the south side, in the farthest part of the church of the Holy Savior,
where ascent is made by stairs, the king of blessed memory [Alfonso II]
placed a church [dedicated to] St. Michael Archangel. There, on
account of the security of the place, he transferred the most glorious
ark, with many bars of iron having been brought, believing this deed to
be for the fortification of his kingdom and for the salvation of the
people. The faithful of Hispania assemble for the holy prayers of the
saints, carrying offerings with devotion, and, with the blessing having
been received from the priest presiding there, they return happy to their
homeland. [….] Below the basilica of St. Michael written about above
stands [a space] in honor of the holy virgin and martyr of Christ,
Leocadia, vaulted with solid work of stones, which is considered
48
venerable on account of the relics of the precious martyrs stored there.
46
47
For a more in-depth discussion of this chronicle, with relevant bibliography, see chapter 2.
“Fecit quoque sante Leocadie basilicam forniceo opere cumulatam, super quam fieret domus ubi celsiori
loco arca santa a fidelibus adoraretur.” Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, Historia Silense, 138-39.
48
“A latere meridianali, in ultima parte ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris, ubi ascensio fit per gradus, Sancti
Michaelis archangeli ecclesiam rex beate memorie posuit. Ibi ob securitatem loci, adhibitis tamen
multiplicitate serarum ferri archam gloriosissimam transtulit, hoc factum credens esse ad firmitatem sui
regni et ad totius salutem populi. Concurrunt ad pia sanctorum suffragia Hispaniae fideles uota cum
deuocione ferentes, et accepta benedictione a pontifici inibi presidente, leta reuisant loca patrie. Iam dictus
47
The attribution of the Cámara Santa to the patronage of Alfonso II was clearly established
by the twelfth century. Nowhere, however, does Pelayo characterize the function of the
Cámara Santa as a private royal chapel; this interpretation appears to have been produced
by the combination of the general importance of the figure of Alfonso II with the
discovery of the so-called palace during the 1940s.
The status of this putative palace, to which the Cámara Santa was supposedly
attached, is thus of crucial importance. Those who endorse an earlier dating for the
Cámara Santa and associate it with Alfonso II interpret the space as a palatine chapel,
meant to house relics and other treasures of the church for the personal use of the
monarch. When we examine the basis for this neat interpretation, it becomes problematic.
It is notoriously difficult to reconstruct the precise geographical location of now-lost
buildings on the basis of written descriptions in medieval documents. Nevertheless, the
close studies by Uría Ríu and Carrero of documentation and surviving physical remains
suggests that by the end of the ninth century, the ecclesiastical nucleus of Oviedo was
formed around four churches: the Cathedral of San Salvador with its Cámara Santa, the
monastery of San Vicente Antealtares, the funerary church of Santa María del Ray Casto,
49
and the nunnery of San Pelayo (Figure 1.19).
The location of the various royal
residences within and outside the city is imperfectly understood, but there appear to have
been several. The Chronicle of Alfonso III states that Alfonso II built multiple palaces,
rex, ad augmentum et sui decorem regni, basilicam in honore sancti martiris Tirsi prope palatium condidit,
cuius operis pulchritudo plus presentes possunt mirari quam scripto possit laudari. Infra basilicam Sancti
Michaelis supra scriptam, in honore sancte uirginis et martiris Xriste Leocadie stat opere firmo lapidum
arcuata que habetur uenerabilis multis ibi repositis preciosorum martirium reliquiis.” Liber Testamentorum,
ACO MS 1, ff. 1r-3r and in the Liber Cronicorum. A more extensive discussion of these texts can be found
in chapters 2 and 3.
49
Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas;” Carrero Santamaría, “La ‘Ciudad Santa’ de Oviedo.”
48
while the documents of Alfonso III refer to multiple palaces in and outside of the city
50
walls.
More detail is furnished by later medieval documents that describe the location of
these palaces in relation to the cathedral complex. An 1161 donation from Urraca (d.
1164), daughter of Alfonso VII, describes the ecclesiastical complex of the cathedral and
surrounding foundations of San Vicente and San Pelayo, as well as the palaces being
donated.
Near the walls of that same church of San Salvador, [I donate] the royal
palace together with its atrium next to the font of the baptistery known
as the Paradisus, with the houses that have been built on either side of
the palace, within the following boundaries around the church of San
Salvador: through the arched gate known as Rutilans, I concede the
houses built there in their entirety as far as the public street that
descends from near the palace towards San Pelayo, and along the
boundary of San Pelayo, and from the boundaries of San Pelayo
returning by another street directly from the outside corner of Santa
María, and leading through the wall and portal that is between the
50
“Damus etiam atque concedimus hic in Ouetum nostrum castellum quod ad defensionem thesauri huius
sancte ecclesie construximus, com nostris palaciis infra positis; foris etiam iuxta castellum palacium
magnum quod ibi fabricauimus [ … ]. Concedimus eciam ecclesiam dominice Iuliane com nostris palaciis
et balneis, tricliniis et cum suis totis adiacentis an integro.” Fourteenth-century notarial copy of document
dated 5 September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de
documentos, no. 16. See also the royal donation dated 20 January 905, ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 6/7, two
fourteenth century copies. Earliest copy appears in the Liber Testamentorum, ff. 19r-23r, edited by García
Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 17. “Concedimus hic in Ouetum castellum quod a fundamento
construximus et super portam ipsius castelli in uno lapide illam concessionem scribere in testimonio
mandauimus sicut hic subtitulauimus. Et foris iusta illud castellum palacium ubi pausemus magnum
fabriciuimus.”
49
atrium of the palace and the church of the Holy Cross, and is connected
with that wall that is attached to the baptistery of the Paradisus.
51
The description of the urban morphology of medieval Oviedo in this document has been
the subject of some disagreement. Uría Ríu, following the popular interpretation that the
remains uncovered by Fernández Buelta on the south flank of the cathedral constitute the
palace of Alfonso II, reads the document as describing a circuit starting in front of the
cathedral and moving in a counter-clockwise direction, around the south flank of the
52
cathedral towards San Vicente, San Pelayo, and back again to the cathedral.
Carrero, on
the other hand, reads the description as going in the opposite direction, thus effectively
transferring the donated palaces, as well as the nearby baptistery, to the other side of the
ecclesiastical complex.
53
Support for this proposed location for the early medieval
palaces also comes from a 1096 donation referring to a “palatio frantisco” given by
51
“...dono igitur per cartam et testamento confirmo Deo et ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris mundi sanctis quorum
reliquie ibi continentur et uobis domno Petro eiusdem sedis episcopo et suscesoribus uestris et canonicis
Ouetensibus iuxta muros ipse ecclesie Saluatoris palacia regalia cum platea sua iuxta fontem babtisterii qui
uocatur Paradisus, cum domibus que ex utraque parte iuxta palacia sunt edificati, per terminos subscriptos
in circuitu ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris, per portam arcus que uocatur Rutilans, domos ipsas ibi edificatas
concedo ab integro quomodo uadunt usque ad uiam publicam et quomodo ipsa uia publica descendit circa
palatia uersus Sanctum Pelagium, et per terminum Sancti Pelagii reuertitur per aliam uiam in directum
exterioris anguli ecclesie Sancte Marie et concluditur per portam et murum que est inter plateam palacii et
domus Sancte Crucis, et coniungitur murus ipse et figitur in baptisteri Paradisi.” Royal donation dated 24
February 1161. ACO series B, folder 3, no. 8, notarial copy from the reign of Fernando IV (r. 1295-1312).
Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 172, with my own edits.
52
Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas,” 318-19. Uría’s conclusions are echoed in the recent
work of Álvarez Fernández, Oviedo a fines de la Edad Media, 71-83.
53
Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 27-29. This puts the placement of the Oviedo baptistery in line with
what is known about the location of the early medieval baptisteries in Santiago de Compostela and
Ourense. On Santiago de Compostela, see Guerra Campos, Exploraciones arqueológicas, 360-62. On
Ourense, see Carrero Santamaría, “De la catedral medieval de Ourense.” Carrero is not the first to place the
Oviedo bapitstery in this location; Selgas suggested as much in his Monumentos ovetenses, 47. See also
Calleja Puerta, La formación de la red parroquial, 48 and 57-58.
50
54
Alfonso VI for use as a hospital. This has been identified with one of the palaces of
Alfonso III, described as having an altar dedicated to John the Baptist.
55
The church of
San Juan, formerly a pilgrims’ hospital that was destroyed in the nineteenth century, was
56
located on the modern-day Calle Schultz, and its remains are visible today.
With several highly suggestive pieces of evidence pointing us away from this
southern flank of the cathedral in our search for the palaces of early medieval Oviedo,
why, then, did Fernández Buelta focus so much attention there? On a practical level, this
area had been badly damaged during the war and was able to be excavated. Even more
important is the testimony of the canon and archivist, Luis Alfonso de Carvallo (15711635), the first author to attempt to identify the architectural remains located to the south
of the cathedral with one of the palaces spoken of in the late ninth-century Chronicle of
57
Alfonso III. Fernández Buelta picked up on the Carvallo’s theory, and many subsequent
historians have accepted the presence of an early medieval palace on the south flank of
the cathedral. However, excavations carried out by García de Castro between 1998 and
1999 have drastically altered the image of the twin-towered palace evoked by Fernández
54
“Ego Adefonsus, Dei gratia totius Hispaniae imperator…proposui facere, sicut et facio, cartulam
testamenti de illo palatio frantisco quod est in Oueto, foras de illo nostro. De quo supradicto palatio…fiat in
illo palatio domus eleemosinaria ad pauperes Christi hospitandos […] Do autem terminum ab ipsa
albergaria: per illa uia quae discurrit ad fonte incalata usque ad illa calzada maiore, quae uadit pro ad
Sancto Pelagio; et a dextro per illa ripa antique, quae est ante illa pasata de Ecta Cidiz, usque ad illa pasata
de palatio, unde exeunt pro ad Sancta Maria; et intus per illa uia de ante illo palatio, et de illo porticu de illo
palatio quomodo uadit in direct usque ad illo muro antiquo.” Royal donation dated 23 July 1096. Edited by
Andrés Gambra, Alfonso VI, no. 137, 355-57.
55
“altare insuper beati Iohannis Babtiste infradictum palacium dedicatum” Royal donation dated 5
September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no.
16.
56
On the palace of Alfonso III, see the discussion in Uría Ríu, “Cuestiones histórico-arqueológicas,” 322-
28. See also Casielles Menéndez, “El castillo fortaleza de Oviedo.”
57
Carvallo, Antigüedades y cosas memorables, 181.
51
Buelta and Hevia. García de Castro identifies the remains in the area around the
Passageway of St. Barbara and the current Episcopal Palace, excavated in the 1940s, as
58
part of the residential area for the cathedral clergy.
On the basis of these excavations, García de Castro proposes an alternate
interpretation of the origins and function of the Cámara Santa. He argues that the Cámara
Santa was an episcopal, not a royal, chapel, and that the crypt of Santa Leocadia below
was an episcopal burial place. He bases his argument in the presence of the episcopal
residence nearby, as well as the presence of three tombs inside the crypt, in addition to
59
ten tombs adjacent to the crypt on the north side of the cloister.
He proposes that the
late ninth-century bishop Hermenegildus buried two of his predecessors in the crypt of
60
Santa Leocadia, and attributes the construction of the Cámara Santa to him. These
predecessors, in García de Castro’s estimation, were deemed significant enough to merit
burial within the crypt because they were involved in the translation of the relics of
61
Eulogius and Lucretia from Córdoba to Oviedo in 884.
This shift of the Cámara Santa’s identity from a royal to an episcopal space is
useful because it underscores the protagonism of the bishops and cathedral clergy in the
creation of the building, but this interpretation is not without problems. Carrero has
pointed out that the burials in the crypt cannot be identified with those of ninth-century
bishops, because it is not clear when these burials took place.
58
59
60
61
62
He argues that the
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 48.
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 56.
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 42.
Historians have long connected the account of the voyage to Córdoba of a pair of bishops sent there by
Alfonso III, recounted in the Chronicle of Sampiro and the Pelagian version incorporated into the Historia
Silense, to the arrival of the relics in Oviedo. Risco, España Sagrada, vol. 37, 226. Sánchez Albornoz,
“Dulcidio,” in Orígines de la nación española, vol. 3, 729-40. For the chronicle texts, see See Pérez de
Urbel, Sampiro, 313-14.
62
Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 56-67.
52
purpose of the crypt was primarily to house the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia, while the
63
upper storey served as a treasury.
Carrero points to a series of texts from the period of
Alfonso III that explicitly refer to a treasury, protected by towers, which he identifies
64
with the Cámara Santa. In his reading, the Cámara Santa becomes an important nexus
of royal and episcopal power, mediated through sacred relics. I now turn to these two
separate but complementary spaces and their functions as treasury and martyrs’ shrine.
The Early Medieval Cámara Santa: Between Thesaurum and Martyrium
As Pierre-Alain Mariaux writes, the word thesaurus always has a “metonymic
gloss,” in which reliquaries stand in for relics, the treasury for the treasure, the present for
the past.
65
The treasury thus sustains the connection between the spiritual and earthly
realms by means of the fluid relationship between past and present, container and
contents. The treasury is not a static display of discrete relics; it is, as Cynthia Hahn
characterizes it, an ever-changing and flexible assemblage of relics and reliquaries, the
66
boundaries between which are blurred by the metonymic power of the treasury.
Indeed,
studies of church treasuries rarely make a clear distinction between the treasury as a
63
Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 67-72. Carrero expands upon a suggestion by Godoy Fernández,
Arqueología y liturgia, 101, that the Cámara Santa was built as a treasury.
64
“Damus etiam atque concedimus hic in Ovetum illud nostrum castellum quod ad defensionem thesauri
huius sancte ecclesie construximus.” Royal donation dated 5 September 896. ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 5.
Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 16. The next text is an inscription of ca. 872873: “Adefonsus Princeps divae quidem memoriae Hordoni Regis filius, hanc aedificare sancsit /
municcionem cum coniuge Scemena duobusque pignere natis, ad tuiccionem muniminis / tensauri aulae
huius sanctae aecclesiae residendum indemnem, caventes quod / absit dum navali gentilitas pirato solent
exercitu properare ne videatur / aliquid deperire.” Transcription and translation in Diego Santos,
Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 38. The third is a royal donation dated 10 August 908, “in tesauro
super corpora sanctorum,” ACO, series B, folder 1, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de
documentos, no. 19.
65
66
Mariaux, “Trésor et reliques,” 29.
Hahn, Strange Beauty, 161-65.
53
meaningful collection of objects, versus the treasury as an architectural container for
67
those objects.
I wish to tease apart some of the important distinctions that are conflated in this
metonymic interpretation of the treasury. Hahn refers to the ability of treasury objects
quite literally to “objectify history,” to materialize the past and make it present in the
68
memory of viewers.
While the objects in the treasury may “objectify history,” the
history they embody is far from objective. The placement of individual objects within a
collection is in itself an act of interpretation; the different pieces work together to tell a
single story about the privileged status of the church in order to ensure its continued
survival.
69
The treasury thus constitutes an expression of institutional identity, which
must be separated from the individual histories of specific objects, and, indeed, of the
architectural space of the treasury itself. Institutional identity is neither fixed nor
constant, but is actively constructed within a specific historical context. The treasury is a
place of memory, but that memory is malleable and selective.
67
Classic catalogues of this material include Swarzenski, Monuments of Romanesque Art; Les trésors des
églises de France; The Year 1200, ed. Hoffman and Deuchler; and Ornamenta ecclesiae, ed. Legner.
Individual treasuries have also been published, including Le trésor de la Sainte Chapelle, Le trésor de
Conques, Die Schatzkammer des Kölner Domes, Le trésor de Saint-Denis, The Treasury of San Marco, ed.
Buckton. A recent treatment of numerous issues in the “making and meaning” of treasuries can be found in
Hahn, Strange Beauty. Other studies can be found in the recent issue of Les Cahiers de Saint-Michel de
Cuxa 41 (2010), dedicated to Les trésors des églises à l’époque romane, as well as in Cordez Burkart,
Mariaux, and Potin, eds., Le trésor au Moyen Âge, and Caillet and Bazin, eds., Les trésors des sanctuaires.
68
Cynthia Hahn, “The Meaning of Early Medieval Treasuries,” in Reliquiare im Mittelalter, ed. by Bruno
Reudenbach and Gia Toussaint (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2005), pp. 1-20, p. 2.
69
On the importance of remembering the largesse of these “kings past,” see Amy Remensnyder,
Remembering Kings Past: Monastic Foundation Legends in Medieval Southern France (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1995) and her “Legendary Treasure at Conques: Reliquaries and Imaginative Memory,”
Speculum 71 (1996), pp. 884-906. The famous ‘A’ of Charlemagne was recently studied by Walter Cahn,
“Observations on the ‘A of Charlemagne’ in the Treasure of the Abbey of Conques,” Gesta 45.2 (2006),
pp. 95-107.
54
In the case of Oviedo, the cathedral received a series of important royal donations
from the early medieval monarchs of Asturias, the memory of which was zealously
cultivated in order to continue attracting royal and noble largesse. As we have seen, in
808, Alfonso II donated the Cross of the Angels to the cathedral, while in 908, Alfonso
III donated the Cross of Victory. In addition to these important gifts, these same
documents attest to a wealth of books, vestments and objects for the mass that were
donated by these early medieval monarchs. Once the center of royal power moved south
to León in 910, royal donations to Oviedo decreased as the kings distributed their
patronage among other religious foundations. The memory of those early medieval
monarchs who endowed the Cathedral of San Salvador with great wealth was
strategically employed throughout the site’s subsequent history, but this memory—and
the objects and spaces that embodied it—was molded to shape changing circumstances.
The royal gifts that had previously been placed in the Cámara Santa for safekeeping took
on new meaning as relics of the largesse of kings past in the expanded field of the
Cámara Santa. The early medieval past was appropriated to serve the growing ambitions
of the Cathedral of Oviedo as a site of pilgrimage throughout the eleventh and, especially,
the twelfth centuries. There was, therefore, a fundamental shift in function and meaning
of the Cámara Santa and its contents between its tenth-century construction and late
twelfth-century reformation.
The treasures assembled in the Cámara Santa are not ipso facto objects of
pilgrimage; they must be actively transformed into objects of pilgrimage, and we must
identify whose interests are served by such a transformation. Even if we entertain the
possibility that the royal treasures housed in the upper-storey treasury were the object of
pilgrimage during the early Middle Ages, it is not until the late eleventh and, especially,
the twelfth centuries that pilgrims arrive in any great number to the Cámara Santa.
70
One
of the earliest indications of the presence of foreign pilgrims in Oviedo comes from
70
Vázquez de Parga, Lacarra, and Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones a Santiago de Compostela, vol. 2, 457-
62. Even Ignacio Ruiz de la Peña Solar acknowledges that it is only in the final years of the eleventh
century that the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa begins to consolidate. See his Las Peregrinaciones a
San Salvador de Oviedo, 36.
55
Alfonso VI’s 1096 donation of a “palatio frantisco,” discussed previously. Uría Ríu
suggests that the adjective used to describe this palace may indicate to the presence of
foreigners in the city.
71
In his recent edition of documents from the reign of Alfonso VI,
Andrés Gambra points out that there are two distinct versions of this donation, one that is
a seventeenth-century copy of a now-lost original, and another that is found in the
twelfth-century Liber Testamentorum of Oviedo. Gambra observes that the twelfthcentury cartulary makes significant changes to the wording of the original donation that
have a bearing on how we interpret this document and its implications for the cult of the
relics in Oviedo.
While the seventeenth-century copy of the now-lost original document states that
the palace is to be used as a house for paupers, the amplified and interpolated version of
the donation in Pelayo’s cartulary specifies that the palace is to be used to house and care
for pilgrims.
72
This specific reference to pilgrims thus comes not from the eleventh-
century donation, but from the twelfth-century cartulary, produced under the aegis of one
of the most assiduous promoters of the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa: Bishop
Pelayo (d. 1153). The evidence of these texts suggests that if we wish to push the cult of
the relics of the Cámara Santa back in time to the early Middle Ages, we should do so
with caution, mindful of the efforts of later clerics to promote the antiquity and
importance of the pilgrimage to Oviedo.
To understand the Cámara Santa purely as a site of pilgrimage is to overlook
alternative meanings of the site in the early Middle Ages. I would like to suggest that we
not only disentangle the function of the Cámara Santa as a treasury from its function as a
site of pilgrimage, but also that we distinguish between the two distinct parts of the
building, its upper and lower storeys. In what follows, I argue that the early medieval
71
Vázquez de Parga, Lacarra, and Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones a Santiago de Compostela, vol. 2, 460, n.
5.
72
“Item concedo eidem sedi Oueto illud palatium quod fecit atauus meus rex Adefonsus cum coniuge
Xemena tali tenore ut semper sit hospitalis domus peregrinorum...” Liber Testamentorum, fol. 75v. Edited
by Andrés Gambra, Alfonso VI, no. 162, 421.
56
structure consisted of a treasury atop of a martyr’s shrine, two functions which, while
analogous, were distinct. Let me turn now to the lower storey of this complex.
André Grabar characterized the two-storey structure in Oviedo as a martyrium in
his classic monograph dedicated to the subject, focusing on the function of the Cámara
73
Santa in the context of then-current theories about the location of the royal palace. I
would like to revisit Grabar’s characterization, focusing instead on the lower storey. I
begin with the crypt’s dedication to St. Leocadia, which has unfortunately occasioned
more comment than the crucial role this structure played in the early medieval cathedral
complex. This neglect is perhaps is understandable given the almost complete destruction
and imaginative reconstruction of this space in the twentieth century. I then explore the
ways in which the cult of saints and the safeguarding of treasures interact in a series of
sites that I offer as archaeological comparanda for the two-storey complex in Oviedo.
Several layers of confusion and obfuscation impede our ability to assess the
function and significance of the crypt of Santa Leocadia. First, there is the issue of its
dedication to Leocadia. A 908 royal donation by Alfonso III and Jimena refers to the
donation of crosses and crowns “ad altare Sancte Leocadie.” Scholars have long observed
the problematic nature of this document, which only survives in a thirteenth-century
copy. Barrau Dihigo categorized this donation as of dubious authenticity, and Floriano
provides yet more arguments in favor of the falsity of this document.
74
While we cannot
dismiss the possibility that this text was elaborated on the basis of an original document,
it was clearly interpolated and adapted between the tenth century and the thirteenth. Other
than this problematic document, the earliest references to the dedication of the crypt to
Leocadia come from the Historia Silense and chronicles of Pelayo, both dating to the
twelfth century.
73
74
Grabar, Martyrium, 574-77.
Royal donation, 10 August 908. ACO, ser. B, folder 1, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de
documentos, no. 19. Barrau-Dihigo, “Étude sur les actes des rois asturiens,” 165. Floriano, Diplomatica
española del periodo astur, vol. 2, 362-72.
57
The second major problem we encounter when we consider the crypt is the fact
that there is no concrete evidence that Leocadia’s relics were ever, in fact, housed there.
Leocadia was an early Christian confessor-saint whose cult was based in Toledo, the city
75
of which she was patron. It is generally assumed that Leocadia’s relics were among
those brought north from al-Andalus to Asturias, just like several other relics in the
Cámara Santa. However, the multiple enumerations of the relics of the Cámara Santa
76
make no mention of her, as Baudouin de Gaiffier has pointed out. Leocadia’s relics are
now back in Toledo, where they were returned by Philip II in 1587 from the monastery of
77
St. Gislenus in Flanders.
How Leocadia’s relics got from Toledo to Flanders—via
Oviedo or not—is unclear. During the eleventh century, the monks of Saint-Médard,
Soissons, claimed to have them, while by the twelfth century, monks of St. Gislenus
78
claimed her as their own. Clearly, St. Gislenus’s claims were strongest by the sixteenth
century, but contemporary authors did wonder how her relics had gotten to Flanders from
Oviedo, and to Oviedo from Toledo.
75
76
77
79
García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 246-53.
Gaiffier, “Relations religieuses,” 17.
On the translation of the relics of Leocadia back to Toledo, see Forcione, Cervantes and the Humanist
Vision, 317-23, and Grieve, The Eve of Spain, 150-57.
78
79
Gaiffier, “Relations religieuses,” 20.
Royal chronicler Ambrosio de Morales (1513-1591) argues that her relics had been in Oviedo, and that
they went north to Flanders at some unknown point: Morales, Crónica General, vol. 7, book 13, ch. 40,
191-92. Francisco de Pisa (1534-1616) says that there is debate as to whether or not her remains went to
Oviedo, although he concludes by attributing the saint’s rescue to Pelayo in order to compare Philip II to
this early medieval warrior-king: Pisa, Historia de la gloriosa virgen y mártir Santa Leocadia. Miguel
Hernández, the Jesuit charged with bringing Leocadia’s relics back to Toledo from Flanders, echoes the
general uncertainty, concluding that Leocadia must have gone north to Oviedo by the time of Alfonso II,
but that it is unclear how she arrived in Flanders: Hernández, Vida, martyrio, y translación de la gloriosa
virgen y mártyr Santa Leocadia, 63.
58
There is evidence that the relics of other, distinctly non-Toledan saints were
revered in the crypt later dedicated to Leocadia. According to the tenth-century Chronicle
of Sampiro, Alfonso III sent a pair of bishops, including one named Dulcidius, to
80
Córdoba in the late ninth century.
The cathedral commemorates the return on 9 January
884 of Dulcidius with the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia in liturgical celebrations to this
day, as Sánchez Albornoz points out.
81
These two saints were among the so-called
martyrs of Córdoba, a group of Christians executed by the Muslim authorities in alAndalus during the second half of the ninth century. Eulogius is also considered the
author of the account of this famous mass martyrdom, and manuscripts containing his
writings were brought to Oviedo along with his relics.
82
If, as Carrero and others have
argued, we can date the two-storey structure of the crypt and Cámara Santa to the reign of
Alfonso III, the placement of these relics in the crypt in 884 would roughly coincide with
the construction of the building and the establishment of its function as a shrine to these
two contemporary martyrs. Despite the current dedication to the patron of Visigothic
Toledo, Toledan saints were not chosen for the crypt. Thus, while the dedication of the
crypt to Leocadia points to Visigothic Toledo, we should be cautious about how much
meaning, and what kind of meaning, we attribute to this fact.
Many scholars have, however, attributed great significance to the dedication to
Leocadia, claiming not only that her relics were housed in the crypt, but also that the very
form and meaning of the building as a whole derives directly from lost Visigothic
prototypes.
83
These claims are largely based on the rhetoric of ninth-century chronicles
from northern Spain, particularly the oft-quoted passage from the Albeldensian
80
81
82
83
Pérez de Urbel, Sampiro, 313-14.
Sánchez Albornoz, “Dulcidio,” 730.
Wolf, Christian Martyrs in Muslim Spain, 36.
See in particular the work of Bango Torviso. In addition, Dodds, Architecture and Ideology, 27-46.
Finally, Deswarte directly connects the dedication of the crypt in Oviedo to the lost Visigothic church of
Santa Leocadia in Toledo: De la destruction à la restauration, 71-72.
59
Chronicle, composed in or around the royal court at Oviedo in the ninth century.
According to the text, Alfonso II “established in both the church and the palace the order
84
of the Goths, as it had been in Toledo.” The nature of the “order of the Goths” referred
to in this chronicle has been the subject of intense debate. Many have taken the text
literally to mean that Oviedo was built in direct emulation of Toledo, and that the kings
of Asturias attempted to re-establish the continuity of Christian rule in the Iberian
85
peninsula.
Such a literal reading of this passage does not attend to the rhetoric of the
chronicle text, or to the complexities of its manuscript transmission throughout the
Middle Ages, as I discuss in the next chapter.
The neogothic thesis, as it is known, has a long and checkered past, and some
contemporary historians continue to subscribe to it despite its problematic political
implications. As Giles Tremlett points out, it is far from “politically innocent” to posit the
essential continuity and unity of Christian Spain, given the experience of National
Catholicism during the twentieth century.
86
The debate about the gothicism—or lack
thereof—of the early Asturian kingdom points to the problem of the ideological baggage
implicit in the terminology that we as historians use for different historical periods. This
is particularly true in the case of the Visigothic period, which carries around a heavy
weight of meaning thanks to centuries of historiography that have shaped the story of
87
medieval Iberia as one of loss and Reconquest. In looking for antecedents and
comparanda for the Cámara Santa, I suggest we take a step back from these loaded terms
84
“omnemque Gotorum ordinem, sicuti Toleto fuerat, tam in ecclesia quam palatio in Ovetao cuncta
statuit.” Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, Crónicas asturianas, 174.
85
See in particular the work of the influential historians Vicens i Vives, Aproximación a la historia de
España; Menéndez Pidal, “La historiografía sobre Alfonso II;” and Sánchez Albornoz, Orígines de la
nación española. For more recent work in this vein, see Ruiz de la Peña, La monarquía asturiana; Besga
Marroquín, Orígines hispano-godos, and Deswarte, De la destruction à la restauration.
86
87
Tremlett, “Foreward: ‘Welcome to Moorishland,’” xvi.
Ríos Saloma, La Reconquista.
60
and often circular arguments to consider the architectural commemoration of the saints
and its relationship to the function of the treasury in early medieval Iberia.
If we accept Carrero’s characterization of the Cámara Santa as a treasury, we
must then ask ourselves what, precisely, was understood by the word thesaurum, which
appears so often in documents in reference to the space and its contents. One of the initial
problems we encounter in trying to locate early medieval treasuries is that of the
terminology used to describe these spaces. In his description concerning storage spaces
within sacred buildings, Isidore of Seville describes three closely related spaces:
sacrarium, donarium, and aerarium. He defines the sacrarium as “the place in a temple
where holy things are put away,” the donarium as the place “where offerings are
gathered,” and the aerarium as the place where precious metal objects or coins are
stored.
88
These spaces all have analogous though distinct functions, but the variety of
terminology used in other early medieval sources complicates Isidore’s clear tripartite
organization of these storage structures.
Among surviving liturgical texts, there is a discrepancy in the terminology used to
describe these auxiliary spaces, which in turn complicates the task of distinguishing
between these structures and their functions. I use here as my guide the work of Cristina
Godoy Fernández, who has examined the evidence of both liturgical texts and
archaeological remains in order to analyze the division of sacred space in early medieval
Iberian churches. The mid-tenth-century León Antiphonary refers to the preparatorium
and the thesaurum, while the eleventh-century Liber Ordinum refers to a sacrarium,
88
“Sacrarium proprie est locus templi in quo sacra reponuntur; sicut donarium est in quo conlocatuntur
oblata; sicut lectisternia dicunter ubi homines sedere consueverunt. Ab inferendis igitur et deportandis
sacris sacrarium nuncupatur. Donaria vero, eo quod ibi dona reponantur quae in templis offerre
sonsueverunt. Aerarium vocatum quia prius aes signatum ibi recondebatur. Hoc enim olim in usu erat auro
argentoque nondum signato: ex quorum metallis quamvis postea facta fuisset pecunia, nomen tamen aerarii
permansit ab eo metallo unde pecunia [nomen] initium sumpsit.” The Latin text is from Isidore,
Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 5, “De repositoriis.” English translation, Isidore of Seville,
Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 310.
61
thesaurum, and preparatorium.
89
Godoy suggests that the thesaurum as it appears in
these sources had a function analogous to Isidore’s sacrarium, while the term
preparatorium represents a later eighth or ninth century innovation not attested to in
earlier textual sources or material remains. The anachronistic nature of this term is
underscored by its complete absence from earlier medieval Iberian sources.
90
Godoy argues that the early medieval Iberian sacrarium and thesaurum are
analogous but distinct structures. The sacrarium, similar though not identical to the later
sacristy, housed the liturgical vessels, books, and garments necessary for the celebration
of the mass. This space was necessary for the liturgical function of the church, and was
typically located near the apse for ready access by the clergy. The thesaurum, on the
other hand, was an “exceptional space,” testament to the “timeless and temporal power of
91
the see.” The objects housed there were similar to those held in the sacrarium, but
included especially prestigious treasures, such as relics. While many early churches have
the remains of structures identifiable as sacraria, very few show signs of having
possessed a treasury. As Godoy points out, their relative rarity is in keeping with the fact
that these structures were not liturgically necessary.
The earliest textual reference to a treasury is found in a passage in the seventhcentury Lives of the Holy Fathers of Mérida, which refers to a “tesaurum” in two
churches in Mérida, including one in the martyrial basilica of Santa Eulalia where the
92
saint’s tunic was kept. The basilica of Santa Eulalia was one of the most important cult
89
Brou and Vives, eds., Antifonario visigótico de la Catedral de León, 203, 267, 271-72, 280-81. Férotin,
Le “Liber Ordinum,” cols. 56, 94, 191, 199-200, 208-11.
90
91
Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 101.
Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 98. “En cuanto al thesaurum [...] tenemos que concluir que se
trata de un espacio excepcional de las iglesias y que su presencia en un iglesia no responde a una necesidad
del culto, sino que es un atributo del poder temporal e intemporal de la sede.”
92
“Hec profanus tirannus audiens in furore uesanie uersus festinanter celeriterque ad Emeretensem urbem
misit, qui ubique ipsam sanctam tunicam sollicite requirerent et tam in tesaurum eclesie sancte Eolalie
quam etiam in tesaurum eclesie senioris, que uocatur sancta Iherusalem, sagaciter scrutantes eousque
62
sites in early medieval Iberia, built in the fifth century over the saint’s fourth-century
martyrium (see plan, Figure 1.20). We must be cautious in our attempts to locate the
treasury in the context of this church. The archaeologist who oversaw the excavation of
the site, Pedro Mateos Cruz, suggests that the treasury alluded to in the seventh-century
hagiographic text might have been located near the sacrarium, which he identifies with
the structure attached to the northern apse (no. 1 on the plan). The southern apse, he
argues, would have served as the preparatorium.
93
Recalling Godoy’s observation that
the preparatorium is not a space attested to in Iberian churches of this early date, I would
like to suggest a revision of Mateos Cruz’s hypothesis about the location of the treasury
at Santa Eulalia. Rather than being located next to the sacrarium in the northern apse, it
seems more logical that the treasury would have been located opposite to this structure, in
the southern apse (no. 2 on the plan).
Such is the argument made by Godoy for the early medieval remains at Es Cap
des Port (Menorca) (Figure 1.21). On the south flank of the church are spaces which,
Godoy argues, functioned together as a thesaurum atop a martyrium. To the southwest of
the apse and alongside the nave of the church is a long rectangular structure (no. 2 on the
plan). Remains of a set of stairs near the north wall indicates direct communication with a
crypt located directly underneath it. Godoy suggests that this chamber was restricted for
use by clerics who controlled the access of pilgrims to the martyrium below, which could
be entered from outside the body of the church itself, to the south. Near the location of
the stairs leading to the crypt are a series of niches carved in the north wall of this upperstorey structure. Godoy argues that this space was not the sacrarium, where liturgical
vessels and garments were stored, because the remains of glassware and liturgical objects
were discovered in a pair of chambers on the opposite, northern flank of the church (no. 1
on the plan). Godoy suggests that the structure labeled 2 on the plan functioned instead as
a thesaurum, where the church’s most precious treasures—those associated with the
perquirerent, quousque reppertam ad eum deferrent.” Vitas Sanctorum Patrum Emeretensium, ed. by Maya
Sánchez, 66.
93
Mateos Cruz, La Basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida, 165.
63
94
saint—were kept. Thus, at Es Cap des Ports the sacrarium and thesaurum are distinct
structures, located on either side of the main body of the church.
The treasury was closely connected to the martyrium of the unknown saint(s)
venerated at Es Cap des Ports, while in Mérida, the treasury was located not atop the
martyrium, but rather adjacent to it—be it to the south or to the north. This close contact
between saint’s shrine and treasury recalls the disposition of space in Oviedo. While I
certainly would not suggest a direct relationship of model/copy between the sites in Es
Cap des Port and Oviedo, there does seem to be an important connection between the
presence of a treasury and that of a cult site, focused around the relics of a saint. As Aude
Morelle points out, treasuries have a “continuity of function” with crypts as the places
95
where relics were kept. This continuity is quite literal in Es Cap des Ports and, I would
argue, in Oviedo, where the treasury sits atop the crypt.
Unfortunately, the concrete, architectural connection between the space of the
Cámara Santa and the crypt of Santa Leocadia is not clear. Archaeologists have been
unable to determine whether or not the Cámara Santa originally communicated directly
96
with the crypt of Santa Leocadia. It appears that access to the treasury was up a set of
stairs located on the north side of the building and through an antechamber in the Torre
de San Miguel, a small space adjacent to the Cámara Santa. This is the arrangement
described by Pelayo in the twelfth century, and echoed by a later, fourteenth-century
97
description of the Cámara Santa. The walled-up doorway visible in the smaller
94
95
96
97
Godoy Fernández, Arqueología y liturgia, 170-71.
Morelle, “Les salles de trésor,” 127.
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 39-62.
Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 1r: “A latere meridianali, in ultima parte ecclesie Sancti
Saluatoris, ubi ascensio fit per gradus, Sancti Michaelis archangeli ecclesiam rex beate memorie posuit.”
1343 notarial copy, ACO ser. B, folder 2, no. 2: “iam dicti archiui quandam capellam que sancti michaelis
uocatur intra corpus ecclesie cathedralis ad manum dexteram altaris principalis ipsius ecclesie / per multos
grados lapideos ad dictam cameram sancti michaelis in solio lapideo tabulato textudinoso constructam
accederunt ad cuius cappelle dextrum angulum, circa altare Sancti Michaelis est quedam secreta camera,
64
antechamber and in the south wall of the adjacent Chapel of Covadonga has been
identified with this lost staircase, which disappeared following the completion of the
south transept of the gothic cathedral in the fifteenth century (Figure 1.22).
As for access to the crypt, excavations have shown that before the twelfth century
it was accessible from both its north and south flanks. Nowadays, the crypt opens to the
cloister on the south flank and to the so-called Pilgrims’ Cemetery to the north. Although
the latter doorway was only opened during the restorations of the 1940s, post-war
excavations revealed the existence of a portico some 12.45 meters long on the north side
of the crypt, in the area that now abuts the exterior of the Chapel of Covadonga (Figure
1.23).
98
The remains of this portico included the tomb of Bishop Froilán (d. 1076), whose
inscribed tombstone was discovered during the reconstruction of the 1940s. Five tombs
dated to the tenth and eleventh centuries were found around it. Carrero hypothesizes that
this portal had a primarily funerary function and was used between the building’s
construction in the early Middle Ages and the twelfth century, falling out of use
following the shift in the structure’s function.
99
After that time, access to the crypt was
made only through the south entrance, the area that is now the cloister, built over the
middle years of the twelfth century. From that time on, access to the crypt would have
been restricted to the canons who lived and worked in the cathedral.
This transitional period saw changes not only in the physical setting of the cult of
saints Eulogius and Lucretia, but perhaps also in the status of the relics themselves. An
early twelfth-century description of the relics of the Cámara Santa lists the relics of
Eulogius and Lucretia among those located around or outside of the Arca Santa, although
it is unclear whether we should interpret this as indicating that the relics were upstairs in
cum duabus dauibus ad / duas seras in portis eiusdem camere affixis , quorum duarum clauium alteram
tenebat et custodiebat sugerium Martini et aliam sugerium Fernandi, porcionariis dicte ecclesie; qui
clauarii, apertis seris et portis iamdictis, quodam archiuum / ad scripturarum ipsius ecclesie conseruationis
deputatum, quod intus erat, patuit, numerosis cartis et libris plenum.” Sanz, “Estudio paleográfico,” 97-98.
98
99
Menéndez Pidal, “La Cámara Santa de Oviedo,” 24-28.
Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 44-45.
65
the Cámara Santa itself.
100
The integration of these two martyrs of Córdoba into the
larger, heterogeneous collection of relics in the Cámara Santa suggests that they were no
longer the devotional focus of the independent space of the crypt, but rather were
incorporated on some level into the cult of the relics upstairs. Other evidence suggests
that the relics of Eulogius and Lucretia were still in the crypt of Santa Leocadia in the
fourteenth century. An inscription on the fourteenth-century reliquary that contains the
remains of these two saints tells us that on 9 January 1305, Bishop Fernando Álvarez (r.
1301-1321) transferred the relics from the crypt to the Cámara Santa above because the
archdeacon Rodrigo Gutierrez had miraculously recovered his ability to speak thanks to
101
the intervention of these saints.
That a canon was the recipient of the saints’
miraculous intervention suggests that the limitation of access to the crypt via a single
entrance from the cloister brought these saints into contact not with outside pilgrims, but
rather the canons themselves.
*
*
*
The two-storey building in Oviedo changed in terms of both structure and
function over the course of its long existence. It is only when we step away from
ideologically inflected interpretations of the Cámara Santa as a royal chapel or site of
pilgrimage that we can see these alternative interpretations for the building. I have argued
that we must tease apart layers of meaning that have become conflated over time. I have
distinguished between the different historical contexts in which the Cámara Santa was
originally built in the tenth century, and the subsequent adaptations of the space and its
meaning in the twelfth century. We must see the site as a combination of an upper-storey
treasury and lower-storey martyr’s shrine, which was later transformed into a site of
pilgrimage in the twelfth century, effectively collapsing the distinction between the two
100
Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 99, ff. 2v-3r. Edited by Bruyne, “Le plus ancien
catalogue.”
101
“Anno Dni. MCCC quinto, nonas Ianu. Dominus Fernandus Alvari Ovetensis episcopus transtulit
[corpora sanctorum m(artyrum) Eulogi et Lucreci(a)e in hanc capsam argenteam.” Diego Santos,
Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, no. 28, 67. Morales refers to this event in his Viaje santo, 83.
66
spaces. Moreover, the familiar image of the Cámara Santa—still sold to tourists today—
as the private chapel of Alfonso II represents an understanding of the space that is deeply
beholden to Francoist conceptions of sacred monarchy. These ideas come not from our
early medieval sources, but owe more to subsequent—particularly twelfth-century—
interpretations of the early medieval past. Let us, therefore, look more closely at this
twelfth-century context, and at the historiographic lens we continue to view the
monuments and meaning of early medieval Oviedo: the writings of Bishop Pelayo (d.
1153).
67
Chapter 2 Forging the Past: Bishop Pelayo and Medieval
Historiography
The writing of history took on a renewed importance during the twelfth
102
century.
The narratives that were developed during this period have had a lasting
effect on national memory and identity, as the study of modern nationalism makes
clear.
103
This is certainly the case for Spain, where the Middle Ages, particularly the idea
of the Reconquest, so shaped the nationalist narratives of the Franco years. According to
this thesis, the drive to “reconquer” the Iberian peninsula from the Muslims was the
motivating force behind all of Spanish medieval history.104 Al-Andalus and the centurieslong history of Muslims in the Iberian peninsula is thus dismissed as a brief interruption
in the history of “Spain,” conceived of as unified and Christian. However, as historians
Richard Fletcher, Jocelyn Hilgarth, and Peter Linehan remind us, this rhetoric emerges
under specific circumstances during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, and was
further adapted by later historians to produce a potent myth of national identity.
105
This
twelfth-century mediation of early medieval history is often forgotten or overlooked by
historians eager to make grand ideological claims for continuity across the divide of the
Muslim conquest, between the Visigothic kingdom and the Asturian Monarchy.
Historical work that is focused on recovering the origins or essential identity of early
102
For an overview, see Mauskopf Deliyannis, Historiography in the Middle Ages. A classic study on
twelfth-century historiography is Spiegel, Romancing the Past. On the shift in documentary practice during
the twelfth century, see Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record. On the twelfth century as a period of
change in general, see the studies in Benson and Constables, eds, Renaissance and Renewal.
103
104
See the remarks of Geary, Myth of Nations, 7-14.
The classic studies are Barbero, Sobre los orígines sociales and Barbero and Vigil, La formación del
feudalismo.
105
Fletcher, “Reconquest and Crusade in Spain;” Hilgarth, “Spanish History and Iberian Reality;”
Linehan, History and the Historians. See also the important recent work by Rios Saloma, La Reconquista,
which analyzes the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century development of the ideology of Reconquest.
68
medieval Asturias thus loses sight of the complex processes of adaptation and mediation
that took place over the longue durée, and particularly during the twelfth century.
When we look at the ecclesiastical history of twelfth-century Iberia, we see
conflict and competition for primacy and power, rather than any essential unity. A key
difference between the map of Iberia before the Muslim conquest and after it is the
shifting geography of ecclesiastical power.
106
While Toledo had been the center of the
early medieval Iberian church, its conquest by the Muslims changed utterly its
relationship with the other sees of the peninsula. Toledo’s conquest by Alfonso VI in
1085 represents, therefore, a watershed moment in Iberian ecclesiastical history.
Following the revival of the see, the Cluniac monk Bernard was elected as the new
bishop of Toledo. Bishop Bernard immediately set about seeking to restore Toledo’s
primacy, and in 1088 Urban II granted his wish, restoring Toledo’s “antique majestatis”
107
and primacy.
The relationship between Toledo and numerous other sees of the north of
the Iberian peninsula during the late eleventh and twelfth centuries is characterized by
constant struggles for power and primacy, and it is in this light that we must read the
historiographic texts produced in these centers, including Oviedo.
Let us turn to look more closely at the conflicts between Oviedo and Toledo
during this period. In 1099, Oviedo was declared a suffragan of Toledo, which prompted
concerted efforts on the part of the bishop, none other than Pelayo himself, to restore his
diocese’s independent status. Pelayo accomplished this is 1105, when Oviedo was
declared exempt from any authority other than that of Rome itself. Alas, Oviedo’s status
was not secure, and in 1121 it was once again subjected to the authority of Toledo, not
regaining its independence for over a generation. Oviedo’s exemption was finally
106
107
Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 1-30. Feige, “La primacia de Toledo,” 63-65.
Mansilla, La documentación pontifica, no. 26. “Fratrem autem Bernardum venerabilem eiusdem urbis
presulem, tuis exhortationibus invitati, digne ac reverenter excepimus et ei palleum contradentes
privilegium quoque Toletane ecclesie antique majestatis indulsimus; ipsum enim in totis Yspaniarum regnis
primatem statuimus.”
69
108
confirmed in 1157 and again in 1161, and the matter seems to have settled.
For the
first half of the twelfth century, however, the issue of Oviedo’s independence was far
from resolved, and Pelayo sought to affirm the authority and antiquity of his diocese by
means of a range of spiritual and rhetorical weapons, including the cult of relics. Bishop
Pelayo concentrated his considerable energies on the promotion of the relics contained in
the Cámara Santa. The twelfth century was a time of intense competition for pilgrims,
and the prestige of relics could bring in welcome patronage. The wealth of texts and
works of art produced under the aegis of Bishop Diego de Gelmírez in Santiago de
Compostela served to promote the relics of St. James, and we see a historiographic and
artistic undertaking of similar scale in Oviedo under the aegis of Pelayo, although they
109
are less well known than those of his Compostelan counterpart.
Pelayo is famous for being, in Linehan’s words, “a giant among falsifiers in an
110
age which provided him with keen competition and ample opportunity.”
Pelayo’s
legacy of creative history comes down to us in two manuscript traditions, which are
interdependent in terms of both broad ideological intent and concrete points of textual
connection. The only surviving manuscript from the period of Pelayo’s life in the early
twelfth century is the Liber Testamentorum, a richly illuminated cartulary, consisting
both of documentary and narrative texts. The more narrative texts are concentrated in the
two opening quires of the manuscript, while the remainder of the manuscript contains
transcriptions of documents. Among these narrative and diplomatic texts are several
which also appear in Pelayo’s other major work, the Liber Cronicorum, a compilation of
chronicles whose organization changed over the course of the its formation. While the
Liber Testamentorum comes down to us in its early twelfth-century form, the Liber
Cronicorum is known only via later copies. Taken together, these historiographic works
108
109
Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 73-75.
On Diego Gelmírez himself, see Fletcher, St. James’s Catapult. On the texts he produced, see the
edition by Falque Rey, Historia Compostelana.
110
Linehan, History and the Historians, 78.
70
illustrate the ways images and texts, both documentary and narrative, reinforce one
another’s claims, producing a heterogeneous corpus with the primary purpose of asserting
the antiquity and authority of the church of Oviedo.
Unlike previous scholarship on Pelayo’s textual production, which has sought to
establish or recuperate his reputation as a notorious forger, I examine how truth and
authority have been constructed in the Pelagian corpus in context of its production,
transmission, and reception. Fundamentally, authority is antiquity; texts and images must
not simply be old, they must look old. I will, therefore, pay attention to both the textual
and visual production of authority and antiquity, arguing that these twin processes must
be viewed in tandem in the context of both manuscripts and documents. I begin with the
Pelagian chronicle tradition represented by the Liber Cronicorum, considering the
production, transmission, and significance of both its texts and imagery. I establish
textual and visual points of connection between the manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum
and the Liber Testamentorum, going on to consider the function of the visual elements—
miniatures, graphic devices, and layout on the page—in Pelayo’s cartulary.
The Pelagian corpus brings into sharp relief important questions about the nature
of medieval historiography and how to understand the distinction so crucial to modern
scholarship between truth and fiction in historical sources. I argue that the distinction
between making and making it up—between facture and forgery—is not clear cut, and
that this problematic duality is complicated even further by ongoing processes of
transmission and reception. In order to rethink these divisions, I focus on the scribal
practice of transcription itself and its implications for how we are to read, view, and
engage with the manuscripts of the Pelagian corpus.
A Treasury of Texts: The Formation of the Liber Cronicorum
Like bishops before and after him, Pelayo sought to protect and promote his see.
As we saw in the context of the disputes between Toledo and Oviedo in the early twelfth
century, this was a time of high-stakes competition among Iberian bishoprics for both
pilgrims and papal privileges. In order to acquire these privileges, sees sought to establish
the historical grounds on which they could base their present claims to power. Pelayo
faced a difficult task, for Oviedo did not begin its existence as an urban, much less
71
ecclesiastical, center until the late eighth century, and so a considerable amount of
creative history was required to establish its antiquity. The intense historiographic
production of twelfth-century Oviedo speaks to ongoing difficulties in securing the see’s
special status. Repeated attempts to produce a stable, convincing, and effective version of
Oviedo’s history suggest a degree of anxiety about its many open questions and
unresolvable ambiguities, anxieties that continue to trouble historians today.
There is a fundamental stumbling block for the study of Pelayo’s Liber
Cronicorum: the lack of a complete critical edition.111 The medieval methods of
compilation and interpolation pose many problems for scholars attempting to extract a
single accurate and original text from such a complex ensemble. Questions of authorship,
transmission, and interpolation abound in the context of the Liber Cronicorum, no doubt
contributing to its as-yet unedited state. In what follows, I attempt to negotiate these
difficulties in order to discover what the transmission of individual sources can tell us
about the purpose and function of the compilation as a whole. I will first discuss the
conclusions of Enrique Jérez, whose recent work on the formation of the Liber
Cronicorum is of paramount importance. Then, I will look more closely at one of
Pelayo’s most important and frequently studied sources, the late ninth-century Chronicle
of Alfonso III. I argue that the history of the Chronicle of Alfonso III helps us to
understand that of the Liber Cronicorum, given the overlap between these texts’ chains of
transmission. By inserting Pelayo back into the chain of transmission and reception of the
Chronicle of Alfonso III, we can come to a clearer understanding of his role as a
historian, writer, and compiler.
The Liber Cronicorum comes down to us in a total of some twenty-four
manuscripts, which have been loosely grouped into two categories: compilations A and
111
Emiliano Fernández Vallina has been under contract for many years with the Corpus Christianorum,
but no edition has been forthcoming.
72
B. Compilation A is preserved in a half dozen manuscripts.112 The most influential of
these manuscripts, on which the others—to varying degrees—depend, is MS 1358 in the
Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, also known as the Alcalá Codex. According to Elena
Rodríguez Díaz, this manuscript was made at the monastery of Corias in western Asturias
sometime between 1160 and 1188. Not long after its production, the book travelled to
Santiago de Compostela, where a series of local texts were appended and bound together
with Pelayo’s chronicle (see Appendix 2.1).113
Compilation B is preserved in far more manuscripts than compilation A. The most
important manuscript representative of compilation B is MS 1513 in the Biblioteca
Nacional, the sole exemplar of this stage in the Liber Cronicorum’s development made
before 1500. Also known as the Batres Codex, this manuscript contains the most
elaborate version of Pelayo’s compilation. Though we do not know where the Batres
Codex was made, it certainly circulated widely, and was the model for at least eleven
other manuscripts, all of which are copies made in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and
eighteenth centuries.114 Another branch of transmission for compilation B is suggested by
the sixteenth-century MS D100e in the Kungliga Biblioteket in Stockholm and by an
early seventeenth-century edition by Fray Prudencio de Sandoval.115 We are thus
confronted with two distinct branches of transmission for this compilation that, so Jérez
argues, point back to a lost model. Concerning this lost model, Jérez proposes the
112
The manuscripts are: Madrid, BN MS 1358 (12th century), MS 2805 (12th century), MS 1346 (16th
century); Leiden, University Library, Voss. Lat. 91 (13th century); Madrid, RAH MS 9/5496 and MS
9/5497 (13th century and 18th century copy); Salamanca, Biblioteca Universitaria, lost MS (16th century).
113
114
Rodríguez Díaz, “Producción literaria.”
As Jérez discusses, MS 1513 is most likely the model for the following other manuscripts: Madrid,
Biblioteca Nacional MSS 7602 (17th century), 7089 (16th century), 1334 (17th century), 1376 (16th century),
1346 (only ff. 117r, 118r-181v, and 186r-214r; 16th century); 8395 (18th century), 9549 (18th century), 6957
(16th-17th centuries); London, British Library Egerton 1875 (16th century); Segorbe, Biblioteca de la
Catedral G-1 (16th century); Toledo, Biblioteca de la Catedral 27-26 (16th century).
115
See the discussion in Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 72-75.
73
manuscript known as Salamanticensis. The sixteenth-century MS 1975 in the cathedral
library of Salamanca preserves some traces in its marginalia of the contents of this lost
Salamanca codex. He argues that Salamanticensis was among the manuscripts removed
from the cathedral library of Oviedo by Diego de Muros III in the 1520s, who founded
the Colegio Mayor de San Salvador of Salamanca and endowed its library with many
books taken from Oviedo.116
The contents of compilation B are more extensive and more organized than those
of compilation A, leading Jérez to hypothesize that A was more of a “work in
progress.”117 Given the difficulty of establishing the contents of the lost model for
compilation B, the Salamanca Codex, it is more useful to lay out the contents of the
Batres Codex, the later, more elaborate version of the Liber Cronicorum and sole
medieval exemplar of this compilation (see Appendix 2.2). As Jérez notes, in addition to
all the texts comprising compilation A, compilation B contains a more extensive and
organized group of texts. The elaborate series of interpolations in the Chronicles of
Sampiro and Alfonso III, as well as the addition of the papal privileges, the donation of
Alfonso II, and the expansion of the narrative of the Arca Santa all point to the more
specifically Pelagian character of the work. In light of the comparison he makes between
these two compilations, Jérez proposes a hypothesis for the development of the Pelagian
corpus that involves three basic phases.
The earliest phase in the development of the collection, dating from the period of
Pelayo’s life, is described by Ambrosio de Morales (1513-1591) in the copy he had made
in the late sixteenth century of four important historical manuscripts that he consulted,
now MS 1346 in the Biblioteca Nacional. The evidence of Morales’ manuscript is
invaluable, but difficult to decipher. Diego Catalán has gone a long way towards
clarifying the morass of conflicting scholarship around this famous book. According to
Catalán, Morales’ copy consists of passages that he copied down—in no particular order
116
Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 77. For a discussion of the life and library of this humanist
bishop, see García Oro, Diego de Muros III.
117
Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 82.
74
except the order in which they struck him as significant—from two extant manuscripts,
the Batres Codex (MS 1513) and the Alcalá Codex (MS 1358), and from two now-lost
manuscripts, the liber vetustissimus ovetensis and another manuscript he borrowed from
fellow-chronicler Florián de Ocampo.118
As this list suggests, Morales copied from manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum
in varying stages of development, from which stems much of the confusion about his
manuscript. Jérez argues that the liber vetustissimus ovetensis represents “a primitive
state of the Pelagian corpus,” in which flagrantly Pelagian texts commingle with a
miscellany of diplomatic, epistolary, and other types of texts (see Appendix 2.3). The
liber vetustissimus shared many of the texts present in both compilations A and B, such
as the chronicles of Isidore, Julian Pomerius, and Alfonso III, as well as the particularly
Pelagian texts about the Arca Santa, the metropolitan status of Oviedo, and the eighthcentury Council of Oviedo—all three of which, it should be noted, appear in the Liber
Testamentorum’s opening folia. This early instantiation of the Liber Cronicorum differs
from compilations A and B markedly in its inclusion of a series of Visigothic texts, such
as the list of paleographic abbreviations, diplomatic formulas, and works associated with
King Sisebut (d. 620/621). As Morales declared in his 1572 Viaje Santo, the Cathedral of
Oviedo had “more gothic books than in all of the libraries remaining in the Kingdom of
León, Galicia, and Asturias.”119 The loss of these “gothic books” has made it difficult for
scholars to assess the range of sources available to Pelayo and his contemporaries, and it
is surely worth emphasizing the important role these sources played in the formation of
the Pelagian corpus. What is more noteworthy, perhaps, is the omission of these texts in
118
Catalán, “Desenredando la maraña,” 67. See also Morales’ own description of the contents of MS 1346
on fol. 112r-112v.
119
“En la Libreria de la Iglesia de Oviedo hay mas libros Gothicos que en todo junto lo demas del Reyno
de Leon, Galicia, y Asturias, y puedolo decir con la seguridad de haberlo visto todo, y todos los que yo aqui
pusiere, son de letra Gothica, hasta que al cabo señale unos pocos que estan in letra comun.” Morales, Viaje
Santo, 93.
75
later versions.120 Perhaps the omissions of these overtly royal Visigothic texts can be
related to Pelayo’s political negotiations with the see of Toledo in the first part of the
twelfth century.
The second phase in the development of the Liber Cronicorum, represented by
compilation A, was likely formed around the year 1132, after a major revision of the
earliest compilation, represented by the vetustissimus ovetensis. As Jérez notes, material
that was not explicitly historiographic in nature—namely, the Visigothic texts—was
eliminated. The texts of the late ninth-century Albeldensian Chronicle and the mid-tenthcentury Castilian Annals were added to the collection, reinforcing its historiographic
character and expanding its scope beyond a strictly local context. The final stage in the
elaboration of the Liber Cronicorum, according to Jérez, is represented by compilation B,
whose formation he dates to the time around Pelayo’s death in 1153. While compilations
B is “the most Pelagian of the three collections,” it is also likely that the preface, written
in the voice of Pelayo, was redacted not long after his death when the compilation was
finalized.121 It is important to underscore the multiple revisions the corpus underwent,
both during the lifetime of Pelayo and soon afterwards. This speaks to the changes made
to the collection by Pelayo as he adapted and refined his historiographic method,
broadening his bibliography by incorporating new texts that helped him make his case for
the ancient privileges of Oviedo. Pelayo is presented as the “maker” of the corpus, which
encompasses the labors of compilation, interpolation, and organization, as the inscription
“Pelagius episcopus me fecit” in the center of the illuminations on folios 3r and 3v of the
Batres Codex makes clear (Figures 2.1 and 2.2).
Speaking in the voice of Pelayo himself, the preface of the Batres Codex is a
useful place to examine more closely his historiographic method and relationship to his
sources. Pelayo addresses his fellow clerics directly, teaching them about the chronicle
they are about to read even as he performs his own role as a link in the living chain of
sources.
120
121
Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 83.
Jeréz, “Arte compilatoria pelagiana,” 86.
76
Here begins the book of chronicles from the beginning of the world
Dearest brothers, if you should examine this Chronicle and read it with
a clear mind, you will find how Isidore the Younger, bishop of the
church of Badajoz, has written most expansively, just as he learned in
the Old Testament and the New and through the Holy Spirit, thus from
Adam unto Noah, and unto Abraham, Moses, and David, and unto the
advent of our Savior, just as he inquired and heard from his elders and
predecessors concerning the Judges or Emperors, and concerning the
Vandals and Alans, or the Sueve kings of Spain. And the blessed
Isidore, bishop of the Spanish church, in whom the church of León now
rejoices, who wrote, so far as he was able, most comprehensively about
the gothic kings from the first king of those same Goths, Athanaric,
unto the Catholic Wamba, king of the Goths. And from the aforementioned King Wamba unto the Catholic Pelayo, king of the Goths,
the Blessed Julian Pomerius, archbishop of the See of Toledo—who
along with King Pelayo transferred the ark with the relics of the saints
that the church of Oviedo now glories in—most fully wrote, as much as
he was able. And from King Pelayo unto Alfonso the Chaste and
Catholic king of the Goths, Sebastian, bishop of the church of
Salamanca, most fully wrote, just as he inquired and heard from his
predecessors concerning the Gothic kings. And from King Alfonso the
Chaste unto King Bermudo, Sampiro, bishop of the church of Astorga
most fully wrote, so far as he was able, just as he inquired and heard
from his elders and predecessors concerning the Gothic kings. And
from King Bermudo unto King Alfonso, son of Count Raymond and
Queen Urraca, Pelayo, bishop of the church of Oviedo most fully wrote,
77
so far as he was able, just as he inquired and heard from his elders and
predecessors concerning the Gothic and Aragonese kings.122
The repetition of the phrase “sicut a majoribus et praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit [...] et
audiuit, plenissime scripsit” weaves together a garland of authors, forming a chain of
authority that reaches down to Pelayo himself. I wish now to take a closer look at
Pelayo’s chain of sources as he presents them in this prefatory text, comparing the
prologue’s representation of the contents with the actual contents of the manuscript. In
particular, I consider the textual and visual strategies used to forge the links in this chain
of sources in MS 1513, the Batres Codex.
This preface attracted the attention of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
erudites such as Nicolás Antonio, Enrique Flórez, and Manuel Risco, all of whom were
aware of the multiple problems posed both by this text in particular and the Pelagian
122
“Incipit liber Cronicorum ab exordio mundi. Carissimi fratres, si Cronicam hanc quam aspicitis
bonoque animo eam legeritis, inuenietis quomodo Junior Isidorus Pacensis Ecclesiae Epicopus, sicut in
ueteri testamento & nouo & per Spiritum Sanctum intellexit, ita ab Adam usque ad Noe, & usque ad
Abraham, Moysem, & Dauid, & usque ad aduentum nostri Redemptoris, & de Judicibus siue
Imperatoribus, & de Euandalis, & Alanis, siue & Sueuis Hispaniae Regibus, sicut à majoribus &
praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit, & audiuit, plenissime scripsit. Et Beatus Isidorus Ispalensis Ecclesiae
Episcopus, de quo nunc Legionensis gaudet Ecclesia, de Regibus Gotorum à primo Atanarico Rege
ipsorum usque ad Catholicum Bambanum Regem Gotorum prout potuit plenissime exposuit, & à praedicto
Rege Bambano usque ad Catholicum Pelagium Regem Gothorum Julianus Pomerius Toletanae Sedis
Archiepiscopus, qui arcam cum sanctorum pignoribus quae nunc Ouetensis Ecclesia gloriatur cum Rege
Pelagio secum in Asturiis transtulit, & sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit de Regibus
Gothorum, & audiuit, prout potuit, plenissime scripsit, & à Pelagio Rege usque ad Adephonsum Casti &
Catholici Regis Gothorum, Sebastianus Salmanticensis Ecclesiae Episcopus sicut à majoribus &
praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit de Gotis Regibus, & audiuit, plenissime scripsit. Et ab Adephonso Rege
Casto, usque ad Veremundum Regem Podagrogum Sampirus Astoricensis Ecclesiae Episcopus, sicut à
majoribus, & praedecessoribus inquisiuit, & audiuit, de Gotis Regibus prout potuit, plenissime scripsit: & à
Veremundo Podagrigo Rege usque ad Adephonsum Regem filium Raymundi Comitis & Urracae Reginae
Pelagius Ouetensis Ecclesiae Episcopus, sicut à majoribus & praedecessoribus suis inquisiuit, & audiuit de
Gotis & Aragonensis Regibus, prout potuit, plenissime scripsit.” BN MS 1513, fol. 6r. Text published in
España Sagrada, vol. 38, appendix 40, 370-71.
78
corpus as a whole. The importance of these figures from the Golden Age of Spanish
historiography cannot be overestimated. Like Ambrosio de Morales before them, these
early modern historians shaped the canon of texts that historians today continue to use.
The first author Pelayo mentions, “Iunior Isidorus Pacensis Ecclesiae Episcopus,” is a
conflation of Isidore of Badajoz and Isidore of Seville, as Manuel Risco noted already in
the eighteenth century.123 Next, he mentions the famous Isidore of Seville, whose
histories of the Goths, Vandals, and Sueves had a wide diffusion throughout the Middle
Ages, albeit in two different versions.124 Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum, as it is presented in
MS 1513, transmits a somewhat modified redaction of the so-called “long version” of
Isidore’s history.125 The Isidoran text ends early at chapter 64, on folio 38r. On folio 38v
begins a text that can be identified as Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III
(Figure 2.3).126 The first chapter is visually presented as a part of the Isidoran history,
separated from the second chapter by a miniature depicting a prelate and king, labeled
respectively as “Julianus Pomerius” and “Wamba Rex.” The so-called Julian Pomerius,
like Isidore of Badajoz, is a composite creation, the conflation of the fifth-century Julian
Pomerius and the seventh-century archbishop of Toledo, Julian (d. 690). Thus, we have
the Pelagian version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III presented visually as part of both the
history of Isidore and of Julian Pomerius. The ninth-century text and its twelfth-century
adaptations have become imbricated; the process of interpolation operates on both textual
and visual levels. This notion of visual or pictorial interpolation is a useful description of
the far from neutral ways in which images and graphic devices organize and structure
123
See his remarks in España Sagrada, vol. 38, 129. “Iunior” was a common epithet given to Isidore of
Seville, as Codoñer discusses in “Isidorus Iunior.”
124
125
Isidore, Las Historias de los Godos, ed. Rodríguez Alonso, 26-31.
For a detailed description, see Mommsen, MGH, Auctors Antiquissimi, Chronica Minora II, Isidori
Iunioris episcopi Hispalensis historia, 262-63. See also Rodríguez Alonso’s recapitulation in Las Historias
de los Godos, 133.
126
See the edition of Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 69-180.
79
readers’ experience of a text, and is particularly important in the context of the Pelagian
corpus, both the Liber Testamentorum and the Liber Cronicorum.127
Returning to Pelayo’s preface, after Julian Pomerius, he then lists Sebastian,
Bishop of Salamanca (Figure 2.4). Sebastian was long considered the author of the
Chronicle of Alfonso III by virtue of a letter addressed to him by the king that appears as
a prefatory text in numerous manuscript copies of the chronicle.128 Often dismissed as a
later interpolation thanks to its survival only in post-medieval manuscripts, this letter
bears closer examination, particularly as it concerns concepts of authorship and historical
method. It is highly suggestive that Pelayo in his preface refers to Sebastian by name,
identifying this perhaps imaginary prelate with the chronicle text; there may thus have
been a medieval precedent for the inclusion of this letter as part of the chronicle.
Although the text of the letter does not survive in any medieval manuscripts, it is found
on folio 11v in Ambrosio de Morales’ copy ex liber vetustissimus ovetensis which, as we
have seen, was likely the earliest state of the Pelagian corpus.129 The language of the
letter to Sebastian in general echoes that of Pelayo’s preface, specifically in the reference
to the importance of hearing the story directly “a praedecesoribus nostris.” The placement
of an epistolatory paratext before the main chronicle text is not unusual, but the ways the
two letters echo each other and frame their respective texts is suggestive. Moreover, the
127
The classic discussion of the particularly visual reorganization of texts during the thirteenth century is
Rouse and Rouse, “Statim invenire.”
128
Namely, in the following manuscripts: Toledo, Biblioteca de la Catedral, MS 27-26 (16th century);
London, British Library, Egerton 1873 (16th century); Madrid, BN MS 1346 (16th century), MS 1376 (16th
century), MS 51 (17th century), MS 7602 (17th century); MS 8395 (17th century), MS 1237 (17th century),
MS 9880 (18th century). See the entry on “epistola ad Sebastianum” in Díaz y Díaz, Index scriptorum
latinorum medii aevi hispanorum, vol. 1, 132.
129
“Adefonsus Rex Castus Sebastiano nostro Salmanticensi episcopo salutem. Notum tibi sit de Historia
Gotorum pro qua nobis per Dulcidium presbiterem notuisti pigritiaeque veterorum scribere noluerunt sed
silentio occultaverunt. Et quia Gotorum Cronica usque a tempore gloriosi Vuambani regis Isidorus
Hispalense sedis episcopus plenissime edocuit et nos quidem ex eo tempore sicut ab antiquis et a
praedecesoribus nostris audivimus et vera esse cognovimus tibi breviter intimavimus.” BN 1346, fol. 11v.
80
presence of the letter to Sebastian in the vetustissimus implies a medieval—and
specifically Pelagian—context for this problematic text.
The letter begins “Adefonsus Rex Castus Sebastiano nostro Salmanticensi
episcopo salutem.” Curiously, the reference here is to Alfonso the Chaste—Alfonso II (d.
842)—rather than the more usual Alfonso III (d. 910), with whom the chronicle was most
commonly associated. While Morales does not comment on this conflation of kings in his
marginalia, he does, however, try to resolve some of the text’s problems. He argues that it
is doubtful that the king would have written to the bishop, arguing instead that the bishop
must have written to the king. The speaker in the letter states that a certain priest
Dulcidius was the source for the material of the chronicle that Sebastian wrote down, but
Morales argues that Dulcidius and Bishop Sebastian are one in the same person. It is
curious that, of all the issues Morales seeks to resolve in his marginalia, he does not
comment on the conflation of the two Alfonsos. This suggests the extent to which these
two particularly distinguished Alfonsos had become intertwined in the historiography of
the Asturian monarchy.
The history of the Asturian monarchy is enshrined in the Chronicle of Alfonso III,
the next link in Pelayo’s long chain of authority. One of the most important narrative
sources from the period after the Muslim conquest, together with the Albeldensian and
Prophetic Chronicles, the Chronicle of Alfonso III marks the rebirth of Christian
historiography on the Iberian peninsula in the latter half of the ninth century. The
chronicle begins with the death of Recceswinth (d. 672) and the ascension to the throne
of Wamba, thereby continuing Isidore’s gothic histories. It describes the defeat of the
Visigoths at the hands of invading Muslim armies, and establishes a link between the
fallen Visigothic kingdom of Toledo and the nascent Christian kingdom of Asturias in the
north. The chronicle presents a pantheon of the early medieval kings of Asturias—
Pelayo, Fafila, Alfonso I, Fruela, Aurelio, Silo, Mauregato, Bermudo, Alfonso II, Ramiro
81
I, Ordoño I, and Alfonso III—that continues to shape both popular and scholarly
perceptions of this period in Iberian history.130
Some thirty-six manuscripts containing the Chronicle of Alfonso III are still
extant, most of which date to the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries. The manuscript
transmission of the chronicle is complex, but, unlike the Liber Cronicorum, has been the
subject of intense scholarly interest. Since the early twentieth century, scholars have
maintained that there are two major redactions of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, known as
the Rotense and ad Sebastianum or Ovetense versions, both of which have been dated to
the late ninth or early tenth centuries. Among the seven extant medieval manuscripts are
five books that contain telltale Pelagian interpolations, and thus must be placed in the
context of the Pelagian corpus. Despite this, Juan Gil’s influential 1985 edition of the
Chronicle of Alfonso III makes no mention of the twelfth- and thirteenth-century
Pelagian manuscripts that contain the chronicle, or of the many early modern copies of
the Pelagian text—nor does he explain this omission.131 This suggests that he views this
redaction of the early medieval chronicle to be hopelessly interpolated, no longer
recognizably the Chronicle of Alfonso III. Pelayo’s acts of interpolation have, for Gil,
irrevocably undone the textual coherence of the chronicle, transforming it into another
text altogether. Pelayo’s status thus approaches that of an inventor of his own texts rather
than faithful transcriber of the texts of others.
Yet despite this dismissal of the value of any early medieval text that has passed
through Pelayo’s hands, until relatively recently most scholars held that the version of the
chronicle used by Pelayo was the older, more authentic text. 132 In 1921, Zacarías García
Villada, the first modern editor of the chronicle, argued that, for the Liber Cronicorum,
130
For an introduction to the historiographic context of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, see Wolf’s discussion
in Conquerors and Chroniclers, 43-56.
131
132
Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, Crónicas asturianas.
Gil Fernández, “La transmisión manuscrita,” in Crónicas asturianas, 45-80, 60-65.
82
Pelayo used the “primitive,” ad Sebastianum version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III.133
While García Villada points out that Pelayo interpolated various texts into the body of the
chronicle, such as the so-called Division of Wamba and an account of the peregrinations
of the Arca Santa, he advocates the essential chronological priority of the base text used
by the twelfth-century prelate.134
Underpinning these scholarly debates about textual priority and authenticity is the
assumption that there, in fact, existed a single, stable text against which all variants and
corruptions can be read. This necessitates, particularly in the case of Gil’s edition, the
production—if not invention—of just such a text, for no such version of the Chronicle of
Alfonso III exists. Both the historiographic traditions out of which these ninth-century
Asturian texts arose and their subsequent manuscript transmission reveal how variable
medieval conceptions of authorship and textual production were, and how different they
are from more modern editorial principles. What may at first appear to be superficial
editorial decisions have a profound effect on the interpretation of sources, particularly in
the case of the Chronicle of Alfonso III. In this case, editorial choices have hidden from
view the crucial role played by Pelayo in the reception and transmission of the Chronicle
of Alfonso III.
The important role played by the Chronicle of Alfonso III in Pelayo’s historical
compilation is underscored by its presence in all three stages of the Liber Cronicorum’s
development. Pelayo’s adaptations of this chronicle are likewise present from the early
stages of the compilation. As we have seen, the vetustissimus ovetensis preserves the
problematic letter from Alfonso III to Bishop Sebastian, which may have twelfth-century
origins. In the next stage of the Liber Cronicorum’s development, compilation A, the
Chronicle of Alfonso III contains many of Pelayo’s most infamous interpolations. As
Morales’ marginal notes in MS 1358—the Alcalá Codex—point out, the chronicle begins
in the middle, with the death of Mauregato (d. 789). More importantly, however, this
passage immediately prefaces the second part of the story of the Arca Santa, Pelayo’s
133
134
García Villada, “Notas sobre la ‘Crónica de Alfonso III,’” 269.
García Villada, Crónica de Alfonso III.
83
most notorious addition to the Chronicle of Alfonso III. The Pelagian context could not
be clearer. Jérez, however, identifies the text of the chronicle in compilation A as merely
the ad Sebastianum version, thereby obscuring Pelayo’s “authorship” of this particular
version.
Inserting Pelayo back into the chain of transmission for the Chronicle of Alfonso
III focuses attention on the subsequent mediation of this early medieval text. Pelayo’s act
of compilation in putting together the Liber Cronicorum is far from neutral. By tracing a
narrative arc from the creation of the world to the events of his own day, Pelayo makes an
implicit argument for continuity and coherence in his historical scheme. Encapsulating
the entirety of this history in one manuscript volume, such as the Batres Codex, further
unifies and universalizes Pelayo’s interpretation of the past. We have already seen how
the Batres Codex visually presents the first chapter of the Chronicle of Alfonso III as part
of Isidore’s histories, as the miniature depicting Bishop Sebastian appears after the start
of the text of the chronicle. This complex weaving together of texts continues on the
same folio (38v), when the second chapter of Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of
Alfonso III is interrupted by the insertion of the so-called Division of Wamba, which
continues until folio 42r. This interpolation is not visually distinguished from the text into
which it is seamlessly integrated.
The Division of Wamba is a highly problematic text. It purports to be a
Visigothic-era description of the main episcopal sees of the Iberian peninsula, along with
their respective dependent sees. While such lists of sees are known from the period
before the Muslim conquest, none of them can be identified as the Division of Wamba.135
Given its notable absence during the eleventh century, this text, it seems, was the product
of early twelfth-century disputes over ecclesiastical authority.136 In the case of the
Division of Wamba, it is clear that the notion of a pre-conquest, Visigothic order was
deployed by later medieval authors—like Pelayo—to ground their contemporary claims
to authority.
135
136
Vásquez de Parga, La División de Wamba, 14.
Vásquez de Parga, La División de Wamba, 43.
84
The next link in Pelayo’s chain of sources is the Chronicle of Sampiro (Figure
2.5). Sampiro was a notary and courtier who served as bishop of Astorga from 1034-36.
Sampiro’s chronicle has long vexed editors and historians, as the transmission of this text
is inextricably entwined with that of Pelayo’s chronicle and the so-called Historia
Silense.137 The origins of the Historia Silense remains the subject of debate, making it
difficult to establish the relationship between the texts of Pelayo, Sampiro, and the
anonymous monk of the “domus seminis.”138 Pérez de Urbel maintained that Pelayo and
the author of the Silense are “two historians who were contemporaries, lived near each
other, wrote the same things, and, nevertheless, did not know each other.”139 According
to Pérez de Urbel, the Silense was written during the first two decades of the twelfth
century at the Castilian monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos by a monk close to the
court of Alfonso VI (1047-1109) and his sister, the infanta Urraca (1038-1101). The Silos
origin of the text has been widely dismissed in recent scholarship; Fletcher and Barton
have argued that the author of the chronicle was based in the city of León, while Linehan
and Henriet have suggested Sahagún.140 As for the chronicle’s chronology, the scholarly
consensus now is that it was composed around the year 1115, during the reign of Queen
Urraca.
137
See, for example, the problematic edition of Pérez de Urbel, Sampiro. See also, Ruiz Asension, “La
inclusión del ‘Chronicon’ de Sampiro,” and Fernández Vallina, “Sampiro y el llamado Silense.” The most
modern edition of the Historia Silense is that of Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia
Silense. No modern edition of either the Chronicle of Sampiro or the Chronicon Silense exists, although
Juan Estévez Sola is preparing an edition of the Silense for the Corpus Christianorum.
138
This vexed relationship has recently been the focus of work by Alonso, “La obra histórica.” See also
Huete Fudio, La historiografía latina medieval, 28-30 and 56-59.
139
Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 61. A partial modern translation and
study of the Historia Silense can be found in Barton and Fletcher, The World of El Cid, 9-64.
140
Barton and Fletcher, The World of El Cid, 14-16; Linehan, History and the Historians, 223; Henriet,
“L’Historia Silensis.”
85
Sampiro is first identified as an author by Pelayo himself, in his prologue to the
Liber Cronicorum, while Sampiro’s Chronicle was anonymously incorporated into the
Historia Silense.141 MS 1513 presents a distinctly Pelagian version of the short Chronicle
of Sampiro, with substantial additions to the text as it appears in the Historia Silense that
focus above all on the reign of Alfonso III.142 The first difference with the Silense text is
a description of the construction of numerous monuments by the king, most notably the
Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, “that most beautiful [work], built with squared
limestone and marble stones and columns.”143 Pelayo also includes copies of the letters
sent by Pope John to Alfonso III via the messengers Siderius and Severus, which then
segue into a description of the so-called Council of Oviedo and the consecration of the
Cathedral of Santiago by Alfonso III. The papal letters and description of the council in
Oviedo are of crucial importance in the context of Pelayo’s historiographic project, for
versions appear in the Liber Testamentorum as well as in later copies.144 The papal
envoys even receive their own miniature in the cartulary (see Figure 2.9). There is one
crucial difference, however. In Liber Testamentorum, as well as in the later thirteenth and
fourteenth-century documents, both the legatine mission and the council occur during the
reign of Alfonso II. This shift in timeframe is not an example of shoddy work on the part
of Pelayo or a lack of understanding of chronology, but rather points to an interesting and
potentially useful conflation of Alfonsos, creating a kind of royal typology in which
various important kings are conflated into a single, ideal model of kingship.
We see this logic at work in the final link in Pelayo’s chain of sources, his own
account of the reigns of Bermudo II, Alfonso V, Bermudo III, Fernando I, Sancho II, and
Alfonso VI (Figure 2.6). The final chapter of Sampiro’s chronicle, concerning the reign
141
142
143
Pérez de Urbel, “Pelayo y Sampiro,” 389.
See the discussion in Pérez de Urbel, ed., Sampiro, 223-33.
“ex calce quadratisque lapidibus marmoreisque columpnis, siue basis construxit eam ualde
pulcherrima.” BN 1513, fol. 53r.
144
Specifically, fol. 3v-6r of the Liber Testamentorum; ACO, series B, folder 1, nos 2 and 3 (thirteenth-
century copies). See the analysis of Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37.
86
of Bermudo II (d. 999), is replaced with Pelayo’s alternative interpretation of the king’s
reign, and the segue from Sampiro’s to Pelayo’s chronicle is visually signaled by the
presence of a miniature depicting a king, labeled “Veremudus rex,” and a prelate,
identified by a later marginal hand as Pelayo. Just as Alfonso III was the focus of
Pelayo’s version of the Sampiro’s chronicle, the importance of Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109)
is highlighted in Pelayo’s version of recent events. The adoption of the Roman rite by
Alfonso VI is given particular prominence, and the Batres Codex illustrates this episode
with a miniature depicting the enthroned king sending two envoys to Pope Gregory VII in
Rome (Figure 2.7). The representation of the king and envoys echoes a similar image on
folio 79v of the Liber Testamentorum depicting Pope Urban II with two envoys (Figure
2.8). This visual parallel becomes even more striking when we observe that the text of
Pelayo’s chronicle does not specify the number of envoys to Rome. Moreover, Alfonso
VI’s actions recall those of his predecessor Alfonso II/III who sent a pair of envoys,
Siderius and Severus, to Pope John in Rome—an episode to which a miniature in the
Liber Testamentorum is dedicated, as mentioned previously (Figure 2.9). Pelayo thus
creates a politically useful historical confusion, stitching together texts and images to
create a continuous narrative in which Alfonso II, III, and VI are highlighted as the most
important royal patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, enjoying a close relationship with
Rome.
After the conclusion of Pelayo’s chronicle, bringing the historical narrative up to
the present day, there are a series of papal privileges confirming the metropolitan status
and possessions of the Cathedral of Oviedo. These three texts, although transcribed in the
two-column format of the Batres Codex, are represented as documents, with the
validating signs of the rota and bene valete used by the papal chancery (Figure 2.10). The
first two privileges, bestowed by Urban II (d. 1099) and Paschal II (d. 1118), likewise
appear in the Liber Testamentorum with the full complement of validating signs (Figures
2.8 and 2.11).145 The privileges of Urban II and Paschal II are among the few documents
145
Liber Testamentorum, fol. 79v-80r (Urban II) and fol. 83r-83v (Paschal II). See the analysis of
Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 330-33 and Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum
Ovetensis, 307-08.
87
in the Liber Testamentorum whose authenticity has not been doubted. In addition to the
copies in the Liber Cronicorum and Liber Testamentorum, the cathedral archive
conserves the original papal documents.146 Unfortunately, the privilege of Paschal II has
been mutilated, and only the top portion survives, but the privilege of Urban II preserves
its rota and bene valete (Figures 2.12 and 2.13). The scribe of the Batres Codex has
carefully mimicked the form of the bene valete from the document, but the rota contains
the name not of Urban, but of Paschal. The same form of the bene valete for this
document also appears in the Liber Testamentorum. In contrast to this careful copying of
graphic devices, there seems to have been some confusion about these papal documents,
for the third privilege purports to be of Paschal II, but the rota contains the name of
Calixtus II (d. 1124).147 Each of the bene valete signs is unique, which speaks to a desire
on the part of the scribe to lend an air of documentary fidelity to his copies, despite the
different rotae. Preserved in multiple copies, these papal confirmations of the privileges
of the Cathedral of Oviedo seem to vindicate all of Pelayo’s careful historiographic labor.
They function as a sort of documentary appendix to the Liber Cronicorum, reiterating
important elements of the chronicle texts that precede them, particularly the councils held
in Oviedo and the largesse of the early medieval Asturian kings’ patronage of the
cathedral.
With these documents, the portion of MS 1513 known as the Liber cronicorum ab
exordio mundi concludes, and a new chronicle of the Franks begins.148 The transition
146
ACO series B, folder 2, no.17 (original) and series A, folder 2, no. 4 (later, partial copy) correspond
with the text of the privilege of Urban II in the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 79v-80r and Liber Cronicorum,
MS 1513, fol. 69v-70v. ACO series A, folder 2, no. 7 (original, but mutilated) corresponds with the text of
Paschal II in the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 83r-83v and Liber Cronicorum, fol. 70v-71v.
147
Liber Cronicorum, MS 1513, fol. 71v-72v. The reference to Calixtus II in the context of the Liber
Cronicorum recalls the appearance of this pope in the so-called Codex Calixtinus made in Santiago de
Compostela in the mid-twelfth century.
148
Raquel Alonso points out that this text corresponds to that of the Pseudo-Fredegar, and is not De origo
gentis Francorum of Gregory of Tours, as the rubrication in the manuscript states. Alonso Álvarez, “El
Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo,” 341.
88
from one chronicle to another is underscored by the rubricated display script, for the
incipit of the Origo gentis francorum has the same visual weight on the page as the
incipit on folio 4r for the Liber Cronicorum. A series of narrative and documentary texts
follow the chronicle of the Franks of Pseudo-Fredegar. While they do not seem to have
the same chronological coherence as the texts that make up the Liber Cronicorum, they
do offer many points of comparison with both the textual and visual contents of the Liber
Testamentorum.
Three of the documentary texts—the testament of Alfonso II and the decrees of
Alfonso V and Elvira as well as Fernando I and Sancha—appear in the Liber
Testamentorum. Miniatures are dedicated to all of these royal figures in the cartulary,
though the miniature depicting Fernando and Sancha has been lost. In the Batres Codex
of the Liber Cronicorum, the decrees of Alfonso V and Elvira and Fernando I and Sancha
are prefaced by miniatures occupying the top third of the column height (Figures 2.14
and 2.15). The king and queen, each labeled, are depicted seated, turned towards each
other and gesturing with their hands. These royal couples are a variation on the pairings
of prelate-authors and kings that occur earlier in the Batres Codex, as Galván Freile
points out.149 These seated figures in discursive poses, often accompanied by emblems of
power such as staffs and swords, recall the iconography of the Tumbo A, the twelfthcentury cartulary of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, more than the dynamic,
full-page compositions of the Liber Testamentorum.150 Despite their stylistic and
iconographic differences, the Liber Testamentorum must be viewed in tandem with the
illuminations of later medieval copies of the Liber Cronicorum, such as the Batres
Codex. The traditional tools of iconography and style must be combined with a
consideration of how the images function within the Pelagian corpus.
149
150
Galván Freile, “El MS. 1513,” 493.
The most recent edition is edited by Díaz y Díaz, López Alsina, and Sánchez Ameijeiras, Tumbo A. See
also the important essays contained in Díaz y Díaz, López Alsina, and Moralejo Álvarez, Los tumbos de
Compostela.
89
From Chronicle to Cartulary: Representing the Treasury in the Pelagian Corpus
While the textual transmission and sources of Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum remain
imperfectly understood, fundamental questions about the transmission of the imagery of
the Liber Cronicorum and its relationship to the transmission of the text have yet even to
be asked. As Raquel Alonso Álvarez and Fernando Galván Freile have argued, an
illuminated version of the Liber Cronicorum likely existed during the lifetime of Pelayo
as a complement to the Liber Testamentorum.151 As we have seen, a number of
suggestive compositional similarities exist between specific miniatures in the Liber
Testamentorum and Batres Codex. While this is the most richly illuminated of the six
medieval copies of the Liber Cronicorum, it is not the sole illuminated copy of Pelayo’s
chronicle. In what follows, I will look more closely at the imagery of the extant copies of
the Liber Cronicorum in order to argue that the imagery of these manuscripts works
together to represent visually and validate the historical claims made by Pelayo for his
diocese, such as Oviedo’s metropolitan status, its importance as a site of pilgrimage, and
its prestige as a recipient of royal patronage. Pelayo’s focus is on the space and contents
of the Cámara Santa as the embodiment and fullest expression of Oviedo’s privileged
status. I argue that the imagery of the Pelagian corpus constitutes an alternative visual
form of the cathedral treasury, representing in word and image the most valuable
treasures of Cámara Santa.
There are three distinct groups of illuminated copies of the Liber Cronicorum,
which seem to correspond with Jérez’s organization of the formation of the Pelagian
corpus in three phases. Jérez’s first phase, exemplified by the vetustissimus, comes down
to us in Morales’ MS 1346. While the textual contents of this problematic manuscript
have been subject to minute analysis, its imagery has received little attention. Morales’
primary interest was in the textual contents of the vetustissimus, but his scribe
nevertheless copied some of its visual and graphic contents. The manuscript opens with
the ink drawing of a jeweled cross from whose arms hang an alpha and omega (fol. 1v).
Morales’ notes along the top of the page state that “the very old codex of Oviedo has this
151
Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo;” Galván Freile, “El MS. 1513.”
90
effigy of the cross made by the hands of angels,” a clear reference to the Cross of the
152
Angels (Figure 2.16).
An even-armed, jeweled cross, the Cross of the Angels is one of the most
treasured relics of the Cámara Santa. According to the inscription along the arms of the
cross, it was donated by Alfonso II in the year 808.153 It has traditionally been thought
that the cross was donated specifically to the Cathedral of Oviedo, although no
contemporary sources can confirm this. The story of this cross’s miraculous manufacture
by angels first appears in the twelfth-century Historia Silense, which, as discussed earlier,
is a problematic text whose origins remain unclear. According to the Silense, Alfonso II
was seeking goldsmiths to make a cross for the main altar of the cathedral when a pair of
angels disguised as pilgrims appeared, claiming to be goldsmiths. The king handed over
the gold and jewels to make the cross, but then, doubting the trustworthiness of these
mysterious strangers, decided to send ministers over to check on their progress. When
they looked into the room in which the goldsmiths had been working, they saw only the
finished cross, surrounded by a bright light. Seeing this, they realized that the mysterious
strangers must have been angels, for the cross could not have been made by human
hands. They told Alfonso II about the miracle, and he placed the cross on the main altar
of the cathedral.154
152
“Vetustissimus codex ovetensis initio habet hanc effigiem crucis angelicis manibus fabrefacte.” BN MS
1356, fol. 1v.
153
The inscription reads: ҠSVSCEPTVM PLACIDE MANEAT HOC IN HONORE DI / ADEFONSVS
HVMILIS SERVVS XRI / QVISQVIS AVFERRE PRESVMSERIT MIHI / FVLMINE DIVINO
INTEREAT IPSE / NISI LIBENS VBI VOLVNTAS DEDERIT MEA / HOC OPUS PERFECTUM EST
IN ERA DCCCXLVI / HOC SIGNO TVETVR PIVS / HOC SIGNO VINCITVR INIMICVS.” See Diego
Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 55-58. The classic study is that of Schlunk, “The Crosses of
Oviedo.” His collected work on early medieval Asturian metalwork was recently published as Estudios
sobre la orfebrería.
154
The complete text reads, “Porro, si ornamenta istius domus enumerare singilatim pergerem, prolixior
tractatus traheret me ab incepto longius deuium. Verum, pro magnitudine miraculi, angelica crux in
medium proferatur. Dum enim quadam die supradictus Adefonsus, castus et pius rex, casu haberet in manu
91
While the Silense contains the most detailed account of the Cross of the Angels’
origins, references in the Liber Cronicorum and Liber Testamentorum to “crux […] opere
angelico fabricata” suggest that Pelayo was aware of the story.155 Pérez de Urbel has
remarked on the curious fact that it is in the Silense and not in the works of Pelayo that
the legend of the Cross of the Angels appears.156 Despite the notable absence of detailed
descriptions of the Cross of the Angels within surviving Pelagian texts, the cross is
visually present in the opening folio of the vetustissimus, a fact which has not been
remarked on.
In the illuminations of the Liber Cronicorum we see a similar reference to the
second major cross-relic in the Cámara Santa, the Cross of Victory, donated by Alfonso
III and Jimena to the Cathedral of Oviedo in 908. The name refers to the popular legend
that Alfonso III encased in gold and precious stones the wooden cross carried by Pelayo
pondus splendissimi auri et quosdam lapides preciosos, cepit cogitare ad opus Dominici altaris quomodo
inde crux fieri possent. In eadem itaque santa deuocione existente, post participationem corporis et
sanguinis Christi, more solito ad regiam curiam, manu aurum tenete, prandendi causa iam pergebat, cum
ecce due angeli in figura peregrinorum, fingentes se artifices esse, ei aparuerunt, qui illico tradidit eis
aurum et lapides, designata mansione, in qua sine hominum inpedimento operari possent. Ceterum res mira
videtur et post apostolos nostri inusitata temporibus. Siquidem, in ipsa eadem morula prandii, rex ad se
reuersus, quibus personis aurum dederit inquirit, ac statim vnum post alium legatum, ut perciperent quid
ignoti artifices agerent, missitare cepit. Iam ministri domui fabrice apropinquabant, cum subito tanta lux
totam domum interius circumfulgebat, quod vt ita licam non domus manufacta, sed solis ortus pre nimia
claritate videretur. Introspicientibus autem per fenestram qui missi fuerant, ablatis angelicis magistris, sola
crux, ad effectum ducta, in medio posita, domum illam ut sol irradiabat; vnde aperte constat intelligi, eam
diuino non humano studio factam fuisse. Quod audiens deuotissimus rex, relictis ferculis, cum perpeti
gradu cucurrit, atque pro tanto beneficio, ut decebat, cum laudibus et hympnis Deo gratias agens, eamdem
venerabilem crucem super altare sancti Saluatoris reuerenter posuit.” Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz
Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 139-40.
155
Alonso Álvarez, “Patria vallata asperitate moncium,” 23. The passage in the Liber Testamentorum is
located on fol. 3r, edited by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 464. The Pelagian
interpolation in the Chronicle of Alfonso III is edited by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 98.
156
Pérez de Urbel and González Ruiz Zorilla, eds., Historia Silense, 62.
92
at the battle of Covadonga.157 Although the earliest versions of this history of the Cross of
Victory appear in the sixteenth century, the historiated initials of a group of medieval
manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum point to a earlier context for the development of the
legend of the cross.158 These manuscripts, dating to the late twelfth and early thirteenth
centuries, correspond with Jérez’s redaction A of the Liber Cronicorum, sharing as much
iconographic as textual contents. As we have seen, MS 1358 in the Biblioteca Nacional is
the earliest among this group of manuscripts, while MS 2805 from the same library and
MS 9/5496 from the Real Academia de la Historia both appear to be copies of this book.
Despite their status as textually derivative copies, manuscripts 2805 and 9/5496 are more
elaborately illuminated than their parent manuscript, containing three large historiated
initials as well as many decorated initials.159
Manuscripts 2805 and 9/5496 contain an historiated initial depicting Pelayo at the
battle of Covadonga, described in the accompanying text of the Chronicle of Alfonso III
(Figures 2.17 and 2.18). Pelayo, crowned and wearing a regal red cloak, points with his
right hand towards the cross he carries in his other hand.160 As Alonso Álvarez has
observed, it is clear that that cross that Pelayo carries is not wooden, but rather has the
distinctive lobed form of the Cross of Victory. The evidence of this miniature suggests,
therefore, that the legend associating the tenth-century jeweled Cross of Victory held in
the Cámara Santa with Pelayo and the battle of Covadonga was already circulating in the
twelfth century, even if it does not appear in any texts.
157
158
159
Cid Priego gathers these legends in his article, “Las narraciones,” 61-66.
BN MS 2805 (12th century), MS 1358 (12th century); RAH MS 9/5496 (13th century).
The historiated initials are located in the following three locations in the text: “[P]rimum in gotis” (BN
MS 1358, fol. 14v, BN MS 2805, fol. 18r and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 13r), “[P]rimum in Asturias” (BN MS
1358, fol. 18r, BN MS 2805, fol. 23r, and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 16v) and “[R]egiamque” (BN MS 1358,
fol. 22r, BN MS 2805, fol. 28r, and RAH MS 9/5496, fol. 20r).
160
Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo de Oviedo,” 334. A similar though much simplified version of this
initial occurs on fol. 18r of BN MS 1358.
93
As we have seen, the Arca Santa is arguably the dominant focus of Pelayo’s
historiographic interventions and inventions, as much in the Liber Cronicorum as in the
Liber Testamentorum. The visual references that I argue we see in the two earlier
redactions of the Liber Cronicorum to the crosses kept in the Cámara Santa are relatively
subtle, offering suggestive rather than conclusive evidence for the visual construction of
the treasury of the cathedral within the Corpus Pelagianum. Less subtle is the opening
miniature of the Liber Testamentorum that depicts Alfonso II, flanked by the Virgin Mary
and the Archangel Michael, kneeling in prayer before a vision of the Maiestas Domini
surrounded by the twelve apostles (Figure 2.19). It has been pointed out that the
composition of the upper register of this miniature echoes that of the front of the Arca
Santa, but this astute observation has not, to my knowledge, been developed any
further.161 I believe that we must read this opening miniature of the Liber Testamentorum
in light of the representations of the treasury assembled both in text and image in various
manuscripts of the Liber Cronicorum.
Like Pelayo at the Battle of Covadonga present in the manuscripts from
compilation A of the Liber Cronicorum, the miniature of Alfonso II in the Liber
Testamentorum presents the viewer with a concrete object from the Cámara Santa in a
historical, narrative setting. Furthermore, the miniature of the Liber Testamentorum
underscores the physical, architectural context in which the narrative takes place: namely,
the Cámara Santa itself. Alfonso II is flanked by the Virgin Mary, in whose honor he
built a church alongside the cathedral, and the Archangel Michael, to whom the Cámara
Santa is dedicated. These figures thus function not only as representations of the spiritual
figures to whom the spaces were dedicated, but also as architectural metaphors, standing
in for the buildings erected by Alfonso II around the cathedral. This complex
representation fuses past and present as the early medieval king kneels in the Cámara
Santa like so many pilgrims after him at the Arca Santa, presented as a timeless celestial
vision.
161
See the catalogue entry for the Liber Testamentorum by Williams in The Art of Medieval Spain, no.
149, 295-96.
94
From Treasury to Archive: Cartularies and the Creation of Memory
These layers of meaning all accumulate within the space of the Cámara Santa
itself, for the Liber Testamentorum was likely kept there throughout the Middle Ages as
yet another of the cathedral’s treasures. A fourteenth-century notarial copy of the
eleventh-century document founding the monastery of Corias includes a description of
the Liber Testamentorum and its location within the Cámara Santa. The notary describes
how, on the orders of the pope, the bishop of Oviedo together with members of the
chapter went to the “cartophilacium” where the cartulary and other documents were kept
in order to examine and make a copy of the foundation document of Corias. He describes
the Cámara Santa as an archive, “dedicated to the conservation of the writings of that
church,” among whose contents is the Liber Testamentorum, whose incipit and explicit
he provides.162 The cartulary’s location is fundamental for our understanding of this
manuscript and the interpretation of its imagery.
The Liber Testamentorum’s presence in the Cámara Santa is not surprising,
considering the rarity and preciousness of the illuminated manuscript itself, as well as the
162
“in quondam libro scripto de quondam antiquissima littera toletana uocata , qui quidem liber ut dixit
erat cum aliis multis scripturis repositus / in archiuo publico deputato ad reponenda et conprenda plura alia
testamenta regum principum et baronum qui eadem dotauerant ecclesiam. [...] quandam capellam que
sancti michaelis uocatur intra corpus ecclesie cathedralis ad manum dexteram altaris principalis ipsius
ecclesie / per multos grados lapideos ad dictam cameram sancti michaelis in solio lapideo tabulato
textudinoso constructam accederunt ad cuius cappelle dextrum angulum, circa altare Sancti Michaelis est
quedam secreta camera, cum duabus clauibus ad / duas seras in portis eiusdem camere affixis , quorum
duarum clauium alteram tenebat et custodiebat sugerium Martini et aliam sugerium Fernandi, porcionariis
dicte ecclesie; qui clauarii, apertis seris et portis iamdictis, quodam archiuum / ad scripturarum ipsius
ecclesie conseruationis deputatum, quod intus erat, patuit, numerosis cartis et libris plenum. Inter quas
scripturas erat quidem liber magnus, ligneis tabulis coopertus, qui in quolibet principio uel qualibet rubrica
noui sermo / nis et intitulabatur testamentum talis rege uel comitis uel alterius principis; cuius liber sic
incipit primum folium in rubrica—Hac scriptura; et ultimum folium sic incipit—Hec sunt nomina; et
finit—Sancta Eulalie.” ACO, series B, folder 2, no. 2. Sanz, “Estudio paleográfico,” 97-98.
95
conceptual links among writing, memory, and treasuries.163 Right now, I want to focus on
the function of the Liber Testamentorum as a part of this rich memorial complex, in
particular its status as a cartulary. We have already seen in a more strictly narrative
context how Pelayo in his preface to the Liber Cronicorum represents his relationship to
his sources as a living chain of authorities. A similar dynamic, I argue, is at work in the
sphere of documentary culture in the process of making this cartulary. The act of copying
documents into a manuscript cartulary—“the art of transcribing,” in Robert Maxwell’s
words—is “an exercise of historical performance, fashioning the historical record.”164
The Liber Testamentorum, therefore, does not just passively reproduce its documentary
sources. It actively constructs a historical narrative that is validated by means of the very
process of transcription. The production of copies of documents—in other words, scribal
practice itself—materializes the chain of authority, rendering those links visible and
physical. The presence of numerous full-page miniatures intensifies this materialization,
for they act as validating visual reenactments of the actions commemorated in the
accompanying documents.
The issue of transcription is of paramount importance for the creation of a
cartulary like the Liber Testamentorum, a manuscript containing copies of documents
from the cathedral’s archives that confirm the possessions and privileges of the see of
Oviedo. The idea of making copies of documents and placing them in a codex is not a
simple extension of archival practice in the Middle Ages. What Pierre Chastang terms the
cartularization of memory is an active process involving the selection, organization, and
modification of texts, producing a codex that is no mere copy of the contents of the
archive but rather an archive reimagined and reconfigured.165
163
See the classic study of Carruthers, The Book of Memory. On books as treasures and in treasuries, see
Palazzo, “Le livre dans les trésors.”
164
165
Maxwell, “Sealing Signs,” 576.
Chastang, “Cartulaires, cartularisation et scripturalité médiévale.”
96
As Patrick Geary has discussed, the period around the year 1000 saw tremendous
changes in archival practices and the relationship to the early medieval past. The single
most notable feature of this transformation was the production of copies of earlier
documents in the form of manuscript cartularies. Importantly, the transition to a new
form and physical frame for archival memory also opened the possibility of including
other kinds of memorial material, such as chronicles or narrative histories. We see this in
the case of the Liber Testamentorum, whose opening quire contains a hodgepodge of
texts largely narrative rather than documentary in nature. The cartulary form is thus a
locus for the development of new kinds of history-writing.166
Despite the important changes wrought on archival practice by the introduction of
cartularies, this type of manuscript has only recently been the subject of critical
scrutiny.167 Traditionally, historians have preferred to view cartularies as passive
collections of documents, using them as “transparent windows into the original archives
of an institution.”168 Just as modern editorial criteria have distorted our perception of
narrative histories like the Chronicle of Alfonso III, so, too, have they drastically
distorted our understanding of medieval archival practice. For example, Santos García
Larragueta’s 1962 edition of the medieval documents—including those from the Liber
Testamentorum—held in the cathedral archive of Oviedo organizes the documents purely
chronologically, while the most recent edition of the contents of the Liber Testamentorum
likewise completely reconfigures its contents, ordering them chronologically.169 The
organizational logic of the manuscript cartulary is thus ignored, when it may, in fact, help
us to understand broader issues of memorial and archival practice.
166
167
Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 81-84.
See in particular the collected studies in Kosto and Winroth, eds., Charters, Cartularies and Archives,
and Guyotjeannin, Morelle, and Parisse, eds., Les cartulaires.
168
169
Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 83.
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos; Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis.
97
Editors of documents have also primarily been focused on determining the
authenticity or falsity of documents, which can distort the interpretation of the context in
which they were produced.170 In order to evaluate the authenticity and general
trustworthiness of medieval documents, diplomatists consider everything from linguistic
style and the use of formulae to the nature of the parchment support, scribal hand(s), and
the graphic devices such as signatures and seals intended to validate the document’s
contents. While historians have reassessed the meanings of the terms “original” and
“copy” and the underlying assumptions they reveal, the painstaking work of separating
authentic elements from interpolated or otherwise anachronistic elements remains
fundamental to the study of documents. This likewise remains one of the enduring
problems for the study of the Liber Testamentorum, for which we preserve only a few
originals for the documents copied or otherwise composed in its pages.
Recent work on cartularies suggests that these manuscripts occupy an
intermediary status between original and copy. Despite the frequency with which copies
of various kinds, including cartularies, were made throughout the central and late Middle
Ages, and the high rates of destruction of documents even during the Middle Ages, it is
unclear what the status of these copies was with respect to the originals from which they
were derived. While institutions increasingly relied on copies, original documents still
had to be brought out for legal disputes. As far as we know, the Liber Testamentorum
was never actively employed in legal disputes, but instead resided in the cathedral’s
archive as one of the many reference works frequently consulted by members of the
chapter. Later marginalia confirms this hypothesis, as readers’ interest was focused on
specific place-names, identifying the earlier medieval names used in the cartulary with
current usage.171
170
See, for example, the classic manual for the Spanish context: Muñoz y Rivero, Manual de Paleografía.
A more thorough discussion can be found in Guoyjeannin, Pycke, and Tock, Diplomatique médiévale, 36795.
171
See the remarks of Rodríguez Díez, “Estudio codicológico,” 72-76.
98
How are we, then, to understand the meaning and purpose of the act of copying so
many documents? Brigitte Bedos-Rezak offers a useful formulation:
In asking how medieval copies derived the means and meanings of their
functions, and what these functions were, I would like to suggest […] the
possibility that, by eschewing precise replications while making “copies,”
medieval scribes and their literate superiors demonstrated that their goal
was less to reproduce artifacts of the acts themselves than to maintain a
process of textualization which would assure these acts’ ongoing
canonization as discursive objects.172
Bedos-Rezak’s emphasis on the “process of textualization” and the production of
“discursive objects” compels us to reconceive the notion of copying. This in turn draws
attention to the visual, physical nature of the copy, putting the emphasis on the “object”
in Bedos-Rezak’s formulation. This process of textualization is thus one of
representation, carried out visually on the parchment page.
Memory, Transcription and Representation in the Liber Testamentorum
Documents themselves can reveal some of the mechanisms and metaphors for
their creation. It has become a commonplace to think of documentary reproduction and
validation in the terms of seals and sealing. The addition of seals to the already vast
repertoire of graphic signs found on documents changed the process of validation on both
practical and symbolic levels. The dominant metaphor for the reproduction of documents
became that of the print or impression, infinitely replicable and always identical. Before
the widespread use of seals, however, alternative means of validation—including the use
of signatures and other graphic devices—produced alternative metaphors. The products
and process of transcription is more linear and graphic, intimately connected to the
movements of the scribal hand itself. We see such a logic at work in the Liber
172
Bedos-Rezak, “Towards an Archaeology,” 60.
99
Testamentorum, produced soon before the period in which seals were in widespread use
on the Iberian peninsula, dated by Fletcher to the reign of Alfonso VII (r. 1126-1157).173
In what follows, I explore the Liber Testamentorum as a product of the act of
transcription, the open-ended, discursive scribal practice of making and remaking texts. I
focus on the script, graphic signs, and illuminations of the codex in the wider context of
the preservation and transformation of archival memory. To do this, I first discuss the
codicology, paleography, and contents of the Liber Testamentorum, revisiting debates
about the dating and localization of the manuscript. I then move on to a consideration of
the more visual aspects of the book, concluding with an analysis of the role of the
manuscript’s many full-page miniatures.
One of the most striking aspects of the volume of studies accompanying the
facsimile edition of the Liber Testamentorum—to date the most thorough and
authoritative examination of this manuscript—is the lack of consensus expressed about
such fundamental issues as dating and provenance. The codicologist, paleographer, and
art historian all differ profoundly in their conclusions. While I cannot conclusively
resolve all of these authors’ differences and come to a single, definitive hypothesis about
the formation of the Liber Testamentorum, the process of clearly laying out the various
arguments reveals not only some of the persistent problems with the scholarship, but also
opens up new ways of thinking about this manuscript. I will argue that the manuscript
dates to the reign of Queen Urraca (r. 1109-1126) on the basis of the memorial function
of its images, and the larger context of Urraca’s artistic patronage and dynastic politics.
There is considerable debate surrounding both the dating and origins of the Liber
Testamentorum. Rodríguez Díaz has argued that the cathedral of Oviedo had a
scriptorium in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries capable of producing the
cartulary, and other works of the Pelagian corpus.174 The lack of other illuminated
manuscripts of similar quality either still surviving in Oviedo or known to have been
173
174
Fletcher, “Diplomatic and the Cid revisited.”
Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico.”
100
made there makes it difficult to prove conclusively the existence of a scriptorium. But
neither should the possibility be ruled out. As Alonso Álvarez has argued, there is a
tendency in scholarship to repeat hypotheses until they become truisms, as is the case for
the scriptorium at the monastery of Saints Facundus and Primitivus in Sahagún. In his
catalogue entry on the Liber Testamentorum, John Williams suggests that the manuscript
175
may have been made at this royal monastery, later home to the body of Alfonso VI.
Later scholarship has endorsed this hypothesis, and the scriptorium at Sahagún has come
to take on a legendary status, becoming referred to as the place of production for many
luxurious illuminated manuscripts from the twelfth century for which we do not have a
176
secure provenance.
Given the vast resources mobilized by Pelayo during the
formation of the Pelagian corpus, I do not think it impossible that an active scriptorium
existed in Oviedo during the early twelfth century.
The evidence of the manuscript’s codicology is not conclusive for resolving
questions of dating. It is largely composed of regular quaternions, with a handful of
senions, ternions, and bifolia which were the result of particular exigencies of production.
The most structurally complex parts of the manuscript are the first and last quires. The
first quire originally consisted of a pair of bifolia, though all that now remains of the
second bifolium is a single folio. The regular pattern of hair/flesh sides of the parchment
is interrupted between folios II and III, suggesting the loss of half of the bifolium.
Rodríguez Díaz argues that folio II and the now-missing other half of that bifolium
formed the original nucleus of the first quire, and that the bifolium I/III was added later,
perhaps in the mid-twelfth century. She concludes this on the basis of the text that
appears on folio IIIv, clearly added in a different, later twelfth-century hand, which
describes the transfer of the see of Lucus Asturum to Oviedo, discussed in chapter one.
In addition, folios IIv and IIIr shows traces of the miniature of Alfonso II that now
begins the second quire of the manuscript. Rodríguez Díaz suggests that the miniature
175
176
The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 147, 295-96.
Alonso Álvarez, “El Obispo Pelayo,” 5-7.
101
was removed from its original location at some point in the manuscript’s history, perhaps
when it was rebound in the sixteenth century, and placed in this opening quire. The
dramatic and much-studied miniature of Alfonso II now opens the second quire of the
manuscript (see Figure 2.19). Having previously been cut out and moved to the first
quire, the miniature is now a paste-down on a separate folio that was added to the
opening of the second quire, because it had long ago lost its opening folio.177 The
mobility of this miniature within the manuscript suggests that the image of Alfonso II had
acquired a particular status as frontispiece or visual précis of the cartulary’s contents.
This underscores the importance of Alfonso II’s afterlife as main patron of the cathedral,
model for all future kings and donors in their behavior towards the see.
The presence of the miniature of Alfonso II at the start of the second quire
establishes a pattern in which the verso side of the opening folio of each quire contains a
full-page miniature (see manuscript description, Appendix 2.4). Thus the reader is
presented with a pantheon of kings, queens, and bishops: Ordoño I and Mummadonna
(third quire, fol. 8v—Figure 2.20), Alfonso III and Jimena (fourth quire, fol. 18v—Figure
2.21), Ordoño II and Jimena (sixth quire, fol. 26v—Figure 2.22), Fruela II and Jimena
(seventh quire, fol. 32v—Figure 2.23), and Bermudo II and Elvira (tenth quire, fol. 49v—
Figure 2.24). The exceptions to this pattern are the now-missing miniatures of Ramiro I
and of Fernando I and Sancha, the former evidently lost before the rebinding and
foliation of the book in the sixteenth century, and the latter afterwards. In addition, the
miniature of Alfonso V and his mother Elvira does not occupy a full page, and is located
within the tenth quire, along with the documents relating to Bermudo II (Figure 2.25).
Finally, the miniature of Alfonso VI from the fourteenth quire also went missing
sometime after the sixteenth century, although the codicology of this quire is complex.
Alfonso VI ends the sequence of kings and queens, while on the fifteenth quire
begin donations from the aristocracy. The miniatures that follow are not the full-page
royal portraits we see in the first part of the manuscript, but rather smaller-scale
depictions of bishops and popes. On folio 74v immediately following the missing
177
Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 22-25.
102
miniature of Alfonso VI is an image of Bishop Martin of Oviedo (Figure 2.26), and a few
folios later, on folio 78v we see a depiction of Bishop Pelayo and two canons (Figure
2.27). On folios 79v and 83r are representations of Popes Urban II (Figure 2.8) and
Paschal II (Figure 2.11), respectively. All of these remaining miniatures occur within the
fifteenth quire, which contains documents from the reign of Alfonso VI. Given the
density of the imagery in this quire, it is unfortunate that the miniature of Alfonso VI
himself does not survive.178
A final codicological problem has important bearing on the imagery and dating of
the manuscript. The final two quires, numbers seventeen and eighteen, contain
aristocratic donations from the reign of Queen Urraca (r. 1109-1126). Rodríguez Díaz
argues the bifolium in the middle of quire eighteen that contains documents explicitly
from Queen Urraca was added after the initial confection of the cartulary, inserted into
the middle of a regular quaternion containing aristocratic donations, making the senion
present today. She thus suggests that there was no miniature of Urraca planned for the
Liber Testamentorum, something which had previously been sustained.179 On this basis,
she proposes a dating for the manuscript towards the end of Alfonso VI’s lifetime,
sometime before his death in 1109, rather than during the reign of Queen Urraca.180
Paleographer Josefa Sanz comes to slightly different conclusions about the dating
of the codex.181 She divides the production of the book into three distinct phases. The
first phase saw the creation of the complex first quire, while the second phase
corresponds to the quires containing royal donations. She argues that these quires were all
178
Suggestive traces of the missing miniature survive on the facing folio 74r. Javier Fernández Conde and
Raquel Alonso Álvarez are working with the cathedral chapter and Patrimonio Nacional in Madrid to study
the Liber more closely, to see what can be ascertained about the nature of this missing miniature.
179
180
181
Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 33-39.
Rodríguez Díaz, “Estudio codicológico,” 84.
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico.”
103
executed by the same scribe, “hand A.”182 This second phase constitutes the core of the
manuscript’s argument for Oviedo’s primacy, and concludes with two papal bulls of
Urban II and Paschal II confirming the independence and possessions of the church of
Oviedo. These two bulls, it should be remembered, also conclude the Liber Cronicorum
in the Batres Codex.
Finally, Sanz’s third phase of the Liber Testamentorum corresponds to the final
four quires, fifteen through eighteen, of the manuscript. These quires contain aristocratic
donations and lack illuminations. Sanz argues that a different scribe, “hand B,” carried
out these quires, and also added material to the many blank spaces left by the first scribe
in the initial fourteen quires. Moreover, she identifies this scribe as the “Pelagius” who
copied a document dated to 1122 still in the cathedral archive in Oviedo. Although Sanz
does not mention it, it is important to observe that this document is a thirteenth-century
copy.183 This document contains the signatures of the scribe Pelayo and of Bishop
Pelayo, whose signature consists of an outstretched arm grasping a cross-like symbol. In
addition to the document that Sanz highlights, other documents also contain the
signatures of these two Pelayos (Figure 2.28).184 Finally, folio 99v of the Liber
Testamentorum contains the characteristic signatures of both the scribe Pelagius and
Bishop Pelayo, just as they are rendered in these documents (Figure 2.29).185
Sanz dates the first two phases of the production of the manuscript not to the
episcopacy of Pelayo, but rather to that of his predecessor, Martin I (1094-1101).186
182
183
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 135-36.
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 138. For the document, see ACO series B, folder 3, no. 3. Edited
by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 376-80.
184
ACO series A, folder 2, no. 14 and an unnumbered document, discovered recently: see García Leal,
“Addenda a la colección de documents.”
185
Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 346-48. Unfortunately, the archive does not preserve
the original document copied in the cartulary.
186
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 139.
104
Despite this, she maintains that the future bishop Pelayo acted as a notary who wrote
several documents in the late eleventh century, and suggests that he may well be the
“scribe A” of the Liber Testamentorum.187 She therefore dates the execution of the third
phase of the manuscript’s production to the period between 1098 and the 1130, that is,
between the time of Pelayo’s elevation to the rank of bishop and his exile following the
Council of Coyanza.188 Finally, she argues that the addition to the first quire—the text
about Lucus Asturum—can be dated to the mid-twelfth century, or the period when we
have documents attesting to Pelayo’s presence once again in Oviedo, from 1142 until his
death in 1153.189
Throughout her analysis, Sanz displays a keen interest in establishing concrete,
biographical links between Pelayo’s life and the production of the Liber Testamentorum.
She wishes to see the bishop’s hand in the creation of this manuscript. Such a desire is
understandable and, I would argue, encouraged by the rhetoric of transcription employed
throughout the book. The hand of Pelayo seems to appear before the reader in the
remarkable signature with the bishop’s arm, hand outstretched and holding a cross (see
Figures 2.28 and 2.29). The cathedral archive preserves some half-dozen documents
containing this characteristic signature.190 His signature stands out and seems to assert the
bishop’s individual agency and physical presence in the production of the manuscript.
The signature has become the arm, emphasizing the performative display of the acts of
191
donation, witness, writing, and blessing.
As we read in the beginning of the
manuscript, “Bishop Pelayo ordered this work to be made,” and here we see, quite
187
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 140. Fernández Conde dismissed this possibility in El Libro de
los Testamentos, 37, note 9.
188
189
190
191
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 142.
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 143.
ACO series A, folder 2, nos. 14, 15, and 17; series A, folder 3, nos. 1 and 6; series B, folder 3, no. 3.
On the bishop’s arm, see Hahn, Strange Beauty, 140.
105
literally, his hand at work.192 And yet, despite the reference to unmediated action,
Pelayo’s hands in both the Liber Testamentorum and the documents have been
transcribed from their original context. Their status as copies is crucial, for mediation is
at the heart of the Liber Testamentorum. The bishop’s arm thus comes to stand in not
only for the original actions that prompted the production of the document
commemorating them, but also for the act of transcription itself, the textual reproduction
193
of those actions.
On folio 78v appears a small miniature of a bishop, labeled “Pelagius Ovetensis
Ep[iscopus]” flanked by two prelates, labeled “ministri eius,” like ecclesiastical figures
that appear together with bishops depicted elsewhere in the manuscript (Figure 2.27).
This miniature accompanies a donation by Alfonso VI and Isabel to the Cathedral of
Oviedo which addresses Pelayo directly as a recipient of the donation.194 Pelayo stands in
the center of the composition, holding his baculus and making a gesture of blessing,
while the figure to his left holds an object that looks like the myriad testamenta depicted
in the royal miniatures. This textual object has been labeled, but the inscription is
illegible. Sanz suggests that the figure on the left of the bishop should be identified as the
scribe Pelagius whose notarial signature appears on folio 99v, and, moreover, that the text
he holds is none other than the Liber Testamentorum itself.195
Closer examination of the miniature complicates this reading somewhat. First, it
is unclear that the object is a codex rather than a document. Throughout the rest of the
manuscript, individual documents are presented a long rectangles, often labeled as
192
ACO MS 1, fol. IIIv. The heading to the text about the origins of the see of Lucus Austurum reads,
“PELAGIVS EPISCOPVS HOC OPVS FIERI IVSSIT.”
193
Similarly, Cynthia Hahn argues that the so-called body part reliquaries of the twelfth century cannot be
understood simply as representations of their contents, but rather act symbolically, often within specific
liturgical contexts. Hahn, “Voices of the Saints.”
194
195
See the transcription of this document by Sanz in Liber Testamentorum Ecclesiae Ovetensis, 601-02.
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 143.
106
“testamentum.” Codices, on the other hand, on all but one occasion are represented as
open books, in order to distinguish them visually from documents. On folio 32v, the
miniature depicting Fruela II and Jimena contains a cleric holding what appears to be a
book, but the object is not labeled, as it is in the miniature of Pelayo (Figure 2.23). The
second noteworthy aspect of the miniature is that while both of the clerics that
accompany Pelayo have their hands covered, the figure to the left places his hand directly
on the object. We see such covered hands elsewhere in the manuscript in scenes depicting
liturgical ceremonies, as on folio 26r (Figure 2.22). In addition, the priests Siderius and
Severus cover their hands in order to receive the privilege from Pope John in the
miniature on folio 5v (Figure 2.9). Throughout the rest of the manuscript, all of the
various testamenta are depicted quite clearly in the bare hands of their donors and
recipients. The miniature of Pelayo thus presents us visually with an interesting
conflation of the act of donation, hands placed directly on an object that looks like a
document, with a liturgical act of some kind, requiring the covering of hands. Sanz’s
reading of the image simplifies the complex, perhaps paraliturgical status of the act of
donation.
Pelayo appears here not in the self-aggrandizing pose of the maker of the
manuscript, as Joaquín Yarza has suggested, but rather as another in a long line of
bishops who receive royal largesse.196 This is the visual expression, I would argue, of the
literary depiction of Pelayo in the prologue of the Liber Cronicorum as the most recent
link in the chain of sources that he presents in his chronicle. This miniature, like the more
elaborate images of kings and queens in the rest of the manuscript, serves to recall and
reenact the original donation, as well as to represent Pelayo himself within this complex
network of exchange and commemoration. This reflexivity is part of the very process of
transcription elaborated throughout the manuscript.
The visual rhetoric of transcription appears not only in the miniatures, validating
signs and signatures discussed above, but also in the script itself. The attenuated, difficult
to decipher script—apparently unique to the Liber Testamentorum—has long attracted
196
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 229-30.
107
comment. Early modern erudites often had difficulties simply deciphering the
manuscript, and modern-day paleographers continue to debate how to classify this hybrid
of, in Ambrosio de Morales words, “gothic” and “common” scripts. Morales is referring
to the fundamental paleographic distinction between manuscripts written in a
characteristically Iberian Visigothic script and a Caroline script like that used in much of
western Europe. To modern, paleographically-trained eyes, his simple distinction seems
at best partial and naïve, creating an absolute division between forms of writing, between
an illegible past and a legible present. Such an overstated distinction has, however,
persisted. Scholars continue to debate the so-called purity of the script of the Liber
Testamentorum, searching for telltale signs of transpyrnenean influence in its letter forms
and ligatures, despite increasingly nuanced classifications of these two scripts that
emphasize continuities between them during the long period of scribal transformation in
the twelfth century. By the early twelfth century, Iberian scribes were confronted with
multiple options; a single script, if such a thing could ever be said to have existed on the
Iberian peninsula, certainly did not exist by that point.
However, on a semiotic level, Morales’ distinction remains useful. Despite the
persistence of Visigothic script throughout the twelfth century and its coexistence with
new forms of writing, the change in writing systems had the effect of gradually impeding
access to earlier documents.197 Episcopal sees took advantage of this confusion in order
to make claims about their antiquity and authority on the basis of documentation largely
mediated by cartularies produced throughout the twelfth century. In fact, much of what
we know of early medieval documents has been filtered through the lens of these later
cartularies.198 However, unlike other twelfth and thirteenth-century Iberian cartularies,
which transcribed documents in Caroline script, the documents of Oviedo’s Liber
Testamentorum perform antiquity by means of their use of Visigothic script. The decision
197
198
Rucquoi, “La invención de una memoria.”
See the comments of Rucquoi a propos of the documentation of Santiago de Compostela, “La
invención de una memoria,” 71, as well as those of Alfonso in “Judicial Rhetoric and Political
Legitimation,” 53.
108
on the part of the scribes of the Liber Testamentorum to use a recognizably Visigothic
script must be seen as a deliberate strategy to legitimize the authenticity and antiquity of
the documents transcribed within. Ambrosio de Morales, for one, was attuned to the
suggestion of venerable age implicit in the designation of a manuscript as “gothic,” and
his classification of the Liber Testamentorum among these ancient books suggests that
the manuscript’s performance of antiquity was convincing.
The strange script of the Liber Testamentorum contributes to the chronological
confusion surrounding the manuscript, as exemplified by continued debates about the
date of its production. Just as this script was chosen for its archaic aspect, the miniatures
likewise strive for an air of antiquity. This deliberate manipulation of chronology has
made it difficult for art historians to date these miniatures, or, indeed, to match the time
of their manufacture with that of the rest of the manuscript. For example, despite her
dating of the initial core of the manuscript—the first fourteen quires—to the period
between 1094 and 1101, Sanz prefers to date the miniatures to the 1120s, around the time
of the third phase of the manuscript’s production.199 In his art historical analysis, Yarza
concurs with this later dating for the miniatures, arguing on stylistic grounds that to date
them, along with the texts that they accompany, to circa 1100 is simply impossible. In the
absence of compelling manuscript comparanda, he cites as fundamental the comparison
between the opening miniature of Alfonso II in the manuscript and the fresco depicting
Fernando I and Sancha kneeling before the Crucifixion in the famous Pantheon of San
Isidoro in León (Figure 2.30).200
Like many of the royal portraits in the Liber Testamentorum, Fernando I and
Sancha appear at San Isidoro accompanied by an arms bearer and maidservant.201 As
Therese Martin observes, their position beneath the Crucifixion recalls the location of the
inscription recording their names on the famous ivory Cross of Fernando and Sancha,
199
200
201
Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio paleográfico,” 142.
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 170 and 217.
Williams established the identity of these kneeling donor figures in his “San Isidoro in León.”
109
donated to San Isidoro by the royal couple.202 As Martin makes clear, this fresco is of
particular importance within the complex iconography of the space’s decoration. If the
viewer stands where the royal couple is depicted, she sees the Apocalyptic scenes painted
in the vaults above, oriented towards her viewing perspective. Immediately above the
Crucifixion is a depiction of seven candelabra, identified by an inscription from the Book
of Revelation.203 These candelabra engage with the imagery of the Crucifixion and its
kneeling donors, standing in pictorially for the candles that would have been used in the
space. By contrast, the famous Christ in Majesty in the central vault is oriented to be seen
by viewers entering from the west, from the direction of the royal apartments. The figures
of the king and queen both in actual and pictorial form thus help orient and direct the
viewer’s experience of the space.204
It is clear that the importance of Fernando and Sancha as patrons of the space was
underscored early in the twelfth century, when the frescoes were painted. The matter of
precisely when in the twelfth century these frescoes were painted, however, has been the
subject of heated debate. Martin dates them to the first part of Queen Urraca’s reign,
around 1109, on the basis of the unusual appearance of St. George. George was the
patron saint of Aragón, the home of her second husband, Alfonso el Batallador. As is
well known, their marriage fell apart very quickly, and by 1113 they were locked in a
bitter struggle that would last for years.205 Martin also points to the presence of Eligius of
Noyon, goldsmith to the Merovingian kings, holding a chalice that recalls the one
donated by Urraca herself to San Isidoro. Rose Walker likewise interprets the space as a
memorial for Fernando and Sancha, but she identifies the patron as the Infanta Urraca
202
203
Martin, Queen as King, 143.
Revelation I, 13. The inscription reads, “[ET IN MEDIO SEPTEM CANDE]LABRORUM
[AUREORUM SIMILEM] FILIVM OMINIS [VESTITUM PODERE ET] PRE[CINCTUM] AD
MAM[ILL]A [Z]ONA AVREA,” “And in the midst of the seven laps, one like to a son of man, clothed
with a garment to the ankles and about the chest with a golden girdle.” Martin, Queen as King, 142.
204
205
Martin, Queen as King, 142-43.
Martin, Queen as King, 147.
110
(sister of Alfonso VI and daughter of Fernando and Sancha), rather than Queen Urraca
(daughter of Alfonso VI).206
Returning to the question of the chronological relationship between the
illuminations of the Liber Testamentorum and the frescoes of the Pantheon, Yarza argues
that the artist of the manuscript must have seen the frescoes, which leads him to conclude
that the Oviedo cartulary cannot be earlier than approximately 1110.207 Yarza assumes
that manuscript painting follows monumental painting, despite numerous examples of
artistic transmission moving from the miniature to the monumental.208 In fact, the
Pantheon itself provides an example of just such a relationship between manuscripts and
wall painting. The central image of Christ in a mandorla contains several tituli taken not
from the Book of Revelation itself, but rather from the Commentary of Beatus on the
Apocalypse. As Williams observed, the texts of these tituli are taken directly from the
Beatus manuscript commissioned by Fernando and Sancha.209 Thus, the twelfth-century
artist of the Pantheon must have seen those specific folios from the Beatus manuscript.
My purpose here is not to prove conclusively that the Liber Testamentorum’s
illuminations follow the Pantheon, or the Pantheon the Liber. I wish instead to point to
some of the methodological problems in our attempts to date this manuscript. The
miniatures are in something of a chronological quandary in the paleographic and
codicological context of the manuscript, as well as in relation to the admittedly scarce
comparanda. As has been discussed, Rodríguez Díaz dates the manuscript to the period
immediately before the death of Alfonso VI in 1109, while Sanz divides the production
of the manuscript into two distinct moments, the first fourteen quires sometime between
1094 and 1101, and the last quires between 1100 and 1130. To this second campaign
206
207
208
Walker, “The Wall Paintings.”
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 170.
The classic study is the relationship between the miniatures of the Cotton Genesis and the mosaics of
San Marco in Venice. Weitzmann and Kessler, The Cotton Genesis.
209
See his “León: Iconography of a Capital.”
111
Sanz adds the production of the miniatures, with which judgment Yarza seems to agree,
preferring to date them to the early 1120s. I agree with Rodríguez that the final two
quires are of fundamental importance for dating this manuscript and, indeed, for
understanding the purpose and function of the book as a whole. The partially
incorporated nature of the documents from the reign of Queen Urraca may point either to
a date for the completion of the manuscript at the start of the reign of Urraca, or at the
end of the reign of Alfonso VI.
210
Frustratingly, neither the miniature depicting Fernando
and Sancha nor that of Alfonso VI survive. These miniatures would have been among the
most important in the entire manuscript, for they depict the immediate ancestors of
Urraca herself. If we are to view the paintings of the Pantheon as, among other things, a
dynastic memorial, perhaps the Liber Testamentorum shares some of this memorial
function.
The task of remembering the dead was an integral part of sacred liturgy and
secular practice. Moreover, as Geary writes, “memory was often gender specific, with
women traditionally assigned a primary responsibility for the preservation of
memory.”211 As he points out, this tradition was increasingly contested by priests and
monks from the eleventh century onwards, but the specifically female model of
remembrance persisted. In the Liber Testamentorum, queens accompany kings in all of
the royal portraits, seeming to enjoy, as Yarza has pointed out, a notable protagonism.212 I
suggest we link their prominent visual presence to their memorial function. Just as the
miniatures themselves re-enact and recollect the actions described in the accompanying
documents, so, too, do these queens invite the reader to remember the individuals who
performed these pious acts of donation. The imagery is thus commemorative on multiple
levels.
210
Lucy Pick dates the manuscript to the reign of Queen Urraca: Pick, “Sacred Queens and Warrior
Kings,” 54.
211
212
Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, 21. See also van Houts, Memory and Gender, 65-92.
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 193.
112
Nowhere is this more explicit than in the depictions of Queens Mummadonna and
Elvira. Mummadonna is depicted on folio 8v, seated in the lower register of the
composition, in the precise center (Figure 2.20). Above her on either side are her
husband, Ordoño I (ca. 821-866), and Archbishop Seranus of Oviedo, who holds a
document labeled “Testamentum Ordonii Regis.” Mummadonna is framed by curtains
that have been drawn back to reveal the queen seated on a Solomonic throne, holding a
book open on her lap. The beginning of Psalm 50 is clearly legible: “Miserere mei Deus
secundum magnum.” This is one of the penitential psalms, used frequently in both the old
Spanish and Roman rites, particularly for the office of the dead. As Yarza points out, the
presence of this book points to the personal devotion of the queen, and perhaps her
possession of a book of psalms like that owned by Queen Sancha. It also points to a
specific liturgical context of the remembrance of the dead.213
Later in the manuscript, on folio 49v, we see another particularly striking image
of a queen (Figure 2.24). Like Mummadonna, Queen Elvira is depicted with an open
book. This time, the text corresponds to another of the penitential psalms, number 142:
“D(omi)ne exaudi oratione(m).” As in the miniature of Mummadonna discussed above,
Elvira is enthroned in the lower register of the composition, framed by open curtains. A
maidservant kneels before here, an open book in her hands. The queen gestures towards
the book with one hand, holding the other hand up. Yarza again points to the context of
female private devotion and the possession of psalters, but I suggest that this image
belongs less to the realm of private devotion than to that of public performance.214
Relegating women’s participation to the private domestic sphere does not do justice to
the complex reality of their engagement in medieval society, nor does it adequately
215
explain the imagery we see in the manuscript.
213
214
215
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 176-83.
Yarza Luaces, “Las miniaturas,” 193.
On the sacred and political role of the queens depicted in the Liber Testamentorum, see Pick, “Sacred
Queens and Warrior Kings.”
113
Building on Yarza’s reading, I argue that these miniatures represent a complex
interaction of action and remembrance, distributed among the three protagonists of the
image: bishop, queen, and king. The triangular composition formed by these three figures
reinforces the role that each plays in this economy of exchange, perpetually renewed in
the viewer’s memory by the fact of representation itself. This act of exchange is
reinforced by the visual presence of texts in the form of books and documents, objects
that are shown very clearly changing hands. In the miniature of Bermudo II and Elvira,
for example, the bishop holds an object labeled “Testamentum,” which the king reaches
out to offer him, his hand still touching it. The interaction of gestures and texts help to
activate the image, keeping the memory of the deeds depicted alive.
Memorial practice does not preclude the possibility of invention. In fact, as we
have seen, memory and invention work together in the pages of the Liber
Testamentorum. This is particularly clear in the case of Mummadonna, who, as I have
argued, plays a crucial role in the miniature, helping to memorialize the actions depicted
within. As Fernández Conde has pointed out in his analysis of the donation
accompanying this miniature, Mummadonna’s name does not appear in any documents
from the reign of Ordoño I, and her presence is not attested to by any contemporary
sources. She does, however, show up in Pelayo’s version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III,
but her name is not mentioned in either the Rotense or ad Sebastian versions of the
chronicle.216 Mummadonna’s presence in this document and accompanying miniature
may therefore be as much of a product of Pelagian invention as the other diplomatic
anachronisms pointed out by Fernández Conde.217 But why should Pelayo feel the need to
invent—or at the very least rediscover—this queen? Her presence in the miniature
continues the pattern of royal pairings we have seen thus far, but in addition to this more
practical explanation, her presence also speaks to the role she plays in the preservation of
memory. Her participation in the scene is crucial, for she forms part of the circuit of
exchange and commemoration that we see in the miniature.
216
217
Prelog, ed., Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 103. See BN MS 1513, fol. 51v.
Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 146.
114
As this example shows, analysis of this manuscript requires us to move beyond
tired debates about Pelayo’s status as a forger. We must instead critically examine the
function and context of each of his controversial interventions in this historical record. It
is in this context that I wish to return to some of the most infamous inventions in the
Liber Testamentorum, the documents relating to the metropolitan status of Oviedo and to
the ecumenical councils supposedly held there in the early Middle Ages. These
documents occur at the very beginning of the manuscript, in the second quire. On folios
5v-6r appear two letters from Pope John VIII to the Asturian king Alfonso II, one of
which confirms Oviedo’s metropolitan status (Figure 2.9).218 This papal privilege
constituted one of the weightiest testimonies in the Liber Testamentorum for Oviedo’s
exemption from the control of other Iberian dioceses. Its strategic placement early in the
manuscript as well as the multiple graphic and pictorial devices used to authenticate it
underscore its fundamental importance in Pelayo’s historiographic project. This early
pope serves as a model for the twelfth-century popes Urban II and Paschal II, whose
letters granting Oviedo exemption from control by other dioceses conclude the Liber
Cronicorum. Their actions are constructed to seem as though they are echoing that of
their predecessor, and the papal documents thus neatly frame Pelayo’s attempt to shore
up Oviedo’s autonomy and power.
We see this framing action at work in the miniatures of the Liber Testamentorum.
Images of popes and bishops appear in both the second and fifteenth quires, the latter
being, as has been argued on codicological and paleographic grounds, originally
conceived as the final quire of the manuscript before the addition of aristocratic
218
The first letter concludes, “Ideoque quia uestre notitie fama per hos fratres limina apostolorum
lustrantes, per Seuerum presbiterum et Siderium necne presbiterum, nobis miro odore bonitatis est reuelata,
paterna uos adhortatione commoneo inceptis bonis operibus, gratia Dei duce, perseuerare, quatenus copiosa
uos beati Petri protectoris uestri et nostra protegat benedictio et quotienscumque, filii karissimi, ad nos
uenire quilibet uestrum aut transmittere uoluerit, tota cordis exultatione et animi gaudio de ultimis Galletie
finibus, cui uos Dominus preter me rectores restituit, tamquam iure filios nostros uos colligemus et ecclesie
Ouetensi quam uestro consensu et assidua petitione metropolitanam constituimus, omnes uos subditos esse
mandamus.” ACO MS 1, fol. 5v-6r. The transcription is from Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum
Ovetensis, 471.
115
donations. The second miniature in the manuscript is a depiction of a cleric, labeled
“Archbishop Adulfus,” on folio 3v (Figure 2.31). Next comes a miniature depicting John
VIII flanked by the priests Siderius and Severus, which prefaces the first papal letter (see
Figure 2.9). A large seal depicting St. Peter holding a key hangs from the document,
clearly labeled “privilegium,” that the pope places into the covered hands of Severus. The
letter concludes with the papal rota and monogram, as was common practice in the papal
chancery. These pictorial and graphic devices, clearly intended to enhance the
authenticity of the papal letters, are the very elements that to modern eyes appear most
flagrantly anachronistic.
The rota and monogram do not appear in papal documents until the mid-eleventh
century pontificate of Leo IX, while the motto inscribed in the circular frame of the
rota—“verbo Domini coeli firmati sunt”—is that of the early twelfth-century Paschal II.
The iconography of the seal is deliberately archaizing, for its imagery resembles that
found on earlier eleventh-century seals rather than the paired busts of Peter and Paul
familiar from the pontificate of Paschal II onwards.219 These contradictory authenticating
devices work together to validate the foundational privilege of the Cathedral of Oviedo.
The papal letter’s authenticity is validated as much by the archaic iconography of the seal
as by the up-to-date rota and monogram.
Another equally problematic document asserting Oviedo’s metropolitan status
from this second quire is an account of the so-called first Council of Oviedo, which
immediately precedes the papal letters just discussed (Figure 2.31). At this putative
council, the bishops of Coimbra, Braga, Tuy, Iria, Lugo, Astorga, León, Palencia, and
Oca assembled in order to elect Oviedo as their metropolitan see.220 This vision of early
219
This is discussed by Sanz Fuentes, “Estudio Paleográfico,” 131. See also Fernández Conde, El Libro de
los Testamentos, 125-29.
220
The opening paragraph makes this clear: “Summi dispositoris prouidentia permittente, plerisque
Hispaniensium a gentilibus subuersis urbibus, mole peccaminum exigente, gloriossimi regis Adefonsi Casti
et Adulfi Ouetensis episcopi sollerti consideratione, nec non piissimi Francorum principis Karoli consilio,
quem equidem missa legatione, super hoc conuenimus negotio nos hic subscripti pontifices, Teodemirus
Colimbriensis, Argimundus Bragarensis, Didacus Tudensis, Theodesindus Iriensis, Uuimaredus Lucensis,
116
medieval episcopal convivencia contrasts sharply with the heated territorial disputes
between Oviedo and many of the above-listed dioceses during the twelfth century,
prompting early modern and contemporary scholars from Mariana and Flórez to
Fernández Conde and Fletcher to identify the fabulating hand of Pelayo in its creation.221
Significantly, this is the first text in the manuscript to employ an extensive list of
names and signatures, giving it an appearance characteristic of most of the documents of
the Liber Testamentorum. There are signatures for each of the bishops in attendance, as
well as King Alfonso II and Archbishop Adulfus of Oviedo, depicted in a previous
miniature. Even though all of these bishops seem to be twelfth-century inventions, their
signatures—signs of their physical presence—nonetheless appear rendered with the detail
characteristic of all the signatures in the Liber Testamentorum.222 These signatures give
the document the appearance of authenticity, for they are closely modeled on the early
medieval signatures preserved in extant documents. These putative bishops are not
attested to in any other documentation, but the signatures from a donation made by
Alfonso III in 875 preserved in the archives of the Cathedral of León offer some
suggestive analogs (Figure 2.32).
The signature at the head of the list of signatories of the fabricated first Council of
Oviedo is that of Alfonso II, while Alfonso III’s signature appears first on his donation.
The similarity between these two Alfonsine signatures is immediately apparent. In fact,
the signatures for kings Alfonso II, III, V, and VI all share this characteristic form. The
signature beneath Alfonso III’s is that of Ordoño II, his son, and kings Ordoño I and III
likewise share the same form. Also similar is the signature of Fruela II, which we see
Gomellus Astoricensis, Uincencius Legionensis, Habundantius Palentinus et Iohannes Occensis, rege
presente et uniuersali Hispaniensium concilio nobis fauente, Ouetensem urbem metropolitanam eligimus
sedem.” ACO MS 1, fol. 3v. Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 465.
221
Flórez refers to the views of Mariana and other scholars in his characterization of the “apocryphal acts
of an Ovetense Council,” España Sagrada, vol. 4, 210. For more modern views, see Fernández Conde, El
Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37, and Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 73.
222
Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 130-37.
117
beneath that of his brother Ordoño II.223 The final royal signature on the Leonese
donation is that of Ramiro II, son of Ordoño II. As this plethora of royal signatures
suggests, this document was successively confirmed by subsequent kings in order, as
Floriano points out, “to renew its juridical validity.”224
The signatures’ similarities graphically convey the reliance of each king on his
predecessor to establish his legitimacy. Likewise, in the context of the Liber
Testamentorum, legitimacy is established by the faithful transcription of documents. It is
as if there are many hands present: those who donate, confirm, witness, and transcribe.
These documents thus stage not only the juridical performance of confirming, swearing
and testifying, but also the scribal performance of transcription.
Even though there were some contexts in which literate, educated individuals
might make their own signatures, we must also read signatures as graphic transcriptions
of gestures, particularly the touching of documents in order to swear to their truth and
authenticity.225 The authenticity of a signature did not derive from its status as an
autograph production—the conception with which we are familiar today—but rather from
its participation in the complex intersection of actions and words, spoken, written, and
witnessed. The successive royal hands that appear on the Leonese document repeatedly
validate its contents, just as the scribal hands of the Liber Testamentorum renew the
power and efficacy of their documentary sources by transcribing them. In so doing, the
scribes of the Liber Testamentorum re-enact these validating gestures, re-authenticating
them in manuscript copies.
The miniatures of the Liber Testamentorum represent pictorially this process of
validation. We see royal donors, their testaments, the bishops who receive them, and the
individuals who witness these transactions. On folio 18v, Alfonso III sits enthroned in the
223
224
225
Floriano Cumbreño, Curso general de paleografía, 404-405.
Floriano, Diplomática española del periodo astur, 105.
Ostolaza, “La validación en los documentos,” 459. For a broader discussion, see Clanchy, From
Memory to Written Record.
118
center of the composition, flanked to his right and left by Queen Jimena and Bishop
Gomelus of Oviedo (Figure 2.21). The king and queen hold a document labeled
“testamentum,” which they hand to the bishop, who makes a gesture of blessing. A
tonsured figure identified as his minister holds an open codex labeled “textum,” and
beneath him stands another tonsured figure with a closed book who gestures upwards
towards the scene of royal donation. Importantly, each of these figures is labeled, as is the
composition as a whole. The inscription beneath the miniature employs the same display
capitals that signal the beginning of each of the testamenta, underscoring the
documentary status of the image. The various forms of texts we see here—framed and
unframed inscriptions, documents and books both open and closed—form an open
circuit, suggesting that the movement between charter and cartulary—document and
codex—is not linear, but rather circular. The manuscript cartulary is a supplement to, not
a substitute for, other documentary forms.
This is no static royal portrait. The kings and queens of the Asturian past actively
witness the documents copied into the cartulary, attesting to their truth by re-enacting
their donations in the miniatures. Their hands gesture towards texts, touching, blessing,
and acclaiming them as they pass from donor to recipient. Text and action are
intertwined, and the pictorial re-enactment of the act of donation reinforces the doubling
of original and copy we see in the process of transcription, even as the scribal
performance of transcription re-animates the performance of donation in the miniatures.
It is in this reciprocal interaction of original and copy, performance and text, that truth
and authority reside in the Liber Testamentorum.
*
*
*
In this chapter, I have shown how the works of Pelayo engage with and construct
the Asturian past in both text and image. The locus for this engagement is the space of the
treasury itself, which would have contained manuscripts, documents, and the memory of
monarchs and bishops past. Indeed, I would argue that the act of historiographic
compilation is akin to the act of pious collection of relics in the treasury itself. Both
processes have a similar cumulative logic, and following the conversation created
between and among texts and objects is more important than isolating these fragments
119
and studying them each on their own. Modern editorial practices turn away from the
complex interconnections and interpolations of medieval texts, preferring to break the
compilation down into its constituent parts. I have argued that such a method is not
productive in the case of the Pelagian corpus, showing how the texts and images of both
chronicle and cartulary work together to visualize the treasury and its most precious
possessions, the two crosses and the Arca Santa. I now turn to look more closely at these
reliquaries, particularly the Arca Santa, so clearly a cornerstone of Pelayo’s
historiographic project.
120
Chapter 3 Framing the Past: Relics and Reliquaries in the Cámara
Santa
The physical, historical, and spiritual reality of the Arca Santa shapes not only the
Pelagian corpus, but also the space of the Cámara Santa itself. As I argued in the first
chapter, the space of the Cámara Santa became the focus of pilgrimage beginning in the
late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Pilgrims came to the Cámara Santa to see its precious
collection of relics, many of which were contained in the Arca Santa. In this chapter, I
focus on the Arca Santa as the centerpiece of the reliquary complex of the Cámara Santa.
Sealed in a glass case and locked behind a metal grille, the Arca Santa is perhaps
even more impenetrable and inaccessible today than it was to medieval pilgrims. The
Arca now has the status of art historical relic, and more attention is given to its decorated
silver revetment than to the relics that were housed within and around it before its violent
destruction in 1934. This focus on the Arca’s visible surfaces is not merely a
contemporary rereading of the medieval reliquary, but rather speaks to a dynamic tension
between concealment and display that characterizes the cult of the Arca Santa throughout
the medieval and early modern periods. Medieval accounts of the reliquary represent
efforts to “open” the Arca to readers and viewers—to divulge its sacred contents and at
the same time maintain the integrity and inviolability of the reliquary.
The narrative elaboration and divulgation of the Arca’s contents contrasts sharply
to the physical impermeability and opacity of the box itself. As Gia Toussaint has argued,
there was an important shift during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries towards increased
visibility of relics within their reliquary containers.
226
Toussaint’s argument ambitiously
plots major points of change within a Europe-wide context, and I argue that we must
locate the production of the silver-revetted reliquary that we know now as the Arca Santa
during the transitional period of the late eleventh century, when the sealed and opaque
container began to open up and reveal its contents to viewers. The later medieval
liturgical and devotional practices associated with the Arca and its sacred contents can
226
Toussaint, “Die Sichtbarkeit.”
121
thus be interpreted within the general context of increased awareness and anxiety around
the issues of visibility and sacrality.
Heretofore, the issue of the dating of the Arca Santa—and the status of Alfonso
VI (r. 1065-1109) as its patron—has dominated discussions of the reliquary. The Arca
has traditionally been dated to the year 1075, when Alfonso VI and his court opened the
reliquary and inventoried its sacred contents. As Julie Harris has pointed out, this date
was interpolated by Manuel Gómez Moreno in his transcription of the inscription on the
lid of the Arca Santa; in other words, the inscription does not include the date of 1075,
for that section is too badly damaged to read, and has been damaged since at least the
227
sixteenth century.
I revisit the contentious debates surrounding the origins and
chronology of the Arca not in order to resolve them, but rather to think about what the
persistent temporal instability of the Arca Santa and the indeterminacy of its contents
accomplish in the context of the Cámara Santa. As tempting as it is to see the Arca Santa
as a Pelagian forgery of the twelfth century, as Harris characterizes it, I argue that the
silver reliquary container and the emergence of the cult surrounding it date to the late
eleventh century. I wish to recover an understanding of the Arca Santa as a cult object
and site of multiple temporalities, activated by a series of textual, material, and
performative frames that surround it.
In what follows, I will consider a series of textual attempts to “open” the Arca
Santa, pointing to the many problems these texts pose for the dating and interpretation of
the reliquary. I begin with the Arca itself, its inscriptions and iconography, and then turn
to the documents recounting the famous opening of the Arca Santa by Alfonso VI. It is,
of course, Bishop Pelayo who provides us with the greatest detail about the origins of the
Arca. I argue that the text long considered the oldest textual witness to the cult of the
relics of the Arca Santa—a description of the origins and contents of the Arca that was
inserted in an illuminated Apocalypse manuscript of the ninth century—dates to the early
227
Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 87.
122
twelfth century, and shows a clear debt to Bishop Pelayo’s description of the Arca.
228
Following the dissemination of these Pelagian accounts of the Arca Santa, there is textual
evidence that the cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa had begun to attract substantial
numbers of pilgrims by the late twelfth century. The last text I consider, a richly detailed
account of pilgrimage to the Cámara Santa dated to the last quarter of the twelfth century,
returns us to the metonymic power of the Arca Santa as a cult object, at once both
reliquary and relic.
229
In addition to this collection of texts, I also consider a group of reliquaries
surrounding the Arca Santa that were either removed from the larger collection inside the
Arca itself, or associated with it in the context of the Cámara Santa. Moving
chronologically from the eleventh century, I trace a pattern of gradual dispersal and
multiplication of the relics within the Arca as individual relics were removed from the
collection and given their own shrines. By the fourteenth century, an inventory of the
reliquaries inside the Cámara Santa reads like the twelfth-century lists of the Arca’s
contents. I underscore the importance of episcopal agency in the production of many of
these shrines, such as the casket of Arias, the reliquary diptych of Gundisalvus, and the
casket of St. Eulalia. Finally, I consider the vexed question of the use of objects of
Islamic manufacture in Christian church treasuries, stepping away from overly
ideological interpretations of these objects and focusing instead on their liturgical use.
Unfortunately, the liturgical use of the space of the Cámara Santa during the
Middle Ages is poorly understood. I revisit the vexed historiographic fortunes of the
eleventh-century liturgical reform in the Iberian peninsula, placing the Arca Santa and the
relics of the Cámara Santa within the complex and highly political world of reform. It is
not until the fourteenth century that we get any specific descriptions of the liturgical use
of the Cámara Santa itself. The Feast of the Relics, instituted by Bishop Gutierre de
228
Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v-3r. Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien
catalogue.”
229
Bibliothèque de Cambrai MS 800, fol. 68r-73v and formerly Cheltenham, Library of Thomas Phillipps
MS 299, fol. 1r-16r. Edited by Kohler, “Translation de reliques.”
123
Toledo (r. 1377-1389), established the annual commemoration of the invention of the
230
relics by Alfonso VI, and included an anniversary mass for the soul of the king.
A
more elaborate version of the liturgy can be found in the earliest printed breviary for
231
Oviedo use, dated to 1556.
This text expands upon the symbolism implicit in earlier
medieval descriptions of the royal patrons of the Cámara Santa and its relics as
Solomonic, with the Arca as a new Ark of the Covenant. This Counter-Reformation
context also provides us with the earliest visual depiction of the foundational moment in
the history of the Cámara Santa: a set of carved and painted wooden doors depicting the
opening of the Arca Santa by Alfonso VI in the presence of the site’s early medieval
patron, Alfonso II. In conclusion, I explore how this sixteenth-century representation
resonates with the wide range of texts and objects considered over the course of this
chapter.
A Collection of Texts: Inventorying the Arca Santa
Oviedo’s holy ark takes the form of a large box made of black oak measuring
some 1.19 meters in length, 0.93 meters in width, and 0.73 meters in height (Figure 3.1).
It is covered on all four sides and on its lid by gilded silver panels. The lid presents
incised decoration highlighted with niello, while the four sides have been decorated using
the repoussé technique, literally “pushing out” the imagery from behind the surface of the
metal. The Arca is covered with narrative figural imagery on all but its back, which has a
decorative pattern stamped into the metal. The box contains a veritable compendium of
relics of Christ, the Virgin, and numerous saints, prophets, and apostles, whose presence
is represented epigraphically by the long inscription on the lid, also rendered in repoussé
(Figure 3.2).
Let the whole assembly of the Catholic people deserving of God know what
revered relics are contained within the most precious sides of this present ark;
230
ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol. 11v-12r; Libro Becerro, fol. 42r-45v; Kalendas III, fol.
17v. Edited by Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.
231
Biblioteca Central de la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 36r-39r.
124
that is, of the large piece of the most precious wood, or of the cross of the
Lord; of his garment, that was bestowed by lot; of the delectable bread, which
was used at the supper; of the sepulcher of the Lord; and of his shroud; and of
his most holy blood; of the holy ground, on which he trod with his holy
footsteps; of the garments of the Virgin Mary, his mother; of her milk, which
is most wondrous. And together with these are certain excellent relics of
saints, whose names, so far as we were able, we write below; that is: of St.
Peter, of St. Thomas, of St. Bartholomew, of the bones of the prophets, and of
all of the apostles, and of many other saints, whose names are known only to
the wisdom of God. For all of these relics, the eminent King Alfonso, blessed
with humble devotion, made this receptacle distinguished inside by the
illustrious relics of the saints, adorned outside with not worthless works of
art, through which, after his life, may he be worthy of the company of those
saints in the heavens; at least let him be aided by the prayers of this same
company. Indeed, the entire province learned of these salvation-bringing and
worthy gifts, in the era, without doubt, 1113 [1075],
232
by the hand and
industry of the clerics and bishops, for which we meet with the abovementioned prince Alfonso, together with his most joyous sister, the said
Urraca by name, to whom may the Redeemer of all concede indulgence and
pardon for their sins through these most holy relics of the apostles and
martyrs; that is, of saints Justus and Pastor, of Adrian and Natalia, of Cosmos
and Damian, of Julia, of Verisimo and Maximo, of Germanus, of Baudilio, of
Pantaleon, of Cyprian and Eulalia, of Sebastian, of Cucufatus, of Felix, of
Sulpicius.
232
233
The double date refers to first the Spanish era, and then the Christian era. On the Iberian peninsula, the
date of Christ’s birth was calculated to have taken place in 38 BC, and so we must add 38 to any date given
to get the Christian era. See Roth, “Calendar,” Medieval Iberia, 190.
233
Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 61, and Gómez Moreno, “El Arca Santa de
Oviedo,” 129-30. For the full Latin text, see Appendix 3.1.
125
The inscription occupies four lines on the edges of each of the four sides of the
lid, beginning in the innermost line of text on the front of the Arca, and moving to the
right side, and so on, around the reliquary. To read the inscription in its entirety, the
viewer must move around the Arca four times. As Francesca Español points out, the
practice known as “going in circles around the saint” (dar vueltas al santo) is widely
attested to throughout the Middle Ages, in Iberia and elsewhere. Pilgrims would literally
234
walk around the saint’s shrine repeatedly.
The arrangement of the Arca Santa’s
inscription seems to encourage this circular movement of viewers, suggesting that at least
some devotees were permitted to approach the reliquary.
The Arca’s inscription is literally punctuated on its four corners by rounded pieces
of rock crystal, only two of which remain. This punctuation seems to serve no clear
textual purpose, suggesting that its significance is largely visual. During the Middle
Ages, rock crystal possessed a rich symbolic set of meanings, revolving around water,
light, and clarity. Hahn has argued that the presence of rock crystal, much of which is of
Islamic manufacture, on reliquaries was a way to focus the eye and the mind on the
reliquary, a means by which to meditate more deeply on its spiritual meaning.
235
Within
an Islamic context, Avinoam Shalem has argued that rock crystal was particularly
associated with water and light, and traces the elaboration of these ideas in a small group
236
of rock crystal lamps, in which these meanings come together.
The presence of these
rock crystal punctuation marks on the inscribed lid of the Arca Santa combines these rich
meanings, functioning as symbolic points of light as they help focus the mind of the
viewer on the reliquary and its inscription.
Deciphering the inscription is far from easy because it has been badly damaged
since at least the sixteenth century, when Ambrosio de Morales made the first
234
Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 258-64. See also Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and
Interactivity,” 27-28.
235
236
Hahn, Strange Beauty, 216-17 and 233.
Shalem, ”Fountains of Light.”
126
transcription of the text. Perfect legibility, however, is not necessary in order to create
meaning. The Arca uses multiple visual strategies to create and convey meaning to
viewers. In addition to the repoussé inscription, the lid is heavily decorated, consisting of
five silver panels incised and decorated with niello. The distinction between the
techniques used on the sides and on the lid, in particular the notable flatness of the lid’s
surface, suggests that the lid may have been created with the liturgical use of the object in
237
mind.
We will return to the vexed question of the liturgical use of the space of the
Cámara Santa, and of the Arca Santa in particular.
The large central panel on the lid depicts the Crucifixion, Christ flanked by
Longinus and the Virgin on the right, and the Stephaton and John the Evangelist on the
left (Figure 3.3). Above the arms of the cross are personifications of the sun and the
moon mourning the death of Christ, framed within decorative roundels rather like clipei.
Each of these figures has been labeled with small, incised inscriptions, paleographically
very similar to the repoussé inscription. The figure of Christ is labeled on the vertical arm
of the cross above his head as “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”
238
This central
silver panel has been attached to the wooden lid around the edges with a series of small
silver nails. In a striking literal gesture, the figure of Christ has been literally nailed to the
Cross, as real nails affix his hands and feet to the Cross as they affix the silver panel to
the wooden box. These nails are consistent with the rest of the nails used to affix the
silver panels of the revetment to the wooden box, and appear in photographs both before
and after the reconstruction of the Arca following the explosion of 1934, suggesting that
they are contemporaneous with the manufacture of the reliquary revetment. Moreover,
blood is clearly shown flowing from the wounds in Christ’s right hand, located precisely
where the nails affix the panel to the box. This detail materializes the metaphor of the
representation, recalling the miracle of transubstantiation that makes literal the blood and
body of Christ on the altar.
237
238
Rose Walker makes a similar suggestion. Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 398-99.
For the complete transcription of these inscriptions, see Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de
Asturias, 63.
127
Flanking the central panel with the Crucifixion are smaller depictions of the
crucifixion of the two thieves, Dismas and Gestas. Atop these scenes are another pair of
silver panels depicting angels holding censers. To Christ’s right is Dismas, the good thief,
who is tortured by two club-wielding figures (Figure 3.4). Above, two angels are there to
collect his soul (Figure 3.5). A similar composition is repeated for the bad thief, Gestas,
to Christ’s left, except that, instead of angels, a pair of devils await his soul (Figure 3.6).
In another telling detail, the crosses of the two thieves have been rooted in the ground,
while the base of Christ’s cross extends beyond the frame of the panel, as though rooted
in the Arca itself. Given the nature of the Arca’s contents, many of which relate to the
Crucifixion and Holy Land, this visual detail transforms the Arca into the holy ground of
Golgotha itself, where the actual Crucifixion as well as its ritual recollection takes place.
Around three sides of the Arca run a series of figural panels in repoussé, some of
which have clear narrative content. On the front is a large Maiestas Domini, consisting of
Christ enthroned in a mandorla, supported by four angels (Figure 3.7). Christ is flanked
by the twelve apostles, in two rows of three columns. To Christ’s right, on the top row
moving left to right, are Paul, Peter, and John. On the bottom row, left to right, are
Simon, Thaddeus, and Thomas. On Christ’s left, the top row depicts James the Greater,
Andrew, and James the Lesser. On the bottom row are Philip, Bartholomew, and
Matthew. The apostles are labeled by small repoussé inscriptions around the heads of
each figure. Each apostle is framed by columns and semi-circular arches, creating a twostorey arcade across the front of the Arca that is interrupted by the central Maiestas
Domini. This imagery visually confirms the apostolic origins of the Arca Santa, as well
as its contents, which include relics of the apostles.
As discussed in chapter two, the imagery of the front of the Arca appears in the
opening miniature of Pelayo’s Liber Testamentorum. The composition of the upper
register—a Maiestas Domini surrounded by the twelve apostles—is very similar to that of
the front of the reliquary (see Figure 2.19). To my mind, the miniature in the cartulary is
making a deliberate reference to the Arca Santa in its architectural setting, as the image
also contains depictions of Mary and St. Michael, as we saw in the second chapter. The
spatial and implicitly architectural aspect of this miniature, and the front of the Arca
Santa itself, is underscored by the resonance between the composition of the Maiestas
128
Domini surrounded by apostles enclosed under arches in Oviedo and in some of the early
carved lintels of early Romanesque Cataluña, such as Sant Genís de Fontanes and Sant
239
Andreu de Sureda.
The spatial and architectural references in the miniature must thus
be interpreted as visual representations of the actual space of the Cámara Santa and its
contents, as well as to the institution as a whole. The Arca Santa was not elaborated on
the basis of the miniature, but rather the reverse. The prominence given to the
representation of the reliquary within the manuscript suggests the desire on the part of
Pelayo to enhance the cult of its relics and encourage pilgrimage and pious donations,
and we shall look in more depth at the central role played by the narrative of the Arca
within the Pelagian corpus as a whole.
We see the apostles again on the right side of the Arca (Figure 3.8). The upper
register contains a depiction of the Ascension of Christ, who stands in a mandorla and is
flanked by two angels, followed by St. Michael fighting the dragon. Beneath these scenes
are eight of the apostles: John, Peter, James, Andrew, Philip, Matthew, Bartholomew, and
Thomas. The left side of the Arca contains two registers of Infancy narratives (Figure
3.9). Starting on the upper register at the right and moving counterclockwise, we see the
Annunciation, followed by the Annunciation to the Shepherds and the Visitation. Below
these three scenes are the Nativity on the left, and the Flight into Egypt on the right. As
Harris pointed out, the scenes of the Annunciation and the Flight into Egypt contain a
mysterious additional female figure, labeled “ANNA,” whom she interpreted as Anne,
the mother of the Virgin.
240
Walker has recently identified this figure as Hannah, mother
of Samuel, and connected her presence to the Annunciation because of the typological
relationship between Hannah, childless until the miraculous birth of her son, and the
241
Virgin Mary herself.
239
In addition to providing a persuasive iconographical rationale for
The comparison is even more apt is we take into account Watson’s argument that the floral border
around both lintels was meant to evoke kufic script. Watson, “The Kufic Inscription,” 23.
240
241
Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 91.
Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 400-01.
129
the presence of this figure in the scene of the Flight into Egypt, Walker’s identification
casts doubt on Harris’s argument to re-date the Arca Santa to the early twelfth century on
the basis of the chronology of the cult of St. Anne on the Iberian Peninsula.
Walker pushes her argument further, claiming that the narrative panels on the
Arca Santa speak to the biography of King Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) himself, putative
patron of the reliquary. For her, the Arca was a personal gift of the king to the Cathedral
of Oviedo “in thanksgiving for his reclaimed kingdom” after a period of exile in Muslim242
controlled Toledo.
This biographical and iconographical interpretation does not, I
think, ultimately account for the relationship between the iconography and contents of the
Arca Santa. Missing in Walker’s analysis is a consideration of the reliquary function of
the Arca, and she focuses exclusively on the narrative iconography of its silver
revetment. While I would argue that much of the imagery on the Arca speaks directly to
its voluminous contents, the correspondence is not exact. Like the inscriptions, the
imagery serves an authenticating function, recalling the biblical places, people, and
events whose relics are inside the Arca. This understanding of the relationship between
the exterior iconography and the interior contents emphasizes the metaphorical nature of
the reliquary, its ability to resonate with its sacred contents, but never represent them
243
entirely.
The very form of the Arca Santa, a large sealed box, evokes the both an altar and
a tomb, appropriate given the use of relics in the consecration of altars, and the nature of
reliquaries themselves as a sort of tomb for the saints. Indeed, given the inscription’s
reference to items from Christ’s tomb (part of his shroud and sepulcher), the Arca also
evokes the tomb of Christ, represented in the later twelfth-century sculpture of the
Cámara Santa as a an empty rectangular box, elevated on four short columns (see Figure
4.10). In this context, the presence of the rock crystal in the four corners of the Arca
resonates with the literal and metaphorical light that was understood to emanate from
242
243
Walker, “Becoming Alfonso VI,” 409.
This is similar to Hahn’s argument about the metaphorical meaning of shaped reliquaries. See Hahn,
Strange Beauty, 109-10 and 136.
130
reliquaries, emanating from the jeweled and reflective surface of the object itself, as well
244
as from the holy bones within it, referred to in the fourth century by Paulinus of Nola.
Moreover, the Maiestas Domini iconography of the front of the Arca, which frequently
adorns altar frontals, also alludes to the status of the Arca as a sort of reliquary altar, even
if it is unclear that it ever explicitly functioned as such.
The question of legibility of both imagery and inscriptions is particularly vexed in
the case of the bands of what appear to be kufic writing around the edges of each side of
the front of the box (see Figure 3.7). Gómez Moreno claimed that the inscription
contained “common Arabic praises,” including “the blessing of God.”
245
Since Gómez
Moreno, scholars have been more hesitant to claim that the kufic inscription on the Arca
is, in fact, legible Arabic. The inscription is most often characterized as “pseudo-kufic,” a
problematic epigraphic category in which Arabic script is to be “read” purely as a
246
decorative device, without semantic meaning.
however, in order to transmit meaning.
247
Writing does not need to be legible,
Writing can have both semantic and aesthetic
meaning, and the two are far from mutually exclusive.
248
In the case of the Arca Santa,
the kufic inscription is analogous to the Latin inscription on the lid in both location and
function. The Arabic script makes an implicit reference to the origins and journey of the
Arca from the Holy Land through North Africa and southern Spain. The inscriptions thus
authenticate this narrative, acting as visual proof and standing in as a sort of epigraphic
shorthand for the complete account of the reliquary’s journey to Oviedo.
244
245
246
Discussed by Hahn, Strange Beauty, 9-10.
Gómez Moreno, El arte románico español, 30.
Pseudo-kufic has generated a small but growing amount of literature. Aanavi, “Islamic
Pseudoinscriptions;” Cahn, The Romanesque Wooden Doors; Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine
Greece;” Walker, “Meaningful Mingling;” Watson, “The Kufic Inscription.”
247
248
Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 11.
See the discussion in chapter two of Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament.
131
The location and appearance of the kufic script on the Arca fits within what is
known about the production of inscribed metalwork in Islamic Spain during the tenth and
eleventh centuries. Sheila Blair points out that silver caskets were “usually inscribed with
249
blessings to an unspecified owner,” as we see on the Arca.
The presence of the kufic
inscription in this case does not seem to carry with it a particular valence of cultural
appropriation, but rather speaks to the origins of the Arca in the distant past and in the
East. This polyvalent significance is analogous to interpretations of the role played by
250
spolia in works of medieval art.
Looking closely at the inscription, several aspects
stand out. The entirety of the inscription is divided into six metal panels, one panel on
each of the shorter sides, and two on the longer sides. With the exception of one panel on
the left side, the inscription follows contemporary late eleventh or early twelfth-century
251
Arabic convention in reading “on the inside,” to use James Allan’s term.
That is, the
inscription is legible in a counter-clockwise direction, with the main elements of the
letters on the interior of the circular inscription, and the upright portion of the letters
projecting outwards. The letter forms are not overly abstracted and grouped into
decorative units, as we see, for example, in southern France.
252
It would be a mistake to
read the Arabic inscription of the Arca Santa as purely decorative and illegible, although
its words may be stylized or abbreviated. After all, as Richard Ettinghausen and Sheila
Blair have pointed out, illegible, marginally legible, and abbreviated pseudo-inscriptions
were popular within Islamic lands, appearing in textiles, ceramics, ivory, and
249
250
Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 118.
This argument runs counter to that offered by Shalem, Islam Christianized, 78-87. The literature on
spolia is vast. Some of the most significant studies of the use of spolia in the context of portable objects
include: Beech, “The Eleanor of Aquitaine Vase;” Brenk, “Spolia from Constantine to Charlemagne;” Buc,
“The Conversion of Objects;” Culter, “Reuse or Use?” Forsyth, “Art with History;” Kinney, “Rape or
Restitution;” Shalem, Islam Christianized.
251
Allan, “‘My Father is a Sun,’” 38. It is worth noting, however, that the vertical panel on the left does
not observe this rule, instead appearing to read “on the outside,” as it were.
252
Watson, “The Kufic Inscription.”
132
253
metalwork.
Abstraction, abbreviation, and relative illegibility are not, then, to be
understood purely as responses of an alien culture looking at and attempting to adapt the
visual culture of Islam. Ettinghausen suggested an apotropaic function for this kind of
inscription, in which the component parts may be recognizable, although the coherence of
254
the complete inscription is in doubt.
Indeed, the words of blessing that Gómez Moreno
claimed to read in the inscription suggest that we can attribute a more generic blessing or
protective function to the presence of the kufic letters on the front of the Arca Santa.
Its legendary origins notwithstanding, the Arca Santa appears on the historical
scene in the late eleventh century. A pair of documents, thirteenth-century copies of a lost
original, recount how Alfonso VI (r. 1065-1109) and his court, including his sister
Urraca, visited Oviedo in order to view the relics of the cathedral. On 14 March 1075, the
Arca was opened in the presence of the royal court:
Thus, the afore-mentioned emperor [Alfonso VI], joining himself to God
and entrusting himself with total devotion to Him, ordered that he [the
king], along with the above-mentioned priests and others who are honored
at the court of the royal hall, together with all of the rest of the people,
mortify their bodies with fasting more than was customary even during the
season of Lent. And he ordered the Toledan clerics also dwelling there to
be sedulous in their sacrifices and prayers, and he urged all the others who
followed the Roman rite, to entreat the Lord with supplications, so that he
who once wished to descend from heaven and make himself palpable to
men, might deign because of the great love he felt for us to make manifest
to them those things which were contained inside the afore-mentioned ark,
which had for so long been unknown to men. And so it came to pass, by
the Lord’s mercy, who because he wishes that all men be saved and
achieve the knowledge of truth, just as he himself chose [to do]. In the
253
254
Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece;” Blair, Islamic Inscriptions, 166-67.
Ettinghausen, “Kufesque in Byzantine Greece,” 43.
133
middle of Lent, on the third ides of March, on the sixth feria, around the
hour of terce, having celebrated the solemnities of masses, the bishops and
priests, with a choir of clergy singing psalms, arrived at to the designated
place, where such a great treasure was hidden. And, and as thuribles were
swung from here to there, exuding smoky, fiery incense, opening [it] with
gentle movement and great fear they revealed out in the open that for
which they had asked from God, that is, an incredible treasure.
255
255
ACO series B, folder 2, num. 9 (A). “Anno ab incarnatione Domini nostri Ihesu Christi M LXX V,
apicem regni tenente Adefonso filio Fredenandi magni quondam regis filio apud Ouetensem Sancti
Saluatoris episcopalem sedem predicto imperatore Quadragesime tempus sollempniter in diuina religione
celebrante cum sua nobilissima germana nomine Urraca atque cum episcopo Bernardo sedis Palentine et
Simeone Auzensis ecclesie pontifice et Alani qui in predicta ecclesia presulatus officium fungebatur
contineret quoddam diuina miseracione reuelationis donum per ipsius regis studium siquidem thesaurum
magno honore uenerandum quod magna antiquitate in eadem ecclesia manebat occultum Christo suo
fidelissimo principi ad laudem et gloriam nominis sui uoluit manifestare. Nam priscis temporibus cum
Deus omnipotente propter culpam christianorum subiugasset totam pene Yspaniam populo ismahelitanum
omnes sanctorum reliquias patrum quique fideles ex diuersis locis subripere potuerunt apud Tholetanam
[sic] urbem congregantes et in quadam archa studiose condientes penes se aliquanto tempore tenuerent.
Cum uero cernerent tam in manissimam stragem fieri fidelium populorum non habentes spem alteram ad
alterum confugium faciendi prouidendi diuina clemencia que locum suo nomini edificatum exaltare
disponebat salubre consilium inuenerunt ut ad ipsum quem nouerant tuicionem locum iamdictam arcam
dirigerent ut ibi seruosque Domino comendarent. Cum igitur ita omnia acta fuissent sicut disposuerant
mansit illo in loco longo post tempore incognitum que in ea detinebatur absconditum quosque ad illud
tempus uentum est quo quidam magne uirtutis uir Poncius nomine suscepit pontificatus honorem. Suis
itaque temporibus cum cognouisset a quibusdam fidelibus magna illic quedam detineri uoluit sicut audierat
probare. Aperire autem gestiens tectum arche cum aliquibus ex suis abbatibus ac clericis tanta lux emicuit
ab illa ut pre ipso splendore oculi non possent aspicere que habebantur intra claustra arce ubi detinebantur
cara sanctorum Dei pignora seneque cuncti terre consternerentur pre timoris magnitudinem. Occulto itaque
Dei iudicio fuscati quadam cecitate ita intacta relinquerunt sicut hactenus fuerant quidam uero ex ipsis in
eadem quam acceperant cecitate usque ad finem sue uite permanserunt. Interea surrexit serenissimus Dei
cultor Adefonsus rex iam prenominatus in cuius temporibus rex pacis et rex omnium seculorum Deus
palam cunctis patefecit quod dudum uoluerat esse occultum. Memoratus ergo imperator Deo aderens seque
illi tota deuocione comitens monuit se cum presbyteros prefatos ac cederos qui intra curiam aule regie
uenerantur ac totum reliquum uulgus ieiunio plus solito quadragesimali tempore corpora affligi et sacrificiis
134
This remarkable account of royal piety and participation in the ceremony to open
the Arca tells us as much about contemporary liturgy as it does about the events of March
1075. In discussions of this document, however, the richness of scene’s liturgical setting
is often overlooked, and attention has instead been focused on the issue of the king’s
possible patronage of the Arca and its silver revetment, with its implications for the
dating of the object. The inscription on the lid of the Arca is problematic and badly
damaged, and it was Manuel Gómez Moreno who first decided to insert the date from this
particular document into his transcription of the text. Despite—or because of—the fact
et oracionibus intentos clericos tholetanos illic habitantibus esse precepit et reliquos romanum ritum
tenentibus ortatur Dominum precibus flagitare ut ille qui olim de celo descendere et hominibus se
palpabilem prebere uoluit ipse eis dignaretur manifestare propter nimiam suam caritatem quam nos dilexit
ea que tam diucius hominibus ignota intra predictam archam detinebantur. Domini autem misericordia ita
actum est quia omnes homines uult saluos fieri et ad agnicionem ueritatis uenire sicut ipse obtauerat. Nam
mediante Quadragesima IIIo idus marcii, VIa feria, circa horam terciam, episcopi et presbiteri missarum
solempniis celebratis cum concentu psallencium clericorum ad locum usque perueniunt destinatum ubi
reconditum habebatur munus tam copiosum. Leui autem motu cum magno timore aperientes turibulis hinc
atque illic timiamatha fumiuoma [sic] flagrancia reddentibus repererunt hoc in propatulo quod a Deo
poposcerant scilicet incredibile thesaurum. Id est, de Ligno Domini, de Cruore Domini, de pane Domini, id
est, de Cena ipsius, de sepulchro Domini, de terra sancta ubi Dominus stetit, de uestimento Sancte Marie et
de lacte ipsius uirginis ac genitricis Domini, de uestimento Domini forte partito et de sudario eius, reliquias
de Sancto Petro apostolo, Sancti Thome, Bartholomei apostoli, de ossibus prophetarum, sancti Iusti et
Pastoris, Adriani et Natalie, Mame, Iulie, Uerissimi et Maximi, Iermani, Bauduli, Pantaleonis, Cypriani,
Eulalie, Sabastiani, Cucufati, de pallio Sancti Sulpicii, Sancte Agathe, Emetherii et Celedoni, Sancti
Iohannis Babtiste, Sancti Romani, Sancti Stephani prothomartiris, Sancti Frustuosi, Augurii et Eulogii,
Sancti Uictoris, Sancte Laurencii, Sancte Iuste et Rufine, Sancti Seruandi et Germani, Sancti Liberi, Sancte
Maximi et Iulie, Sancti Cosme et Damiani, Sergii et Bachi, Sancti Iacobi fratris Domini, Sancti Stephani
pape, Sancti Christofori, Sancti Iohannis apostoli uestimentum, Sancti Tyrsi, Sancti Iuliani, Sancti Felicis,
Sancti Andree, Sancti Petri exorciste, Sancte Eugenie, Sancti Martini, Sancti Facundi et Primitiui, Sancti
Uicenti leuite, Sancti Fausti, Sancti Iohannis, Sancti Pauli apostoli, Sancte Agne, Sancti Felicis, Simplicii,
Sancti Faustini et Beatricis, Sancte Petronille, Sancte Eulalie Barcinonensis, de cineribus sanctorum
Emiliani diachoni et Iheremie martirum, Sancti Rogelli, Sancti Serui Dei martiris, Sancte Pompose,
Sanctorum Ananie, Azarie et Misaelis, Sancti Sportelii et Sancte Iuliane, et aliorum quam plurimorum
quorum numerum sola Dei sciencia colligit.” Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc.
72 and Gambra, Alfonso VI, vol. 2, 60-65.
135
that Gómez Moreno interpolated the date of 1075 into this inscription, the question of the
chronology of the Arca Santa has dominated the scholarly discussion. Harris’ 1995 study
revolves around the matter of its dating, and she is concerned in particular to question the
authenticity of Gómez Moreno’s interpolated date of 1075 as well as the document from
which he derived this date.256 Let us look more closely, then, at this document and the
debates surrounding its dating and authenticity.
It should first be mentioned that, rather than one document, we are actually
dealing with two. Until recently, only one copy of this document was thought to exist.
About six or seven years ago, the local García Trelles family donated another copy to the
cathedral. Apparently, when attempting to sell it at auction, someone noticed the stamp of
the cathedral archive, and so the decision was made to return it to the cathedral.
Relatively little notice has been given to the appearance of this second document (B)
(Figure 3.10). The text has not been edited or compared thoroughly to that transcribed by
García Larragueta (A) in his edition of the cathedral’s documents (Figure 3.11).
Document B presents a few minor textual variants, but the most striking difference
between the two is their respective visual appearance. The newly discovered document is
considerably larger, written not in the cramped book hand of document A but rather in a
larger and clearer documentary hand. Fernández Conde argues that the two documents
are roughly contemporaneous, but that the newly discovered one (B) may be somewhat
257
older.
In addition, while document A contains only the monogram of Urraca (Figure
3.12), document B has the monograms of Urraca, Alfonso VI, and bishops Pelayo of
León, Gundisalvo of Dumio, and Arias of Oviedo (Figure 3.13). It is, above all, these
visual aspects which suggest that document B may have been made for the purpose of
display in the context of the Cámara Santa. We know that documents were displayed on
the altar during this period, and, while the precise context in which our document might
have been displayed remains unclear, it may have been visible to pilgrims inside the
256
257
Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa.”
Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía,” 73, note 15.
136
Cámara Santa.
258
It is suggestive to think of clerical interlocutors explaining the space
and its sacred contents, using the document as a sort of prop in their pseudo-liturgical
performance of divulging—verbally if not visually—the contents of the Arca Santa.
Ambrosio de Morales describes a scenario like this in the sixteenth century: “The eldest
canon tells the pilgrims about all of the relics by means of a written text that is there for
this purpose, which the canon learns by heart, and it is all very well organized.”
259
The form of the eleventh-century document itself suggests that it is a composite
creation, for after the narrative of the opening of the Arca, it transforms into a royal
donation of land to the cathedral. This donation of lands around Langreo (near Oviedo) is
referred to in one of the documents of the Liber Testamentorum, where it is incorporated
into a confirmation of the donation of various territories to the dioceses.
260
Daniel Rico
has suggested that this text recalls other eleventh- and twelfth-century acts of
261
consecration, which consists of a narrative prologue, list of relics, and donation.
This
might indicate that our thirteenth-century documents are based on an earlier, now-lost
exemplar, but one which was not necessarily made as early as 1075.
Other copies of this document survive from the fourteenth century, for it was
copied into the Libro de los Testamentos and subsequently into the Regla Colorada.
These books were made under the aegis of Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389),
who oversaw a sort of late-medieval update to the historiographic work of Pelayo.
258
262
In
There are Catalan examples of placing books and documents on the altar, as discussed by Zimmerman,
“La consécration des églises,” 75. I would like to thank Daniel Rico Camps for this reference.
259
Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “El Canonigo mas antiguo va relatando a los Peregrinos todas las Reliquias,
por escrito que hay para esto, el qual el aprende de coro, y es harto bien ordenado.”
260
ACO MS 1, fol. 74r-78r. See the text in the edition by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum
Ovetensis, 585-93. Discussed by Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía.”
261
262
I would like to thank Daniel Rico for generously sharing his thoughts on this document with me.
Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo.
137
her study of the Regla Colorada, Rodríguez Díaz argues that the scribe of the manuscript
was working not from the thirteenth-century copies discussed above, but rather from an
older document in Visigothic script, pointing to a series of common scribal
misinterpretations of Visigothic letter forms.
263
The reliance on a possibly Visigothic,
eleventh-century original is rendered problematic by the contents of the document,
replete with anachronistic language. According to Fernández Conde, the way that the
document is dated—“anno ab incarnatione Domini”—is not commonly used in
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documents from León-Castilla until the late twelfth century.
Andrés Gambra, whose
edition of the documents of Alfonso VI is the most recent, has noted several other such
anachronisms.
If, in fact, we can hypothesize the existence of an original document in Visigothic
hand, what are we to make of these telltale anachronisms? The combination of antique
script and contemporary contents recalls the Liber Testamentorum itself, in which new
texts were mixed with old, and all were written in the same archaizing Visigothic script.
This 1075 document does not, however, appear in the Liber Testamentorum, nor does
Pelayo make any reference to these events in any of his historiographic writings. Given
that he was not one to miss any opportunity to aggrandize his see or embroider the tale of
the Arca Santa, this omission is striking. Perhaps, just as the frontispiece of the Liber
Testamentorum has a documentary function, acting to authenticate the Arca Santa, so,
too, might the putative 1075 document represent an attempt quite literally to document
the reliquary, extending the terse narrative of the inscription on the lid. Both manuscript
and document, then, were likely been made after the Arca itself, responding to it and
engaging with it. This suggests that the Arca is not, as Harris argues, a Pelagian forgery
of the early twelfth century, but rather that it is an object whose meaning and significance
had to be constructed and amplified following its creation in the late eleventh century.
263
264
265
Rodríguez Díaz, El Libro de la “Regla Colorada,” 192-94.
Fernández Conde, “El papel de la monarquía,” 73-74, note 16.
Harris, “Redating the Arca Santa,” 92.
138
265
Although the Arca comes onto the historical scene in the late eleventh century, it
is not until the early twelfth-century writings of Bishop Pelayo that the cult of the relics
gains devotional momentum. As we have seen, the Arca Santa, its apostolic origins and
perilous journey to Asturias, forms the cornerstone of Pelayo’s historiographic project.
His account of the Arca Santa appears in the opening folia in the Liber Testamentorum,
where the text is framed as the transcription of an inscription or document. The rubricated
title, written in formal capitals, tells the reader that “This text [scriptura] shows how the
Ark, with many relics of the saints, was translated to Oviedo from Jerusalem.”
266
Significantly, the previous entry in the manuscript, a transcription of a no longer extant
inscription on the main altar of the cathedral, uses the same term—scriptura—to describe
the text that follows (Figure 3.14). This visual and textual strategy places the account of
the Arca Santa in the context of the cartulary as yet another transcription, grounded in the
documentary and epigraphic record.
Pelayo’s framing of this account as a transcription constitutes an attempt to
validate and authenticate the story of the Arca Santa. The account that appears in the
Liber Testamentorum is identical to that of the Liber Cronicorum, although the text was
split in two and inserted into two separate chronicles. In the midst of the Chronicle of
Alfonso III, we find the beginning of Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa (see Figure 2.4).
The story of the Arca Santa was deliberately placed in the part of the chronicle dealing
with the reign of King Pelayo in the early eighth century. The story breaks off suddenly
after the Arca’s arrival in Asturias, and the reader has to wait to learn of the fate of the
reliquary until later in the manuscript, when Alfonso II enters the historical stage. With a
rather abrupt segue, which is not signaled by rubrication or a decorated initial, we read
“now let us return to the ark,” and the story of the Arca Santa is taken up and completed
(see Figure 2.5). Despite his numerous anachronisms, Pelayo was concerned to establish
267
the historicity of his account, to literally insert it into pre-existing historical narratives.
266
“HEC SCRIPTVRA DOCET QVALITER ARCHA CVM MVLTORVM PIGNORIBVS
SANCTORVM OVETO AB IHERVSALEM SIT TRANSLATA.” ACO MS 1, fol. 1vA.
267
Fernández Conde, El Libro de los Testamentos, 111-18.
139
As one might expect, Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa is replete with
entertaining anachronisms and an impressive cast of historical characters. First made in
Jerusalem by disciples of the Apostles, the Arca is initially transferred by the otherwise
unknown priest Philip of Jerusalem to Africa following the conquest of the city in 614 by
the Persian king Chosroes II. When the military threat extends into Africa, Bishop
Fulgentius of Ruspe (ca. 465-527/533) sends the Arca on to Toledo, where Ildephonsus is
bishop (d. 667). Pelayo then provides his moralized explanation of the conquest of
Toledo by the Muslims, the Goths “believing in themselves that this destruction of their
people was done not by the sword of destruction but rather by the Lord’s rod of
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correction.”
Pelayo’s text suggests a degree of ambivalence about the status of the
fallen kingdom of the Visigoths. While royal Visigothic blood might be of use in
constructing royal genealogies, the Visigoths, particularly their capital in Toledo, were
not untainted by sin.
Upon arrival in Toledo, a relic of particularly local significance is added to the
collection: part of the mantle of the Virgin which she bestowed upon Ildephonsus, a relic
which is still the subject of dispute between the sees of Toledo and Oviedo. The contents
of the reliquary box subsequently transferred north to Asturias are thus different from and
continuous with the original Arca Santa. By virtue of the Virgin’s place in sacred history,
the Marian relic partakes of the same antiquity of the other relics, but, significantly, these
new additions are marked by the historical moment—however ambiguously defined it
may be—at which they enter the collection. The antiquity of the Arca Santa becomes
plural, encompassing not merely the first decades after the life of Christ, but also the
more immediate past of the spiritual and political hegemony of Visigothic Toledo and its
catastrophic loss. The incorporation of this important Toledan relic becomes another way
for Bishop Pelayo to appropriate for his see the spiritual authority of the pre-conquest see
of Toledo.
268
ACO MS 1, fol. 2rB. “Isti exitium hoc sue gentis non gladio destructionis sed uirga a Domino pocius in
se credentes factum correctionis, quatinus in hoc eis propitiaretur summa diuinitas, a Iuliano pontifice qui
tunc temporis erat cum Toletanis secum a Toleto archam supradictam in ipsas Asturias transferunt.” Edited
by Valdés Gallego, El Liber Testamentorum Ovetensis, 461-62.
140
After the fall of Toledo, Bishop Julian of Toledo (642-690) sends the Arca to
Asturias, “because that land, fortified by the harshness of mountains, permits easy access
to none of the enemy.”
269
The Arca remains in temporary housing on the mountain of
Monsacro, outside of Oviedo, until the reign of Alfonso II (d. 842), who, after a decisive
victory against the Muslims, decides to build a permanent home for the reliquary in
Oviedo. The Arca’s perilous journey to Asturias, with important stops along the way to
add more relics, becomes a sort of reconquest in reverse, setting the stage for the
retracing of the Arca’s travels in a series of victorious conquests.
Regardless of the specific historical contexts invoked to explain the origin and
translation of the reliquary and its contents, these narratives reveal a persistent concern
with the historicity of the Arca Santa. The relics themselves, material mementos of the
events of sacred history and its holy protagonists, are the most literal embodiments of the
antiquity of the Arca Santa. The reliquary box is of a commensurate antiquity, having
been made of “incorruptible wood” by disciples of the Apostles, not long after the events
of the life of Christ commemorated by the relics themselves.270
The Arca Santa’s wanderings cease when it reaches Oviedo. Upon its arrival,
Pelayo tells us how Alfonso II constructs a sort of sacred treasury to house the Arca
Santa, as well as numerous other precious reliquaries and royal treasures. This
structure—none other than the Cámara Santa—was dedicated to St. Michael and acted as
an architectural reliquary for its sacred contents. The long passage in Pelayo’s account of
the Arca Santa describing the building works of Alfonso II and the golden age of
269
ACO MS 1, fol. 2rB. “Hunc locum sibi et sanctorum elegerunt maxime suffragiis, quia patria ipsa
uallata asperitate moncium facile nulli hostium promittebat accessum.” Edited by Valdés Gallego, El Liber
Testamentorum Ovetensis, 462.
270
“Dilectissimi fratres in christo, qui deum in celis atque in terra omnia quecumque uult posse non
dubitatis, manifesta uobis relatione et signature ueritate intimamus, que uos audientes hortamur ut fide uera
credatis, quod deus mirabili potentia et secreto suo consilio arcam, de lignis imputribilibus a discipulis
apostolorum factam, innumeris dei magnaliis plenam, ab urbe iherosolima transtulit in affricam, ab affrica
in chartaginem, a chartagine in toletum, a toleto in asturias in ecclesia sancti saluatoris, loco qui dicitur
ouetum.” Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 93.
141
Asturian royal patronage in Oviedo recalls similar passages in the late ninth-century
Chronicle of Alfonso III, with one crucial difference—nowhere in the early medieval
chronicle itself is a structure identifiable as the Cámara Santa mentioned. As discussed in
chapter one, the earliest textual references to this space come from the late eleventh and
early twelfth centuries: from the writings of Pelayo himself. Pelayo embroiders the image
of the early Asturian builder-kings familiar from the ninth-century Chronicle of Alfonso
III, presenting Alfonso II as a Solomonic builder and implicitly drawing a parallel
between the Arca Santa and the Ark of the Covenant.
While Pelayo’s account of the origins and travels of the Arca Santa is by far the
most extensive, until recently it was not thought to be the oldest. In 1927, the Bollandist
Donatien de Bruyne edited a text added to a ninth-century illuminated manuscript of the
271
Apocalypse now in the Municipal Library of Valenciennes (Figures 3.15 and 3.16).
The text gives an abbreviated account of the origins of the Arca and lists its contents. On
the basis of paleography, De Bruyne concluded that the text dates to the eleventh century,
but could be as late as the early twelfth.
272
As Uría Ríu and Alonso Álvarez have
cautioned, de Bruyne’s dating is far from secure, despite the way in which it has been
used in order to argue for the existence of a cult of the relics of the Cámara Santa before
the time of Pelayo.
273
Rather than treating this single text as an early testament to the
cult, it is more logical to place it in the context of other texts produced under the aegis of
the bishop and chapter of Oviedo during the early twelfth century, such as the elaborate
account of the Arca Santa provided by Pelayo in his Liber Testamentorum and Liber
Cronicorum.
The similarities between the Valenciennes text and that of Pelayo are many. The
abbreviated account of the Arca’s origins and travels found in Valenciennes derives
271
Valenciennes, Bibliothèque Municipale MS 99, fol. 2v-3r. Edited by de Bruyne, “Le plus ancien
catalogue,” 93-96.
272
273
Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 96.
Uría Ríu, Las peregrinaciones, vol. 2, 480; Alonso Álvarez, “Patria vallata,” 23.
142
directly from Pelayo. In addition, while a small number of relics appear in a slightly
different order, the Valenciennes text and that of Pelayo have identical lists of the
reliquary’s contents. The main difference between them is not what they describe as
being inside the Arca Santa, but rather those relics “extra archam.” According to the
Valenciennes manuscript, the twelve relics appear outside of the Arca: those of saints
Eulogius, Lucretia, Eulalia, Pelagius, Vincent, Bishop Seranus, Julian Pomerius, and
King Alfonso II, as well as the Cross of the Angels, the satchels of Peter and Andrew, a
piece of wood that was miraculously lengthened and used to build the cathedral, and
finally one of the jugs in which Christ turned water into wine at the Wedding at Cana.
274
None but the miraculous Cross of the Angels appear in Pelayo’s account of the relics
surrounding the Arca Santa, but they do appear in the other texts associated with the
Valenciennes Apocalypse, including the earliest printed breviary for Oviedo use, and a
series of “hojas del cabildo,” printed and manuscript sheets circulating from at least the
275
fifteenth century that describe the contents of the Arca.
274
They also appear in a
“Extra arcam ipsam habentur corpora sanctorum martirum eulogii, et lucrecie, et beate eulalie
emeritensis, et sancti pelagii martiris, et sancti uicentii martiris adque abbatis, et sancti serani episcopi, et
sancti iuliani pomerii qui arcam ipsam a toleto ouetum transtulit, et corpus regis casti qui ecclesiam sancti
saluatoris fundauit, crux ibi monstratur opere angelico fabricata, sporte apostolorum petri et andree, lignum
cuiusdam trabis deficientis ad edificium ecclesie quod deus mirabiliter augmentauit. In ipsa autem
principali ecclesia habetur una de sex idriis in quibus dominus aquam uertit in uinum.” Edited by de
Bruyne, “Le plus ancien catalogue,” 95.
275
Biblioteca Central de la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 38v-39r. “Quas summa cum reverentia
aperientes, viderunt quaedam scripta singulis reliquiis ibi reconditis alligata: quae omnia manifestissime
declarabant. Inveneruntque magnam partem de syndone domini, qua involutus iacuit in monumento. De
vera cruce domini. Quinque spinas corone domini. De tunica domini. De sepulchro domini. De pannis in
quibus iacuit involutus in praesepio. De pane caenae domini. De manna quod dominis pluit filiis Israel.
Magnum fragmentum cutius beati Bartholomei apostoli qui fuit excoriatus. Palium quod dedit regina coeli
beato ildefonso archiepiscopo toletano. De lacte ipsius matris domini. De capillis et vestimentis eius. Unum
ex triginta denariis pro quibus dominus fuit venditus a iuda. [...] Inveneruntque parvulam ampulam cum
cruore domini fuso sanctus a latere cuiusdam imaginis, quam christiani ad similitudine christi fecerant: sed
iudaei antiqua perfidia obstinati ipsam ligno effigerunt, et lancea latus eius iterum percusserunt: a quo
sanguis et aqua exivit. De pallio heliae prophetae. De fronte et capillis beati Ioannis baptiste. De capillis
143
fascinating text dated to the last quarter of the twelfth century, which survives in only two
276
manuscripts.
Some of the more cryptic relics listed in the Valenciennes text can be
explained with reference to this later source, which is filled with miracles even more
dramatic and improbable than even Pelayo could imagine.
This late twelfth-century text offers an elaborate account of the origins and travels
of the Arca Santa, indebted to but distinct from Pelayo’s. The story begins with a pair of
Christians, Julianus and Seranus, who have heard tell of a shrine containing many
precious relics that has been sent out of Jerusalem for safe-keeping. They find the shrine
in Carthage, and they accompany it from Africa to Toledo. There is a brief excursus
about the miracles associated with the garment granted to Bishop Ildephonsus of Toledo
by the Virgin Mary, then the author returns to the story of the Arca itself. Fleeing
invading Muslim armies, the shrine is taken to Monsacro, outside of Oviedo. Alfonso II
rescues the reliquary and decides to build a church to house it. Although his first attempts
fail, he receives a miraculous vision telling him exactly where to build his church. The
quibus beate maria magdalene extersit pedes domini. De ossibus sanctorum innocentium, et be ossibus
trium puerorum sanctus annie, azarie, misaelis. De lapide cum quo clausm est sepulchrum domini.
Segmentum virgae qua ipse moyses divisit mare rubrum filiis israel. Vestimentum beati sancti stephani
prothomartyris. Sandalium dextrum beati petri apostoli, et annulum de catenis eius. Reliquias duodeci
apostolorum, et de ossibus prophetarum. Bursas sacntorum petri et andree apostolorum. Reliquias
sanctorum laurentii, Sebastiani, cosme ey damiani, stephani papae et martyris, Martini episcopi, eulalie
barchinonensis. Lo plura est corpora, ossa et reliquie sanctorum, prophetarum, martyrum, confessorum,
atque virginum: ibi sunt recondita quorum numerum deus solus scit. Extra predictam arcam habent etiam
crux quidam manibus angelorum operata. Unam ex sex hidriis in quibus dominus aquam in vinum
convertit: et corpora sanctorum martyrum eulogii et lucretiae, et sancte eulaliae virginis Emeritensis, sancti
Pelagii, et Sancti Vicentii martyris atque abbatis: ac iuliani pontificis.”
276
Bibliothèque de Cambrai MS 800, fol. 68r-73v and formerly Cheltenham, Library of Thomas Phillipps
MS 299, fol. 1r-16r. Kohler has dated the manuscripts to the late twelfth or early thirteenth centuries on the
basis of their paleography, and the composition of this text to no earlier than the last quarter of the twelfth
century. He bases this dating on references to pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas Beckett (d. 1170) in
Canterbury, as well to Bishop Gundisalvus of Oviedo (r. 1162-1175). See Kohler, “Translation de
reliques,” 3.
144
construction of the church itself is marked by a miracle; the craftsmen bring to the king’s
attention the fact that one of the wooden beams is shorter than the others. The king prays
and orders the short beam to be used anyway, but when they look again, it has
miraculously grown in length. This would appear to be the piece of wood referred to
among the relics outside of the Arca Santa by the Valenciennes text.
The king orders the Arca Santa, along with the relics of the two Christians,
Julianus and Seranus, who shepherded it along its journey, to be brought to the newly
built church for the consecration ceremony. Upon arrival at the doors of the cathedral of
San Salvador, the Arca becomes completely immovable. The Arca remains fixed in
place, despite an attempt to place it near the main altar of the church, dedicated to the
Savior. As soon, however, as it is suggested that the Arca be moved to the upper-storey
space dedicated to St. Michael, the Arca miraculously becomes portable, and is
successfully installed there. Alfonso II then makes a new, larger container with a gilded
exterior for the Arca. When the Arca is placed in its new shrine, the four feet of the
reliquary pierce the four corners of the gilded container. Pilgrims come to touch and kiss
277
the feet of the reliquary, praying to God from underneath the shrine.
Our text then
includes an embroidered version of the miraculous manufacture of the Cross of the
Angels. Following this great miracle, Alfonso II establishes Oviedo as an independent
see, beholden only to the authority of the pope himself.
Following the death of Alfonso II, out text moves forward several centuries to the
reign of Alfonso VI, providing a slightly different version of the opening of the Arca in
the presence of the king and his court. The reliquary is opened to reveal twelve sealed
“little boxes” (scriniola). One of the boxes is opened, and its contents inventoried. The
relics therein are familiar from other twelfth-century accounts of the Arca’s contents, but
277
“Rex autem castus fecerat aliam archam parari, majorem illa in qua reliquie continentur, que miro
opere sculpta et tota deforis inaurata devotionem Regis casti et prudentiam artifìcis videntibus representat
atque testatur. In hac majori archa collocavit sanctam archam tali modo quod quatuor pedes sancti scrinii
perforatis angulis majoris arche foris apparent et a peregrinis tanguntur et devotissime osculantur et sub
archa illa preces et lacrime coram Deo effunduntur.” Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 10.
145
we learn that the satchels of saints Peter and Andrew, both of which are mentioned in the
Valenciennes text, remain outside of the Arca. At this point, the narrative shifts
completely to tell the story of a young woman named Oria who is possessed by a demon,
only to be saved by the Cross of the Angels.
This late twelfth-century text is a valuable witness to the Arca Santa’s
appearance, function, and meaning during this period. The Arca was understood as
somehow plural, both in terms of its contents as well as its form. The new shrine made by
Alfonso II frames rather than replaces the former casket, whose feet are so devotedly
278
kissed by pilgrims. These feet are described as being a foot and a half long.
While it is
difficult to know how to translate this measurement into modern terms, the text offers a
279
hint when it tells us how the benighted Oria throws herself beneath the Arca Santa.
The Arca is here represented as elevated above the ground in the manner of numerous
contemporary saints’ shrines, and provoking similar behavior on the part of pilgrims who
pray beneath it or touch its foot-like supports.
280
Whether or not the Arca was actually
ever elevated above the ground, the promoters of its cult wished the Arca to be identified
as a focus of pilgrimage, a shrine that elicits specific devotional behavior from pilgrims.
The Arca is here presented as the raison d’être for the cathedral as a whole, not just the
upper-storey treasury dedicated to St. Michael. This text attempts to reactivate and
reconfigure the early history and monuments of Oviedo, specifically the treasury of the
Cámara Santa, around a single focus: the Arca Santa. By the last quarter of the twelfth
century, the Arca Santa had, in fact, been transformed into the focus of the meaning and
decoration of the Cámara Santa, as the space itself was adapted in response to the
reliquary.
278
“De unoquoque pede sancte arche foris apparet longitudo pedis et dimidii.” Kohler, “Translation de
reliques,” 10.
279
“Cumque venisset apud Sanctum Salvatorem, statim ingressa est ecclesiam, et sub archa in qua sancte
reliquie continentur se projecit sine mora.” Kohler, Translation de reliques, 15.
280
Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 258-64.
146
While the Arca might appear today to be thoroughly sealed and off limits, we
have seen that its boundaries were more porous in the Middle Ages, and objects added to
and taken out of the large reliquary box. The Libro Becerro, produced under the aegis of
Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), contains an inventory of the chapter’s
possessions, including reliquary caskets in the Cámara Santa. Among the caskets listed
are several that contain material from the Arca Santa, but which now appear to have their
own shrines.
281
This inventory, together with evidence from the twelfth-century texts
discussed above, suggests that the Arca Santa was opened up and its contents distributed
into separate shrines over the course of the Middle Ages, making its contents more
readily accessible to pilgrims. I wish now to turn to the plethora of objects that surround
the Arca Santa, dating from the eleventh century to the sixteenth.
A Collection of Objects: Reliquaries in and around the Arca Santa
While it is not listed as one of the relics outside of the Arca Santa, the most direct
comparadum for the Arca Santa is the small gilded silver casket of Arias (Figure 3.17).
Now in the cathedral museum, this reliquary used to be housed in the Cámara Santa. Its
patronage seems secure; an inscription tells us that “+Conviviis xpi celes/tis mens(s)/a
282
paratur Arian/us ep[iscopu]s fecit.”
The casket dates to the episcopate of Arianus or
Arias (r. 1073-1092/1094), noted previously as one of the signatories of the document
describing Alfonso VI’s opening of the Arca Santa. Serafín Moralejo has noted that the
pseudo-kufic inscription around the top of the casket has led scholars to mistakenly
identify the piece as mozarabic in style and origin, when its foliate decoration points to a
281
ACO MS 9, Libro Becerro, pages 342-43 (ms is paginated, not foliated). The relics in the inventory
that are identical to those found in inventories of the Arca itself include the rod of Moses, milk of the
Virgin, blood from a miraculous image of the Crucifixion, sandal of Peter, sandal of Andrew, manna from
heaven, forehead of John the Baptist, as well as fragments from the Crown of Thorns and the True Cross.
282
Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 65.
147
283
more traditional Carolingian decorative vocabulary.
This interpretation of the casket as
mozarabic effectively separates it from analyses of the Arca Santa, when, in fact, the two
pieces have more in common than chronology. The Latin and pseudo-kufic inscriptions
function in parallel, just like those of the Arca Santa. The Latin inscription of the casket
of Arias runs along the bottom edges of the casket, and the pseudo-kufic along the top.
Epigraphically, the Latin inscriptions of the two caskets are also very similar, although
the incised technique differs from the repoussé of the Arca.
Moving beyond stylistic analysis, the issue of patronage is also significant. The
casket conveniently informs us that its patron was Bishop Arias, and the presence of this
notably episcopal gift in the treasury of the Cámara Santa stands out in the context of the
surviving precious treasures, including boxes, donated by earlier Asturian kings, such as
the so-called Agate Casket donated by Fruela and Nunilo in 910.
284
The inscription on
the lid of the Arca tells us that it was “made” by Alfonso VI, seeming to identify a royal
patron. As Therese Martin has argued in the context of gender and the making of
medieval art, the verb “fecit” can refer to the individual who literally crafted the object,
donated resources necessary for its making, or even received it.
285
Given the centrality
of the kings of the Asturian monarchy to Pelayo’s history of power and patronage in
Oviedo, it is unsurprising that royal presence should be evoked as much in the making of
the Arca’s silver revetment as it was in the installation of the reliquary in the Cámara
Santa under Alfonso II. We must also recall, however, the crucial role played by bishops
in the Arca’s travels, from Fulgentius in the Holy Land, to Ildephonsus and Julian in
Toledo. The casket of Arias indicates that the bishops of Oviedo played an active role in
the production of the cathedral’s treasures by the late eleventh century. Might we not be
283
Moralejo Álvarez, “Les artes somptuaires hispaniques,” 225. This identification of the piece as
“mozarabic” persists. See the most recent catalogue entry by Yayoi Kawamura in Museo de la Iglesia de
Oviedo, 91-92.
284
285
The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 71, 143-44.
Martin, “Exceptions and Assumptions,” 2-6.
148
able to interpret the Arca Santa as a collaboration between king and bishop, symbolizing
and cementing the strong bonds between the two?
Another object now in the cathedral museum offers more evidence that the Arca
Santa was opened up and multiplied over the course of the twelfth century. Again, none
of our accounts of the Arca and its contents mention this object, but its inscription places
it within the constellation of individual shrines generated by the Arca. Moreover, its
episcopal patronage connects it to the casket of Arias. The reliquary diptych of
Gundisalvus is a remarkable object, referred to as a portable altar (Figure 3.18). The
patron identified in its inscription is none other than the Bishop Gundisalvus mentioned
in the late twelfth-century account of the Arca Santa. The diptych opens up like a book to
reveal on its interior a series of small ivory carvings framed by silver filigree and a niello
inscription. From the right panel to the left, the inscription reads: “In the name of our
Lord, Jesus Christ, Gundisalvus, Bishop of Oviedo ordered that I be made. The relics that
are here are the following: [part of] the Cross of the Lord, of the holy Virgin Mary, of St.
John the Apostle and Evangelist, of Luke the Evangelist, of Mark the Evangelist, of
Matthew the Evangelist, the bread of Our Lord, the sepulcher of the Lord.”
286
On the left
is a depiction of the Crucifixion, flanked by John the Evangelist and Mary and
surmounted by personifications of the sun and moon, which are later additions made
following the explosion of 1934. On the right, Christ appears in majesty, framed by a
filigree mandorla and surrounded by the symbols of the four Evangelists. On the exterior
of the diptych are a pair of silver panels, decorated in niello (Figure 3.19). On the left is a
Crucifixion, and on the right, Christ in Majesty. Thus, the iconography of the exterior is
the same as that of the interior, the outside revealing the imagery of the inside. The
iconographic pairing of Christ in Majesty with the Crucifixion recalls the front and lid of
the Arca Santa itself, the diptych echoing the imagery of the Arca.
286
“In nomine Domini nostri Ihesu Christi Gundisalvus Episcopus me iussit fieri. Hae sunt reliquiae quae
ibi sunt: de ligno domini, Sanctae Mariae virginis, Sanctis Iohannis apostoli et evangelistae / Lucae
evangelistae, Marci Evangelistae, Matheus evangelistae, de pane nostri Domini, de sepulchro Domini.”
Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 66.
149
The diptych form of this portable altar is unusual. The presence of the inscription
on the interior suggests that it was meant to be opened, its contents displayed, but the
context in which it would have been used remains unclear. Charles Little’s description of
this diptych as a “portable version of the Arca Santa” expresses both the formal and
287
functional sense of the object.
While the attribution of the piece to the patronage of
Bishop Gundisalvus (r. 1162-1175) seems to provide a firm chronological context, the
inscription likely only refers to the interior of the diptych. Moralejo was the first to
suggest that the nielloed silver panels were reused when the portable altar was assembled
during the time of Gundisalvus.
288
Its form is more like that of a book than an altar, and
Yarza has suggested that the silver panels on the exterior originally formed the covers of
a Gospel Book.
289
This kind of reliquary recycling was decidedly not an unusual practice
in medieval treasuries, as evidenced by the famous A of Charlemagne in Conques, or the
Suger’s Eleanor Vase in Saint-Denis, to name but two prestigious and well-known
290
examples.
Several of these relics can be identified with those listed as being in the Arca
Santa. Relics of the True Cross and the Holy Sepulcher form part of the Arca Santa’s
collection, attested to on the lid itself as well as in Pelayo’s writings. In addition, various
kinds of bread, as well as relics of the Virgin Mary, are contained within the Arca. The
relics of the four Evangelists, however, are nowhere listed as forming part of the Arca’s
collection, and their presence in the diptych’s inscription may be a reference to the
Gospel Book once bound within the silver panels. The resonance of metalwork with
manuscripts, both their binding and interior decoration, occurs on other occasions in the
Cámara Santa, most famously in the parallels between the frontal of the Arca Santa and
the frontispiece of the Liber Testamentorum, with the kneeling figure of Alfonso II.
287
288
289
290
The Art of Medieval Spain, no. 129, 270.
Moralejo Álvarez, “Les artes somptuaires hispaniques,” 227.
De Limoges a Silos, cat. no. 77, 286.
Cahn, “The ‘A’ of Charlemagne;” Beech, “The Eleanor of Aquitaine Vase.”
150
Several reliquaries mentioned as being located outside of the Arca in our twelfthcentury texts are still in the Cámara Santa: those of Eulogius, Lucretia, Vincent, and
291
Eulalia.
As we saw in the first chapter, Eulogius and Lucretia were both martyred in
Córdoba in the mid-ninth century. The relics of Eulogius and Lucretia were transferred to
Oviedo in 884, not long after their martyrdom, when they were placed in the crypt of St.
Leocadia. It is unclear how long their relics remained in the crypt before being moved
upstairs. Their relics are now contained in a fourteenth-century reliquary, whose
inscription tells us that on 9 January 1305, Bishop Fernando Álvarez (r. 1301-1321)
transferred the relics from the crypt to the Cámara Santa following the miraculous
healing of an archdeacon.
292
As I argued in chapter one, the cult of these two Cordoban
martyrs was absorbed into the larger relic cult of the Cámara Santa at some point between
the twelfth century and the fourteenth.
The next saints in our list, Vincent and Eulalia, are among the most important
early martyr saints of Iberia. They appear prominently in the Pasionario Hispánico, a
group of seventeen hagiographic texts that formed the basis of the liturgy of the saints in
293
Iberia between the seventh and eleventh centuries.
Their cults are prior, even, to this
Passionary, and they were important saints throughout the late antique and Visigothic
periods.
294
St. Vincent is one of the most popular of all the late antique martyrs, and his
cult was widely diffused throughout Europe. From an early date, we see evidence of
devotion to St. Vincent in Asturias, although it is unclear when his relics first arrived.
291
I am setting aside for now the question of the relics of St. Pelayo, child-martyr and titular saint of the
monastery of San Pelayo in Oviedo. According to Pelayo in the Liber Cronicorum, his remains had been
brought to Asturias “post multorum discursus annorum.” Prelog, ed., Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 94.
292
“Anno Dni. MCCC quinto, nonas Ianu. Dominus Fernandus Alvari Ovetensis episcopus transtulit
[corpora sanctorum m(artyrum)] Eulogi et Lucreci(a)e in hanc capsam argenteam.” Diego Santos,
Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 67. Morales refers to this event in his Viaje santo, 83.
293
294
Riesco Chueca, ed., Pasionario hispánico; Fàbrega Grau, Pasionario hispánico.
García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 242-334.
151
The monastery of St. Vincent, next to the cathedral, is the oldest foundation in Oviedo,
founded in the late eighth century by the clerics Maximo and Fromestano. Writing in the
late nineteenth century, Fermín Canella mentions that, according to local tradition, the
relics of St. Vincent were brought to Oviedo during the reign of Bermudo II (r. 982-999),
295
although neither the Chronicle of Pelayo nor the Historia Silense mentions this.
The reliquary of St. Vincent in the Cámara Santa dates to 1268, although it was
“renewed” in the eighteenth century. According to the inscription on the original
reliquary, which survives only in Ambrosio de Morales’ transcription of it, the reliquary
296
was made for the archdeacon García in honor of St. Vincent.
The mid-thirteenth-
century chronology of this reliquary comes long after the period during which the
monastery of St. Vincent more or less merged with the cathedral over the eleventh and
twelfth centuries, and one wonders whether any of the monastery’s relics could have
made their way into the cathedral treasury during this time, to be absorbed into the
reliquary ensemble of the Cámara Santa.
297
The last of these four saints whose relics were located “extra archam” is Eulalia.
Eulalia was martyred in Mérida in the early fourth century, and her cult spread quickly
295
Canella y Secades, Oviedo. Guía, 203. This is a strange thing for Canella to mention, since Bermudo
II’s reputation—thanks to Pelayo’s account of his reign—was very, very bad indeed.
296
Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “Hoc opus fecit fieri magister Garsias huius / almae ecclesiae archidiaconus
ad honorem / sancti Vincentii martyris, quondam abbatis / monasterii Sancti Claudii Legionensis ci/vitatis,
cuius corpus reconditur in hac arca. / Era MCCCVI” (1268). Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de
Asturias, 67.
297
There appears to be little work on San Vicente and the process of ceding control to the cathedral. See
the remarks of Fernández Conde and Torrente Fernández, “Los orígenes del monasterio de San Pelayo,”
197. See also the edition of the monastery’s cartulary by Floriano Llorente, Colección diplomática de San
Vicente, docs. 25, 28, 38, and 185. We know that changes were made to the fabric of the building itself
during the late twelfth century, although the radical reformation of the structure made during the
seventeenth century means that we conserve only fragments of the Romanesque sculpture once present. See
Manzanares Mir, “Fragmentos románicos,” 153-56.
152
298
throughout the peninsula and into France and the British Isles.
Despite her popularity,
no evidence exists for devotion to Eulalia in Asturias before the twelfth century. It
appears that the growth of her cult there can be traced back to the period of Pelayo.
299
By
Pelayo’s time, Eulalia was a saint of international prestige, with a large body of liturgical
texts written in her honor. Eulalia makes an appearance in the Pelagian corpus, although
not in the context of the account of the Arca Santa. In the Liber Cronicorum, Pelayo
describes how he himself rediscovered the relics of St. Eulalia and had them enshrined in
a new reliquary and celebrated with a new liturgy. In what is doubtless not a coincidence,
the portion of the chronicle text immediately before relating the tale of this miraculous
rediscovery tells us how King Silo (r. 774-783) went south to al-Andalus in order to
rescue the relics of Eulalia.
300
This episode is inserted between the two halves of his
account of the Arca Santa, for, according to Pelayo, Eulalia’s relics were brought
Asturias in the time between the Arca’s initial arrival in Asturias in the time of Pelayo
and its transfer to the Cámara Santa under Alfonso II. With his discovery and elevation of
the relics of Eulalia, Pelayo, the twelfth-century bishop, re-enacts the pious act of the
eighth-century King Silo, asserting a continuity of authority between the early medieval
Asturian monarchy and Pelayo’s own episcopacy.
Pelayo’s description of his rediscovery of the relics of St. Eulalia merits closer
examination.
298
Berger and Brasseur, ed. and transl., Les séquences de Sainte Eulalie. On her cult in Spain, see García
Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 284-303. See also Mateos Cruz, La basílica de Santa Eulalia de Mérida.
299
300
López Fernández, “Devoción a santa Eulalia en Oviedo.”
“Deinde congregavit magnum exercitum militum et peditum multum nimis, et fuit in civitatem que
dicitur Emerita, et beatissimam virginem Eulaliam, que ibi a Calpurnio prefecto fuerat interfecta et a
christianis sepulta, extravit a sepulchro, in quo iacebat recondita, et misit in capsellam argenteam, quam
ipse facere iusserat; et quartam partem cunabuli ipsius virginis ibi invenit. Quod cum corpore beate virginis
Eulalie secum in Asturiis territorio Pravie aduxit, et in ecclesiam santi Iohannis apostoli et evangeliste et
sanctorum apostolorum Petri et Pauli et Andree, quam ipse fundavit, eam postuit.” Edited by Prelog, Die
Chronik Alfons’ III, 88-89. BN MS 1513, fol. 48r.
153
Many years having passed, in the era 1140 [1102], Pelayo, the bishop of the
church of Oviedo, entered one day into the afore-mentioned treasury in order
to pray, and he asked the custodians of the treasury, both the new and the
very oldest, what thing lay inside the afore-mentioned little casket. These
men told him that they did not know what was inside of it. This same bishop
took up the little casket and opened it, and found inside a written text together
with the body of the blessed virgin Eulalia. Then, this same bishop, along
with the canons of that place, rejoiced with great joy, and the following
Sunday they elevated her with great honor to the main altar of the church.
And so that it might be made widely known through the entire world, he had
thirty women and more than one hundred men witness it. Then, the aforementioned prelate placed that little casket inside a larger silver casket, which
had been donated to that place by the lord King Alfonso, son of King
Ferdinand and Queen Sancha, and he placed it in the afore-mentioned
treasury, where it would be venerated by the faithful. He then sought out and
found in the province of Narbonne responses and antiphons about the
aforementioned virgin, and he ordered them to be written and sung
everywhere.
301
This episode is crucial for the history of the cult of St. Eulalia in the cathedral of Oviedo
because before the time of Pelayo in the twelfth century, precious little is known of her
301
“Post multorum vero curricula annorum, sub era MaCXL, Pelagius, Ovetensis ecclesie episcopus,
quadam die introivit in predicto thesauro, ut oraret, et interrogavit custodes thesauri novos et vetustissimos,
que res iacebat in predicta capsella. Illi autem dixerunt se nescire, que intus eam erant. Ipse vero episcopus
accepit et aperuit eam, et intus eam invenit scriptam cartam cum corpore beate virginis Eulalie. Tunc ipse et
canonici eiusdem loci magno gaudio gavisi sunt, et in sequenti dominica levavit eam cum magno honore in
principali ecclesia; et ut esset propalata cause ista in omni orbe, fecit eam videre numero XXX feminis et
plus quam centum viris. Deinde capsellam ipsam misit predictus episcopus in aliam capsam maioram
argenteam, que ibi dederat rex dominus Adefonsus, filius Fredenandi regis et Sancie regine, et posuit eam
in thesauro iam dicto, ubi a fidelibus populis veneratur. Deinde inquisivit et invenit in Narbonensi provincia
responsa et antiphonas, que sunt suprataxate virginis, et iussit ea scribere et canere ubique.” Edited by
Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ III, 89-90. BN MS 1513, fol. 48r.
154
cult in Asturias. The same can be said of the period following Pelayo, for it appears that
her cult falls into relative obscurity in the later Middle Ages, until it was resurrected
definitively in the sixteenth century, and she was made patron of the dioceses of Oviedo
in 1639. What is the significance of this particular saint that makes her useful in this
twelfth-century context, as part of Pelayo’s larger strategy of legitimation of his diocese?
While she was originally an Iberian martyr, she had become a saint of
international prestige, and Pelayo looked beyond the Pyrenees for appropriate liturgical
texts to celebrate Eulalia. The specific reference to Narbonne as the source for the
liturgical texts used in the ceremonial elevation of the relics makes sense in the context of
the diffusion of her cult in the early Middle Ages. In order to trace this story, we first
must introduce another Eulalia into the mix. In 877, the relics of a St. Eulalia were
discovered in the city of Barcelona. Historians continue to debate the existence of this
second Eulalia—some claim that there was, in fact, a second Eulalia martyred in the late
antique period and buried in Barcelona, while others claim that she is the result of
medieval confusion that has produced two saints where, in reality, there is only one:
302
Eulalia of Mérida.
Regardless of whether two young girls named Eulalia were
martyred, or just one, the events in Barcelona of 877 had important repercussions for the
cult of the saint in Oviedo. The discovery of the relics came about because Sigebodus, the
archbishop of Narbonne, had come to Barcelona because he wished to build a basilica in
the saint’s honor back in Narbonne. Frodoinus, the bishop of Barcelona, set about
searching for information about the location of her remains, and they were miraculously
discovered in the area of the church now known as Santa María del Mar in Barcelona.
303
This reference to the role of the archbishop of Narbonne in the invention of the relics
within the Catalan tradition, combined with Pelayo’s reference to finding liturgical texts
302
The arguments are presented in García Rodríguez, El culto de los santos, 289-90. See also Fàbrega
Grau, Santa Eulalia de Barcelona.
303
See the text transcribed by Fàbrega Grau, Santa Eulalia de Barcelona, 151-55. Surviving accounts of
the invention of the body of St. Eulalia of Barcelona are taken from fourteenth-century liturgical
mansucripts in the archive of the Cathedral of Barcelona.
155
in Narbonne, suggests that the story of the ninth-century invention of St. Eulalia in
Barcelona was known to Pelayo. Indeed, a passio of St. Eulalia of Barcelona circulated
from the seventh century onwards, deepening confusion about the twin virgin martyrs.
304
It is noteworthy that Pelayo sought liturgical texts from Narbonne, choosing to elevate
the relics of one of the most venerable of the late antique martyrs from Spain, via her rediscovery in Barcelona.
Crucial to this liturgical re-framing of the cult of Eulalia in Oviedo was the
physical form of her reliquary. Pelayo refers explicitly to the transfer of the saint’s relics
into a silver casket that had been donated by King Alfonso VI, into which was placed the
older, ivory reliquary. The casket that survives today in the Baroque chapel dedicated to
the saint is likely the same one referred to by Pelayo (Figure 3.20). In the sixteenth
century, Ambrosio de Morales described seeing a silver casket decorated with niello that
sounds identical to the one there today, although he mentions the presence of another
ivory casket inside of the silver reliquary, which no longer survives.
305
This casket
contains an Arabic inscription around the four edges of the lid, which, according to the
transcription by Pascual de Gayangos, can be translated: “(May) Full blessings,
abundance of goods and comforts, and perfect security: ever-increasing greatness, lasting
306
peace, together with glory and perpetual rule (accompany the lord of this building).”
As Isabel Ruiz de la Peña says, many questions remain open about the stylistic filiation
304
305
For the passio of St. Eulalia of Barcelona, see Riesco Chueca, Pasionario hispánico, 105-13.
“Al otro lado frontero en semejante grada, junto al Santo Sudario, está un Arca mas alta que larga, de
plata maziza, sin madera, labrada à la Morsica de atauxia, y de nielado. Abrieronse tres cerraduras, que
tiene, hallóse dentro otra Arca menor de plata, en que estan algunos huesos y cabellos de Santa Eulalia la
de Merida, y fuera estaba un lienzo teñido en algunas partes al parecer con sangre, y asi parece del velo
desta Santa, de que hay mucha mencion en la Vida de Masona, Arzobispo de Merida. No se abrió esta Arca
pequeña, no otra de marfil, que alli dentro tambien está, por ser muy dificultoso de abrirlas.” Morales, Viaje
Santo, 84-85.
306
Miguel Vigil, Asturias monumental, 29.
156
and origins of this object.
307
It has been relatively little published and little studied,
appearing in Shalem’s corpus of Islamic objects in church treasuries, but not discussed in
308
any depth.
It does not appear in the influential 1995 catalogue, The Art of Medieval
Spain, and it has been more or less left out of accounts of both Islamic and Christian
medieval metalwork. This may in part be because of the reliquary’s current location in a
difficult to access Baroque baldachin, but it is also because of the casket’s formal
elements, which do not fit easily within what little we know of late eleventh-century
Islamic metalwork.
Given the inscription’s silence on such mundane matters as date and place of
manufacture, we must look for formal parallels. An important initial observation is the
fact that the truncated pitched-roof box shape of this metal casket imitates the form of
some ivory caskets made in al-Andalus in the tenth through twelfth centuries.
309
Given
that Morales mentions the presence of a smaller, ivory reliquary inside the current shrine,
the form of the metal casket is surely significant. Among these metalwork boxes that
share the same basic form of ivory caskets, one particular box stands out as a convincing
comparandum for the Oviedo reliquary of St. Eulalia: a small (8 x 17.7 x 11 cm) gilded
silver casket, decorated with niello, formerly in the treasury of San Isidoro and now at the
National Archaeological Museum in Madrid (Figure 3.21). The inscription on these two
boxes is nearly identical, and both share the “low truncated pyramid”-type lid.
307
308
309
310
Ruiz de la Peña, “Arte y reliquias.”
Shalem, Islam Christianized, cat. no. 207, 301.
Rosser-Owen, “Metal Mounts on Andalusi Ivories,” 302. See, for example, the silver, gilt, and niello
Gerona casket of 976: The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 38a, 94. For an ivory “version” of this form, see
the Victoria and Albert Museum casket (10-1866), made in Andalucía in the early eleventh century: The
Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 40, 95-96.
310
The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 45, 98.
157
Ángela Franco has suggested that the Madrid box may have been among the
objects donated by Fernando and Sancha to San Isidoro on 22 December 1063.
311
The
text of the donation describes “an ivory casket … and two more of ivory worked with
312
silver, in one of which sit three other small boxes made in the same fashion.”
She
suggests, furthermore, that this casket might be one of those three smaller caskets that
were contained inside of a larger one. While declaring herself not entirely in accord with
Franco’s hypothesis, Susana Calvo points to a series of stylistic comparanda from the
first half of the eleventh century. She points in particular to the perfume flask in Teruel,
dated to around 1044-1045, which has a similar combination of inscription and depiction
of animals, in this case birds.
313
She connects the birds of the Oviedo casket with similar
depictions found on an early eleventh-century ivory panel, a tenth-century textile
314
fragment, and an eleventh-century glazed ceramic bowl.
In a later publication,
however, Calvo returns to the Madrid casket and suggests an alternative, slightly later
315
date in the later eleventh or early twelfth century.
Part of Calvo’s problems dating the Madrid casket, and the closely connected
Oviedo casket, may have to do with the relative scarcity of firmly dated metalwork,
particularly silver, from the western Mediterranean during the Fatimid period (909-1171).
Precious little Fatimid metalwork has survived owing to the destruction of the Cairo
311
312
Franco Mata, ”El tesoro de San Isidoro,” 53.
“capsam eburneam … et alias duas eburneas argento laboratas, una ex eis sedent intus tres aliae
capsellae, in eodem opere factae.” Quoted in Franco Mata, ”El tesoro de San Isidoro,” 53.
313
314
See Cynthia Robinson’s catalogue entry in Al-Andalus, cat. no. 16, 219.
New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, John Steward Kennedy Fund, 1913, 13.141, Al-Andalus, cat.
no. 6, 203; Madrid, Instituto Valencia de Don Juan, 2071, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 20, 224-25; Madrid, Museo
Arqueológico Nacional, 74/48/30, Al-Andalus, cat. no. 32, 238-39.
315
Maravillas de la España medieval, cat. no. 21, 113.
158
treasury in 1062, and its sacking by the conquering Ayyubids in 1169.
316
Despite this, I
would like to suggest that the casket of St. Eulalia may have been made within a Fatimid
context, or perhaps in emulation of Fatimid silver.
317
The sole piece of metalwork that
can be firmly dated and attributed to Fatimid Cairo on the basis of its inscription is a
small (7.5 x 12.4 x 7.9 cm) gilded silver casket, decorated with niello, now in the treasury
of San Isidoro in León (Figure 3.22). The main inscription refers to the patron of the box,
Sadaqa ibn Yusuf. Calvo proposes that the man mentioned in the inscription can be
identified as Abu Mansur Sadaqa ibn Yusuf al-Falahi, vizier from 1044 to 1047 under the
Fatimid Caliph al-Mustansir billah (r. 1036-1094).
318
Like the Madrid casket with which
the casket of St. Eulalia is closely associated, this Fatimid box formed part of the treasury
of San Isidoro in León, where it still resides. As Calvo states, this second San Isidoro
casket raises important questions about “the reciprocal artistic influences of Islamic Spain
and Fatimid Egypt in the tenth and eleventh centuries.”
319
The other San Isidoro casket
now in Madrid has an Andalusian provenance, and it may have been made at least in part
in emulation of contemporary Fatimid metalwork from North Africa.
A series of small decorative details likewise point to a potential North African
Fatimid (or emulation of Fatimid) context for the production of the casket of St. Eulalia.
The distinctive striped turbans worn by the figures can be seen in a textile fragment from
320
the second half of the eleventh century and attributed to Fatimid silk workshops.
316
For an excellent introduction, see Ward, Islamic Metalwork, 60-69. See also the exhibition catalogues,
Trésors fatimides cu Caire and Schätze der Kalifen. On the artistic and architectural production of the
Fatimids more generally, see Bloom, Arts of the City Victorious.
317
For the following discussion, I am deeply indebted to Mariam Rosser-Owen of the Victoria and Albert
Museum, who kindly shared her thoughts on the casket of St. Eulalia, pointing me towards a Fatimid
context for this piece.
318
319
320
The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47, 99-100.
The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 47, 100.
Collection Jean-François Bouvier no. JFB M 92. Schätze der Kalifen, cat. no. 44, 100-01.
159
Another textile fragment, this time a piece of royal tiraz silk made in North Africa in the
seventh or eighth century, contains quadripartite heart-shapes similar to those on the
321
Oviedo casket.
The distinctive interlocking Y pattern of the background appears in a
322
pair of thirteenth century candlesticks, made in Ayyubid Egypt or Syria.
The later date
of these Ayyubid pieces should not lead us to think that the Oviedo casket must, perforce,
date to the thirteenth century. James W. Allan has argued that much Ayyubid metalwork,
which survives in far greater numbers than Fatimid metalwork, adopted Fatimid
323
decorative motifs.
One of the most striking aspects of the casket of St. Eulalia is its simplified forms
and repetitive iconography of a seated ruler figure flanked by cupbearers. The polylobed
roundels on the casket of St. Eulalia recall forms found in ivory carving, such as the
Pamplona casket. The roundels on the Oviedo casket are considerably more schematic
and simplified than the luxurious Pamplona casket, however. Moreover, while the ninthand tenth-century ivories of al-Andalus and the twelfth- and thirteenth-century inlaid
metalwork of Ayyubid North Africa combine multiple compositions, the Oviedo casket
repeats the same composition of the royal figure flanked by cupbearers. This
simultaneous evocation and simplification of established motifs recalls the ivory work of
eleventh-century Cuenca, in which the traditions of the magnificent Cordoban ivory
workshops underwent dramatic change following the dissolution of the Umayyad
caliphate into the taifa states.
321
322
324
Caskets such as the reliquary of St. Dominic of Silos
Victoria and Albert Museum, 1314-1888.
A cast bronze and silver and gold inlaid candlestick made in Cairo ca. 1270, discussed by James W.
Allan, Islamic Metalwork, cat. no. 13, 80-83; a mid-thirteenth-century candlestick from Ayyubid Syria or
Egypt in the British Museum, discussed in O’Kane, Treasures of Islamic Art, no. 91, 107.
323
324
Allan, “‘My Father is the Sun.’”
I am grateful to Therese Martin for drawing my attention to this comparison.
160
and the Palencia casket contain forms which are considerably simplified and repetitive in
comparison to their Cordoban predecessors.
325
Not long after their initial manufacture, these Cuenca ivories entered church
treasuries and were used to house relics. Both the Palencia and Silos caskets were
substantially adapted by the addition of new mounts and hinges in the mid-twelfth
century, which clearly stand apart in terms of medium (metal and enamel). Shalem has
326
argued that such re-mounting acted as a symbolic Christianization of Islamic objects.
While the fate of these Cuenca ivories seems to bear out his hypothesis, when we look at
the mounts and hinges on our Andalusian and North African boxes, they have not been so
obviously “Christianized.” Rosser-Owen has recently examined the metal mounts on a
group of tenth-century Cordoban ivories, concluding that these mounts are in all
327
likelihood original.
Rosser-Owen reminds us that we should pay close attention to
these often overlooked elements of caskets and pyxides, for the metal mounts can
potentially tell us a great deal about the manufacture and circulation of these enigmatic
objects.
A case in point is the mount on the Fatimid San Isidoro casket, which contains an
inscription on the underside of the lock itself identifying the maker, a certain ‘Uthman
(see Figure 3.22). The playful placement of this inscription on the mid-eleventh-century
San Isidoro casket recalls a similar inscription on the underside of the lock on the 976
328
Gerona casket, also known as the casket of al-Hisham II.
The mounts on the Oviedo
and Madrid caskets have not, to my knowledge, been studied, but a few initial
observations suggest that these mounts can help us to understand the production and
325
Reliquary of St. Dominic, 1026, Burgos, Museo Arqueológico Provincial, The Art of Medieval Spain,
cat. no. 132, 273-74. Palencia Casket, 1049, Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 57371, Al-Andalus,
cat. no. 7, 204-06.
326
327
328
Shalem, Islam Chrisitanized, 132-33.
Rosser-Owen, “Metal Mounts on Andalusi Ivories,” 307-10.
Al-Andalus, cat. no. 9, 208-09.
161
circulation of these objects. While the mounts on the Oviedo and Madrid caskets appear
to interrupt the inscription on the lid, the lobed heart-like shape of the lock on the Oviedo
casket seems to emulate the form of its polylobed roundels. The locking mechanism of
the Oviedo casket consists of a bar that passes through a pair of small metal rings on
either side of the lock, somewhat similar to the locking mechanism of the Gerona casket.
I would like to suggest that we cannot eliminate the possibility that these mounts are of
Islamic manufacture, perhaps added in al-Andalus before moving up north to Oviedo and
León. This complicates the interpretation of such Islamic caskets as triumphalist booty,
given that they were not physically modified for their new liturgical or reliquary use.
Islamic objects proliferated in church treasuries in medieval Iberia not merely
because of the rhetoric of Reconquest and the desire to dominate the Muslim south by
possessing its treasures, but also because these Islamic objects were readily adaptable to
new liturgical uses. Indeed, sometimes they needed no physical adaptation at all. The
form of the truncated pyramid roof caskets in Oviedo and Madrid was identical to that of
several reliquaries in the treasuries of both Oviedo and San Isidoro, in and before the
329
eleventh century.
The use of a casket of Islamic manufacture as a reliquary for the
newly rediscovered relics of St. Eulalia seems to have posed no problem for Pelayo, and
the form of this casket was seen as appropriate for the new liturgical context offered by
the imported liturgy from Narbonne. I wish to turn now to look more closely as this
reformed liturgical context in the diocese of Oviedo, and in Iberia in general.
Ritual Frames: From Liturgical Reform to the Feast of the Relics
Pelayo’s reference to seeking out new liturgical texts in Narbonne must be placed
in the context of the liturgical reform undertaken on the Iberian peninsula in the eleventh
century by Alfonso VI in the realms of Castilla and León, and Sancho III el Mayor in
329
San Isidoro: Casket, made in León (?) in the eleventh century, now Museo Arqueológico Nacional
51.053, The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 120, 255-56; reliquary of St. Pelagius, made in León, 1099 or
earlier, still in the treasury of San Isidoro, The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. no. 109, 236-37. Oviedo: Agate
Casket, made in Oviedo in the tenth century and still in the cathedral treasury.
162
330
Navarra.
Examination of the textual references to liturgical reform within the writings
of Pelayo, as well as in the 1075 document discussed above, add nuance to our picture of
331
the liturgical landscape of eleventh- and twelfth-century Iberia.
The centralizing
authority of Toledo has overshadowed the varieties of reform and its multiple geographic
centers during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. I begin by examining the career of an
often-overlooked character described in the putative 1075 document recounting the
opening of the Arca Santa: Bishop Poncius, or Ponce. Ponce attempted to open the Arca a
generation before Arias and Alfonso VI, but was unable to open the reliquary because a
blinding light emitted from it. This Ponce was, in fact, the bishop of Oviedo between
approximately 1025 and 1030.
332
In what follows, I examine the career of this
churchman and what his presence in Oviedo might tell us about the meaning of liturgical
reform within the writings of Pelayo.
Although his career in Oviedo remains poorly understood, the rest of Ponce’s
career has been well studied. Ponce began his ecclesiastical life as a monk in one of the
great Catalan monasteries, either Ripoll or Cuixà. By 1004, he was abbot of San
Saturnino de Tabérnoles, and in 1018 he appears closely linked to the court of Sancho el
Mayor (r. 1004-1035) in Pamplona. Over a generation before Alfonso VI’s efforts in the
1080s, Sancho el Mayor promoted liturgical reform in the territories within the kingdom
of Navarra.
333
As Charles Bishko and Derek Lomax have argued, Catalan churchmen
played an important role in the Sancho el Mayor’s reforms.
334
Ponce himself participated
actively in this process, for he was responsible for the liturgical restructuring of the newly
330
Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano. See also the essays in Reilly, ed., Santiago, Saint-
Denis and Saint Peter.
331
332
333
Rubio Sadia, “El cambio de rito,” 13-15.
Riu, “Ponce de Tabernoles;” Sánchez Candeira, “El obispado de Oviedo.”
Ayala Martínez, Sacerdocio y reino; Martínez Diez, Sancho III el Mayor; Sancho el Mayor y sus
herederos.
334
Bishko, “Fernando I y los orígenes;” Lomax, “Catalans in the Leonese Empire.”
163
reconquered see of Palencia between 1032 and 1034, and he chose the first bishop of
Palencia, Bernardo I (r. 1034-1043), a fellow Catalan. This has led to some speculation
that Ponce himself left Oviedo in approximately 1030 because of conflict about liturgical
335
reform, although no documentary evidence of this has come to light.
With this
background information about both Ponce himself and the importance of the Catalans and
their liturgy in the process of reform during the eleventh century, Pelayo’s references to
liturgical texts from Narbonne take on a particular significance.
As Rubio Sadia points out, during the eighth and ninth centuries, the Catalan
territories were under the control of the bishopric of Narbonne, from whom the Catalans
received the reformed Roman liturgy.
336
Rubio Sadia traces signs of this Narbonne
liturgy in the surviving breviaries of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries from the see of
Palencia, concluding that Palencia “took on the Francoroman rite in its Catalan-Narbonne
expression.”
337
The connection between Oviedo and Palencia in the figure of Bishop
Ponce places Pelayo’s actions in the wider context of liturgical reform in the late eleventh
century, and within the specific context of the Catalan-influenced liturgical reform we see
during the early phase of what now appears like a gradual process of the transfer from the
Hispanic to the Francoroman rite on the Iberian Peninsula.
338
This Catalan influence stands in subtle but significant contrast to the growing
influence of the newly restored diocese of Toledo after 1086. Rubio Sadia has
distinguished between these two general ecclesiastical and liturgical spheres of influence
339
in the wider context of Iberian church reform.
Perhaps we have here another example
of Pelayo’s resistance to Toledan ecclesiastical hegemony, shown clearly in the constant
335
336
337
338
339
Sánchez Candeira, “El obispado de Oviedo,” 623.
Rubio Sadia, “La liturgia catalana-narbonense,” 265.
Rubio Sadia, “La liturgia catalana-narbonense,” 272.
Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano, 35-57.
Rubio Sadia, La recepción del rito francorromano, chapter 8.
164
disputes over episcopal authority during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. It
also renders problematic the reference in the putative 1075 document of Alfonso VI to
the presence of Toledan clerics at the opening of the Arca Santa. If the events described
had, in fact, taken place in 1075, that would have been prior to Alfonso’s conquest of the
city in 1080, and to the restoration of the see in 1086. Moreover, Pelayo’s references to
the change of rite in the Liber Cronicorum do not mention Toledo at all, emphasizing
340
instead the roles of Alfonso VI and Gregory VII.
The liturgical innovation displayed by Pelayo in the context of the cult of St.
Eulalia suggests that he might have engaged in a similar process for the relics of the Arca
Santa. Unfortunately, our knowledge of the liturgical use of the reliquary and the space of
the Cámara Santa during the twelfth century is very limited. The late twelfth-century text
discussed above mentions the presence of pilgrims around and beneath the Arca, but we
do not know what—if any—more formal liturgical rituals took place there. We do,
however, know more about the liturgical use of the Cámara Santa beginning in the
fourteenth century. In the Libro de las Constituciones, the cartulary known as the Libro
Becerro, and the liturgical manuscript Kalendas III, all made under the auspices of
Bishop Gutierre de Toledo (r. 1377-1389), we find instructions on “how to perform and
solemnize the celebration of the Invention of the Relics and the Anniversary of King
Alfonso.”
341
The so-called Feast of the Relics is a two-day ceremony, starting on the
thirteenth of March in commemoration of the 1075 opening of the Arca by Alfonso VI.
There are two sets of vespers, a procession, mass, and the office of De plurimorum
martirum. The second day saw the celebration of a funeral mass for the soul of King
Alfonso.
340
Sánchez Alonso, ed., Crónica del Obispo Don Pelayo, 80. The passage can be found in BN MS 1513,
fol. 67v.
341
“cómmo se ha de fazer et sollempnizar la fiesta de la Invención de las Reliquias et de la aniversaria del
rey don Alfonso.” ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol. 11v-12r; Libro Becerro, fol. 42r-45v; and
Kalendas III, fol. 17v. The first is transcribed by Fernández Conde in Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.
165
The liturgy of the Feast of the Relics appears more fully developed in the 1556
breviary printed for Bishop Cristóbal de Rojas y Sandoval. The text of the breviary
elaborates on tropes found in the writings of Pelayo. The Arca becomes, implicitly, a
kind of new Ark of the Covenant, to be praised joyfully with the sound of musical
instruments as the language of the liturgy echoes that of the psalms. The priest recites the
story of the Arca’s wanderings, and describes Alfonso VI and Urraca’s opening of the
Arca in 1075. The respondents then praise Oviedo as a blessed city, sacralized by the
presence of these relics. The priest picks up the narrative of the opening once more,
enumerating the relics found inside, which constitutes by far the longest portion of the
written liturgy. This enumeration of the relics is virtually identical to that found in the
Valenciennes manuscript, including the list of saints “extra archam.” The one exception
is the absence of the relics of Alfonso II in the breviary text’s list of the relics “extra
archam,” an omission which takes on meaning in the context of the other half of the
liturgy of the relics: the anniversary for King Alfonso.
There appears to be some uncertainty about which king is being commemorated:
Alfonso VI or Alfonso II. The 1556 breviary reads, “Blessed be those who built you; you,
too, will rejoice with the relics of the saints.”
342
This may be a reference to Alfonso II,
but by far the most notable protagonist in the Feast of the Relics is Alfonso VI. In
Gutierre of Toledo’s constitution establishing the feast, he states that an anniversary
should be performed for Alfonso VI, whose generous donation of the lands of Langreo
supplies the funds for the celebration. A marginal note in the liturgical manuscript
Kalendas III also refers to saying a mass for the soul of the “Rey Don Alffonso el Bono
que dio el castello de Lagneo a la iglesia.” Despite the fact that both of these texts clearly
refer to Alfonso VI, Javier Fernández Conde states that the anniversary commemorated is
343
that of Alfonso II.
342
None of the sources that I have consulted suggest that Alfonso II
“Benedicti erunt qui te edificaverunt: tu autem letaberis cum sanctorum reliquiis.” Biblioteca Central de
la Universidad de Oviedo, A-153, fol. 37r.
343
Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 205, note 218.
166
was the protagonist of the Feast of the Relics, so Fernández Conde’s conflation of the two
Alfonsos is perplexing. This Alfonsine confusion merits closer study.
According to the Valenciennes manuscript, Alfonso II’s relics are to be found in
the Cámara Santa. While they do refer to the Cross of Angels donated by the king in the
early ninth century, neither Pelayo’s account of the Arca Santa nor the liturgical text of
the sixteenth-century breviary make any mention of the presence of the relics of Alfonso
II in the Cámara Santa. What are we to make, then, of the presence of his remains as
relics in the Cámara Santa in the account of the Valenciennes codex? As we have seen,
the figure of Alfonso II was consciously cultivated as the patron and point of origin for
the Cámara Santa, a sort of ideal king whose enthusiasm for artistic and architectural
patronage was matched only by his Christian virtue. As such, the presence of his remains
in the Cámara Santa is not surprising, but a problem arises when we recall that among his
building projects was a royal pantheon in the church later known as Santa María del Rey
Casto. As Alonso Álvarez has argued, by the time of Alfonso III (d. 910) at the very
latest, this church was understood as a royal pantheon for the Asturian rulers of
Oviedo.
344
According to the version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III in Pelayo’s Liber
345
Cronicorum, Alfonso II’s body was buried in “ab eo fundata ecclesia,” Santa María.
The physical presence of the king in the space of the Cámara Santa thus appears to be in
doubt, but his presence as patron and donor of the Cross of Angels and of the Cámara
Santa itself is undeniable.
Liturgy is, of course, subject to constant change, particularly in response to the
built environment that forms the stage for liturgical performance. While the precise
physical shape of the Feast of the Relics—the spaces in which its various stages were
performed—remains unclear, a few clues have come down to us. The 1383 constitution
establishing the Feast of the Relics requires that the vespers and mass be said in the
344
345
Alonso Álvarez, “Los enterramientos de los reyes.”
Gil Fernández, Moralejo, and Ruiz de la Peña, eds., Crónicas asturianas, ad Seb. version, ch. 22, 141.
167
346
Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, “which is in front of the chapel of the relics.”
Cuesta
Fernández, archivist and canon of the cathedral during the first half of the twentieth
century, states that “there was always an altar with its retable in the right-hand corner of
347
this space,” before which the Feast of the Relics was celebrated (Figure 3.23).
Just as
the cult of the relics was amplified in the later Middle Ages, physical access to the relics
became increasingly mediated. In the late fifteenth century, the south transept was
348
completed and the Cámara Santa completely absorbed into the body of the cathedral.
The celebrations took advantage of the expanded field, as it were, of the Cámara Santa—
the series of antechambers built between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries that
mediate access to the holy chamber.
Early Modern Medieval: Representing Relics in the Sixteenth Century
All of these means of celebrating the relics of the Arca Santa that I have discussed
thus far—inscriptions, documents, chronicles, and liturgy—share a common impetus to
represent the Arca Santa and its contents, rendering them visible in some form. I wish
now to turn to another attempt to represent the Arca Santa, this time through the media of
painting and sculpture. Four painted and sculpted wood panels formerly on view in the
346
ACO MS 6 (Libro de las Constituciones), fol.12r. “Por ende, establescemos que perpetuamientre para
siempre jamás en el día de la Inuención et Reuelación destas sanctas Reliquias, que son treze días del mes
de março, sea siesta doble de seys capas con procesión de capas et díganse las viespras et otro día misa en
la capiella de la Sancta María Magdalena, que es ante la capiella de las Reliquias et que se digan las oras et
officio de la missa De plorimorum martirum, fasta quel obispo faga ordenar la estoria propria.” Edited by
Fernández Conde, Gutierre de Toledo, 332-33.
347
“En el rincón de la derecha de esta estancia, hubo siempre un altar con su retablo; primero fué San
Antolín, más tarde de Santa María Magdalena, ultimamente de Nuestra Señora de Covadonga. Ante este
altar se celebraba antiguamente la Fiesta de las Santas Reliquias con Misa cantada de Canónigos y
Beneficiados, procesión con capas por la Iglesia, etcétera, etcétera. En los últimos años se redujó a sólo la
Misa cantada y hasta eso desapareció con la voladura del año 1934.” Cuesta Fernández, Guía de la
Catedral de Oviedo, 91-92.
348
Caso, La Catedral de Oviedo, 100-14. His discussion is purely architectural, and does not mention
liturgy or function in any way.
168
Cámara Santa and now in the cathedral museum contain unique imagery that engages
with the history and sacred contents of the Cámara Santa, particularly moments of
important royal patronage embodied in the Arca Santa and the Cross of the Angels
(Figure 3.24). These panels reconfigure and reactivate the medieval relics of the Cámara
Santa in a contemporary sixteenth-century context, creating an ongoing dialogue between
the past and the present, bringing together all of the textual sources we have discussed
thus far.
Dated on stylistic grounds to the first half of the sixteenth century, what little
attention these panels have received from art historians has focused on their potential
attribution to the circle of Alonso Berruguete (1490-1561). Berruguete had been
contracted by the chapter to work on the retable for the main altar of the cathedral in
1522, but conflict between the artist and the chapter put an untimely end to his time in
Oviedo.349 The panels, which conserve their original polychromy, are certainly of high
artistic quality, and stand out as among the few self-consciously “Renaissance” works in
the cathedral museum. The attribution to the circle of Berruguete is suggestive, and I
argue that a series of events in the mid to late sixteenth century provide a compelling
context for the production of these panels. Rather than focus on these questions of dating
and attribution, however, I wish first to concentrate on the rich iconography of these
panels.
Four panels survive, with polychromed carving on one side and painting alone on
the other. The recent catalogue entry on these panels suggests that they can be identified
as part of what Ambrosio de Morales described in his 1572 Viaje Santo as “a wooden
reliquary […] richly made, gilded and painted both outside and inside on its two
doors.”350 These panels may have formed the reliquary’s decorated doors, displayed with
349
Ramallo Asensio, “Propuesta de atribución.” See also the catalogue entry by Javier González Santos in
Museo de la Iglesia, 252-58.
350
“Al lado derecho [of the central window] esta un Relicario de madera, dos varas y más en alto, y una en
ancho. Es de talla muy rica y costosa, dorada, y estofada dentro y fuera en las dos puertas que tiene, aunque
dentro está mucho más costoso.” Morales, Viaje santo, 75-76.
169
the rest of the treasures of the Cámara Santa. In the absence of documentation about these
panels, we cannot know precisely when they were made or what kind of object of which
they formed a part, but their close relationship to the Arca Santa becomes clear as we
consider their iconography. Moreover, the way in which these panels formed part of a
pair of doors that were intended to open, revealing the contents inside, also connects to
the ongoing anxiety about visuality and access to the relics of the Arca Santa— which
was, in anything, intensified in this Counter-Reformation context.
The wooden reliquary consists of two registers of imagery. The left panel on the
upper register depicts the arms of King Charles V on one side, and saints Eulogius and
Vincent on the other (Figure 3.25). On the other panel is the coat of arms of Bishop
Cristobal de Rojas y Sandoval, and saints Lucretia and Eulalia (Figure 3.26).
351
As we
have already seen, the reliquaries of all four of these saints are mentioned in several
medieval and early modern texts as being located around the Arca Santa. In lower
register, the left-hand panel has a painting of the angel Gabriel on one side, and a
depiction of Alfonso II surrounded by clerics and courtiers on the other (Figure 3.27).
The second panel contains the Virgin Mary on one side, while on the reverse, Alfonso VI
kneels before the open Arca Santa in the company of numerous churchmen (Figure 3.28).
These two panels must be read in conjunction. Alfonso II gazes across to the other panel,
and the crowd in the background seems to occupy one continuous architectural space.
Finally, the painting on the reverse of these two panels underscores their connection. On
the panel with Alfonso II, we see the angel Gabriel, half of an Annunciation. On the other
panel is the Virgin Mary, completing the scene.
Although I am arguing for the structural and conceptual connection between these
panels, it is difficult to know the nature of the object of which they formed a part. We do,
however, have visual evidence of the display of the panels in the Cámara Santa from the
late nineteenth century. Undated late-nineteenth-century photographs show these panels,
carved sides facing outwards, flanking the small window at the east end. On the left side,
we see the panel with saints Eulogius and Vincent atop that of Alfonso II, while on the
351
Identified by Hevia Ballina, “Santa Eulalia emeritense,” 156.
170
right, the panel with saints Eulalia and Lucretia is atop that of Alfonso VI (Figure
3.29).352
Let us turn now to the most iconographically rich of the panels. Surrounded by
churchmen, Alfonso VI kneels before an open reliquary, filled with smaller boxes (see
Figure 3.30). This is clearly none other than the miraculous opening of the Arca Santa by
King Alfonso VI, one of the most important episodes in the history of the cathedral. To
my knowledge, this is the earliest visual representation of the event, a fact which has not
received any attention but which I think is fundamental to the interpretation of this image.
As we have seen, medieval sources are remarkably silent about this event. Bishop
Pelayo does not mention the episode. In the face of Pelayo’s silence about the opening of
the Arca in 1075, we rely on the epigraphic and documentary record for evidence of this
event. The inscription on the lid of the Arca is problematic, being badly damaged and
completely illegible in certain crucial sections, including where it mentions the date of
the events described. This leaves us with the documentary record, which consists of the
pair of thirteenth-century documents discussed earlier. Unlike Pelayo’s account, the
documents are quite terse, and give no details about the Arca’s origins or the individuals
involved in its migration north. Another important difference with the Pelagian account is
the inclusion of the story of the previous Bishop Ponce’s attempt to open the Arca. This
unfortunate reforming bishop was not successful in his attempt, for he and all those who
accompanied him were blinded by a light that emitted from the reliquary when they tried
to open it. This contrasts with the ceremony described in the rest of the document, in
which Alfonso VI and his court succeed in opening the Arca and inventorying its
contents.
Specific details in the iconography enrich our reading of this panel. The
inscription along the bottom refers to “King Alfonso the Great,” and includes a nowillegible date—rather like the damaged portion of the inscription on the Arca Santa.
352
In 1919, the reliquary cabinet in the Cámara Santa was taken apart during the archaeological
investigation and restoration undertaken by José Cuesta Fernández and Arturo de Sandoval. See the
discussion in their Trabajos realizados en la Cámara Santa, 22.
171
Thanks to photographs from the early twentieth century, we can see details that are now
missing after the panel was damaged in the bombing of the Cámara Santa in 1934 (Figure
3.31). With the help of these photographs, it is possible to reconstruct the inscription
above the head of the leftmost figure on the panel, who is labeled “PONCIVS”—a clear
allusion to the eleventh-century bishop who failed to open the Arca. Along the top of the
panel, it is possible to make out the names of the three bishops who, according to the pair
of thirteenth-century documents, accompanied Alfonso VI in the opening ceremony,
namely, Arias of Oviedo, Bernard of Palencia, and Simeon of Oca. But other details
appear out of place to our eyes, for they cannot be traced to the account as it is
transmitted in our documents. Instead, we must look to later sources, particularly those
from the sixteenth century.
First, the figures are in contemporary sixteenth-century dress. This is particularly
notable in the case of the kneeling king, who wears the characteristic chain of the Order
of the Golden Fleece around his neck. The arms of Charles V painted on the reverse of
another panel in this group make the imperial connection explicit. In 1517, Charles V
arrived at Villaviciosa on the Asturian coast for the first time after being declared king of
Castilla and Aragón. Though Luis de Carvallo tells us that the emperor had intended to
travel to Oviedo to venerate the relics of the Cámara Santa, plague prevented him from
visiting the city.
353
Charles V here echoes the actions of his predecessor Alfonso VI,
establishing a parallelism between the two monarchs. Even if the emperor never made it
to Oviedo, he is present in the Cámara Santa thanks to the depiction on this panel.
A pair of events from the second half of the sixteenth century provides a
suggestive context for this representation of the opening of the Arca Santa. In book 13 of
his Crónica General, Ambrosio de Morales gives a detailed account—apparently taken
first-hand from the bishop himself—of a failed attempt by Bishop Cristobal de Rojas y
Sandoval to open the Arca. Rojas y Sandoval was bishop of Oviedo from 1546 until
1556, so the attempt must have taken place some time during that decade. Morales
353
“No se fue por Oviedo, aunque lo deseava mucho, por visitar las Santas Reliquias, por aver mucha
peste.” Carvallo, Antiguëdades y cosas memorables, part 3, título 49, chapter 1, 459.
172
recounts how the bishop ordered prayers and processions to take place for three days
before the Sunday that he planned to open the Arca. When that day arrived, the bishop
said mass in the cathedral and then climbed up the stairs to the Cámara Santa, where he
knelt in prayer before the relics. When he tried to insert the key to open the Arca,
however, he was seized by fear and unable to open the lock. As Morales says, “the Arca
remained unopened on that day, and I believe it will remain unopened forever, sealed
more tightly thanks to veneration and reverence, and to the effect of these examples, than
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by the thickness of the bolt of its lock.”
Despite the seeming finality of this pronouncement, in 1588 another bishop of
Oviedo attempted to open the Arca Santa—this time successfully. The most detailed
account of this event comes from a brief text written by Juan Pérez de Peredes, a canon of
Oviedo, which survives in a copy printed sometime around 1621. Pérez de Peredes tells
us how, on 25 January 1588, Bishop Diego Aponte de Quiñones, together with other
members of the cathedral chapter including the historian Tirso de Avilés and the notary
Cristobal Gutierrez de Santillana, paid a visit to the relics of the Cámara Santa. The
bishop had for several days in a row performed mass in the Cámara Santa, and after this
liturgical preparation, the assembled company proceeded to inventory the relics therein.
When they get to the Arca Santa, he lists with great precision the contents, specifying the
physical appearance of the relics, whether they were found within smaller containers or
loose inside the Arca, and whether they were accompanied by identifying labels or not.
354
355
“Assi se quedo por abrir ento[n]ces al arca santa y assi creo se quedara sie[m]pre, mucho mas cerrada
con la veneracion y reuere[n]cia y con el respecto destos exemplos, que con es gruesso pestillo de su
cerradura.” Morales, Crónica General, book 13, ch. 38, fol. 66v. The reference to a lock is perplexing, for
the Arca has no visible locking mechanism.
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“En la camara santa de la Yglesia Catedral de la ciudad de Oviedo, a veinte y cinco dias del mes de
Enero, de mil y quinientos y ochenta y ocho años, Don Diego Aponte de Quiñones Obispo de Oviedo,
Conde de Noreña, del Consejo de su Majestad, aviendo antes tratado en el Cabildo de la dicha santa
Yglesia, como queria visitar las santas Reliquias que en la dicha camara santa, e Yglesia estavan, y aviendo
el dicho Cabildo nombrado al Doctor don Juan de Illanes Maestre Escuela, y a don Gonçalo de Solis
Arcediano de Benavente, y a los Canonigos, Diego Menendez de Acellana, Juan de la [illegible] y Tirso se
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This act of inventorying the Arca Santa helps us to understand one of the most
striking details of the panel: the presence of myriad smaller caskets within the larger
Arca. Numerous sources mention that multiple caskets were found inside the Arca. For
example, Luis de Carvallo tells us that, when the Arca was opened in the presence of
Alfonso VI, “they found many caskets, little arks, and other reliquaries, all filled with
innumerable relics, with rotuli describing the contents of each one.”
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The representation
on the panel thus speaks to this textual conflation of the episode of Alfonso VI’s opening
of the Arca with later inventories of its contents. In addition, the trope of the large
reliquary containing one or more smaller reliquaries is familiar from Pelayo’s own
account of the reliquary of St. Eulalia, which, it will be recalled, contained a smaller
ivory casket within it.
The iconography of this panel points to several different historical moments,
attempts—both successful and unsuccessful—to open the Arca Santa. A clear parallelism
emerges when considering the events of the sixteenth century and those of the eleventh, a
parallelism which is underscored by the representation on this panel. The presence of the
unfortunate Ponce, clearly labeled, calls to mind the failed attempt in the sixteenthcentury to open the Arca described by Morales, while Bishop Aponte de Quiñones’s
successful inventory of the Arca’s contents mimics that of Alfonso VI. Sixteenth-century
attempts to open the Arca Santa provide a suggestive context for the production of these
panels. The imagery speaks to contemporary events, and suggests that we should not date
Aviles, Canonigos y prebenda[?] de la dicha santa Yglesia, para que asistiesen / a la dicha visita, y
hallandose presentes, y otros del gremio de la dicha santa Yglesia, y aviendo dicho Missa su señoria en la
dicha camara santa, el dicho dia, y otros dias antes, començo la dicha visita, ante los susodichos, y con su
asistencia, ante mi Christoval Gutierrez de Santillana, Canonigo en la dicha santa Yglesia, Secretario de su
Señoria, y Notario publico Apostolico: la qual dicha visita començo en la forma siguiente” Juan Pérez de
Peredes, Relación sumaria de... las santas reliquias, que estan en la Sta. Iglesia Catedral de Oviedo.1621?
BN MS 2/12929, no foliation.
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“se manifestó el celestial tesoro abriendose el Arca, donde hallaron muchas Caxas, Arquecitas, y otros
Relicarios, y todo lleno de innumerables Reliquias, con rotulos de lo que era cada una.” Carvallo,
Antiguëdades y cosas memorables, 308.
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the panels any earlier than Rojas y Sandoval’s initial failed attempt to open the Arca in
the mid-sixteenth century, a dating still consistent with previous attributions to the circle
or workshop of Alonso Berruguete, if not the master himself.
The 1556 breviary’s description and inventory of numerous arks re-enact
liturgically the opening of the Arca Santa, its verbal display of the Arca’s contents acting
as a sort of annual re-activation of the power of the relics and the history of the Cámara
Santa and its royal patrons. The chronology of these panels is of crucial importance for
understanding the history of the cult of the relics and their status as objects of pilgrimage,
underscoring the significance of the early modern reception and reconfiguration of
medieval history. The depiction seamlessly weaves together various traditions
surrounding the reliquary, in the process creating a modern vision of the Arca Santa that
is framed in medieval terms.
*
*
*
In this chapter, I have laid out a constellation of objects, texts, and ceremonies
that surround and mediate the Arca Santa and its sacred contents. The variety of
mediating frames between the Arca and its audience of pilgrims and clerics points to the
fundamental incompleteness and instability of the reliquary, and of the larger collection
of which it was a part in the treasury of the Cámara Santa. Rather than attempting to
locate the Arca Santa’s manufacture and meaning in a single time and place, it is this
instability which I have found most productive for my analysis.
On the one hand, I have offered a straightforward chronological argument,
following Moralejo in dating the production of the reliquary’s silver revetment to the late
eleventh-century episcopacy of Arias (r. 1073-1092/1094). The depiction of the Maiestas
Domini in the opening folia of the Liber Testamentorum does not, therefore, precede the
Arca, but rather follows it, forming part of Pelayo’s larger project to enhance the
antiquity and importance of this reliquary. We have also seen how access to the relics
inside the Arca gradually increased from the time of the reliquary’s making, from the
more verbal and textual means of didactic inscriptions, documents inventorying its
contents, and liturgical commemoration, to more visual means employed in the CounterReformation context of the sixteenth century. On the painted and sculpted panels from
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the wooden reliquary cabinet formerly in the Cámara Santa, we see the innards of the
Arca revealed quite literally in the form of myriad smaller caskets.
On the other hand, we have seen how in its decoration the Arca itself strives for
an antiquity that transcends its more prosaic manufacture in the late eleventh century.
Pelayo himself did his utmost to enhance the venerable antiquity of the reliquary through
his myriad writings on its miraculous origins and fantastic journey to Asturias. This
highly self-conscious striving for antiquity has contributed to a temporal instability that
has dominated the art historical fortunes of the Arca, as scholars since Manuel Gómez
Moreno in the early twentieth century have debated the date of the Arca Santa. As I
suggest, proposing a date for the production of the reliquary’s silver revetment is far from
being the last word in the study of the Arca Santa. Instead, viewing it in the context of the
numerous relics and reliquaries “extra archam” helps us to come to an appreciation of the
activation of the Arca as a liturgical and devotional object.
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Chapter 4 Touching the Past: The Sculpture of the Cámara Santa
between Modern Restoration and Medieval Ritual
During the second half of the twelfth century, the Cámara Santa underwent a
series of dramatic changes that reoriented the relationship of the space and its decoration
to the relics contained within it, particularly the Arca Santa. In essence, the imagery and
significance of the Arca Santa took on monumental form, expanding to fill the enlarged
space of the Cámara Santa. Like Abbot Suger at Saint-Denis, the bishops of Oviedo were
concerned to harmonize the old and the new, for they respected the basic form of the
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building, especially the east end in which the relics were kept.
This space remained
unchanged, including the marble columns that flank the entrance to the eastern end. In the
rest of the Cámara Santa, a stone barrel vault was built and the height and strength of the
lateral walls was increased. Six pairs of column statues of the apostles were installed
along the lateral walls, and, finally, a Crucifixion scene, whose figures had sculpted
heads and painted bodies, was put in place on the western wall over the entrance to the
Cámara Santa. This late twelfth-century sculptural and architectural ensemble forms the
focus of this chapter (Figure 4.1).
The presence of the apostles on the walls of the Cámara Santa reminds viewers of
the apostolic origins of the Arca Santa itself, which Bishop Pelayo’s accounts of the Arca
so insist upon. These column figures, known as the apostolado, are organized into six
pairs of statues, three pairs directly across from one other on each wall. The viewer
encounters the first two pairs immediately upon entering the Cámara Santa. On the north
wall are Simon and Judas Thaddeus (Figure 4.2), and across from them are Thomas and
Bartholomew (Figure 4.3). Moving through the space, the next group of apostles is
located in the middle, between the entryway and the apse area. These are among the most
easily identifiable figures: Peter and Paul. Peter holds his characteristic keys, and Paul
appears balding and bearded (Figure 4.4). Across from this pair, in the center of the
357
Panofsky, ed. and trans., Abbot Suger; Speer and Binding, ed., Ausgewählte Schriften; Clark, “Suger’s
Church at Saint-Denis.”
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room, are John and James. James is depicted as a pilgrim, carrying a cross-headed staff
and a satchel adorned with a shell (Figure 4.5). His sculptural presence as a pilgrim
evokes the physical presence of numerous pilgrims who came to the Cámara Santa to
revere its relics. Like the pilgrims, he acts as a witness to the relics, affirming their
miraculous origins and enduring spiritual power. Looking towards the apse, it becomes
harder to identify the individual apostles. On the north wall is a pair that has been
identified as Andrew and Matthew (Figure 4.6), and across from them, James the Lesser
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and Philip (Figure 4.7).
These last four figures are not identified by any attribute or
inscription. Certainty about the identities of each of the figures is not necessary for the
ensemble as a whole to be meaningful, and Oviedo is far from the only site at which the
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precise identities of all of the apostles are unknown.
The sculptural decoration of the Cámara Santa plays out on multiple levels, from
the capitals of the double-columns and the impost blocks above them, to the bases that
support them. Several of the apostles stand on monstrous beasts or strange figures, and
the decoration is also carried out on the level of micro architecture—the miniature
capitals on the pedestals which support the sculpted double columns are adorned with
elaborate foliage or hybrid creatures. Three of the apostolado’s capitals display narrative
imagery, while the other three contain foliage, inhabited on two capitals by animals and
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armed fighters (see diagram, Figure 4.8).
358
Above Andrew and Matthew on the north
See the entry by Álvarez Martínez in García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds.,
Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 607-22. See also the essay/guidebook by Azcárate y Ristori,
Las esculturas de la Cámara Santa. Fernández Buelta argues that this figure should be identified as
Andrew.
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Similar problems are posed by the apostles of the Pórtico de la Gloria and the Sainte-Chapelle. For
Santiago, see Otero Túnez, “Los apóstoles de la arcada derecha.” The classic studies on the figures of the
Sainte-Chapelle are those of Salet, “Le statues d’apôtres” and his “Nouvelle note sur les statues.” See also
Weber, “Les grandes et les petites statues.”
360
The breakdown of capitals is as follows. On the north wall, starting at the western entrance and moving
east: Simon and Judas Thaddeus, uninhabited decorative foliage; James the Greater and John, Holy Family,
Annunciation, Isaiah and the Virgin, and the Harrowing of Hell; Andrew and Matthew, Christ in Majesty
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wall, the capital depicts Christ in Majesty, surrounded by eight of the apostles (Figure 4.
9). The most iconographically complex of the capitals are located in the center of the
space, above the figures of James and John on the north wall, and Peter and Paul on the
south wall. The capital above Peter and Paul contains a depiction of the three Marys at
the empty Tomb of Christ (Figure 4.10). Above James and John are a series of images.
On the west face, we see the Holy Family (Figure 4.11), while the front of the capital
contains the Annunciation and the Virgin accompanied by the prophet Isaiah (Figure
4.12). Finally, on the east face of the capital is a scene of the Harrowing of Hell (Figure
4.13). While the impost above the capital with the three Marys has elaborate foliate
decoration, the complex, narrative capital above James and John is surmounted by an
impost block containing what appears to be a depiction of a wild boar hunt.
The expansion and elaboration of the Cámara Santa constitutes an important
architectural and sculptural response to the growing cult of the relics of the Arca Santa.
The cathedral chapter—both the corporate entity and the architectural spaces built for its
members—offers a formal and functional context in which to place these twelfth-century
reforms. I highlight the role of the canons in this process, for they were the curators of the
space and its relics. Ambrosio de Morales speaks of the canons’ role when he visited
Oviedo in the sixteenth century: “The eldest canon tells the pilgrims about all of the relics
by means of a written text that is there for this purpose, which the canon learns by heart,
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and it is all very well organized.”
As I argue, the presence of the canons in the Cámara
Santa shapes the decoration itself, which resonates with the ritual use of the space by both
canons and pilgrims.
This focus on the function of the sculpture, and its relationship to its audience and
patrons, offers an alternative to previous scholarship on the site that has focused almost
surrounded by eight apostles. On the south wall, starting at the western entrance and moving east: Thomas
and Bartholomew, foliage inhabited by armed fighting figures; Peter and Paul, the three Marys at the tomb
of Christ; James the Lesser and Philip, foliage inhabited with animals and an armed figure.
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Morales, Viaje Santo, 85. “El Canonigo mas antiguo va relatando a los Peregrinos todas las Reliquias,
por escrito que hay para esto, el qual el aprende de coro, y es harto bien ordenado.”
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exclusively on style. The analysis of stylistic comparanda is, of course, crucial to
attempts to date the sculpture and place it in a wider art-historical context. Nevertheless,
no one has yet been able to point to any direct stylistic comparanda for the sculpture in
the Cámara Santa, and attempts to establish connections to known workshops have been
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largely unsuccessful.
Thus, the apostles of Oviedo languish in the gray area of the late
Romanesque.
It is my contention that the questions posed by the style of the apostles of Oviedo
cannot satisfactorily be answered given the site’s complex history of reconstruction. In
the first part of this chapter, I consider the restoration of the sculpture by the Asturian
artist Víctor Hevia Granda that took place first around 1919/1920, and again after the
explosion of 1934. I revisit the historiographic fortunes of the apostolado in light of the
problems of restoration, tracing the historiography of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa
down to the present day, when questions of the apostolado’s chronology depend less on
stylistic comparanda and more on patronage. I argue that the role played by the cathedral
canons as patrons has been overlooked thanks to inherited assumptions about the
importance of royal patronage—the desire to attribute the sculpture to the agency of
individual monarchs. The second half of the chapter returns to the late twelfth century,
placing the sculpture of the Cámara Santa in the context of the construction of the cloister
and the buildings associated with capitular life over the course of the twelfth century. I
look for comparanda not on the basis of style, but rather on the basis of the unusual
disposition of the sculpture in the interior of the space, which I connect to the sculptural
decoration of a handful of late-twelfth-century apses. I conclude by returning to the
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Most recently, see Ruiz de la Peña González, “La reforma románica;” Cosmen Alonso, María Herráez
Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica;” and Martínez Álvarez, El
Románico en Asturias and her entry on the Cámara Santa in the García Guinea, Pérez González, and
Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 607-22. Earlier twentieth-century
scholarship on the Cámara Santa was less concerned with precise workshops and more interested in general
stylistic filiation. See Pita Andrade, Los Maestros de Oviedo, 14-16 and Porter, Spanish Romanesque
Sculpture, 33-35 and his Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, vol 1, 261-63.
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iconography of the sculpture and its meaning in the liturgical and devotional context of
the Cámara Santa and the cult of the relics.
The Making of a Monument: From Nineteenth-Century Representation to
Twentieth-Century Reconstruction
The mis-en-valeur of the sculpture has gone hand in hand with its isolation from
the wider context of the Cámara Santa and the cathedral. One of the most striking aspects
of the history of the apostolado is the relatively little interest shown in the sculptures until
the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Until this time, attention was focused
almost exclusively on the Cámara Santa’s relics, including the building itself, understood
as an architectural relic of the time of King Alfonso II. Later medieval sources that
describe the Cámara Santa do not even mention the sculptures, and early modern
historians who provide detailed descriptions of the space and its contents are content
merely to mention the presence of the apostolado. Ambrosio de Morales states that “the
pillars which sustain the vault are rich marble in which have been sculpted twelve
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apostles, two by two, on each column, six on each side.”
While he does acknowledge
the existence of the sculpture, his brief reference pales in significance when compared to
the pages and pages that he dedicates to the relics of the Cámara Santa.
This relative neglect begins to shift in the second half of the nineteenth century,
which, not coincidentally, coincides with the period following the desamortizaciones, or
ecclesiastical confiscations, and subsequent creation of provincial Commissions of
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Monuments.
As we see elsewhere across Europe, periods of destruction tend to
correspond closely with the emergence of preservation movements, and an interest on the
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“los pilares sobre que se sustenta la boveda, son ricos mármoles en que estan entallados los doce
Apostoles de dos en dos, en cada columna, seis a cada lado.” Morales, Viaje Santo, 70.
364
For a general overview, see Martí Gilabert, La desamortización española. On Asturias, see Moro, La
desamortización en Asturias.
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part of scholars and the general public in the decaying monuments of the past.
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This is
certainly true in Spain, where the second half of the nineteenth century saw numerous
attempts to catalog and preserve national patrimony. In Asturias, the Provincial
Commission of Historical and Artistic Monuments (Comisión Provincial de Monumentos
Histórico-Artísitico) was established in 1844, charged with the creation and maintenance
of a museum of art and antiquities. The second half of the nineteenth century saw the
ongoing and often frustrated efforts of this nascent organization to establish a permanent
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seat and to care for its monuments.
Two major nineteenth-century publications are especially significant for the
development of the image of the Cámara Santa. In 1877, José Amador de los Ríos—
involved in the activities of the newly-founded Asturian Commission of Monuments—
completed a volume on Asturias as part of the short-lived series, Monumentos
arquitectónicos de España.
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Produced on a monumental scale and lavishly illustrated
with detailed engravings, Amador de los Ríos framed his work as scientific and
archaeological. The plan and elevation of the Cámara Santa that accompany his text are
rendered with the precision of scientific drawings. The artists have given the space a
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monumentality and grand scale, untroubled by human presence (Figure 4.14).
The
Cámara Santa is here presented purely as an object of study, abstracted from the
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The literature on this subject is vast. For a concise analysis, focussed on the French context, see Choay,
L’allégorie du patrimoine.
366
367
368
Adán Álvarez, “La comisión de monumentos.”
Sánchez de León Fernández, “El arte medieval y la Real Academia de Bellas Artes,” 845 ff.
While the detail of the cross-section of the Cámara Santa lists Ricardo Arredondo as the artist and D.
Martínez as the engraver, documents from the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando indicate
that the artist was the Italian Ricardo Frassinelli. A rather fabulous letter from Frassinelli to the
Commission requests that its members write on his behalf to the cathedral chapter of Oviedo, requesting
that he be given more than the two hours allotted to him by the chapter in the Cámara Santa, so that he
could finish his drawings. See Sánchez de León Fernández, “El arte medieval y la Real Academia de Bellas
Artes,” 1670, referring to document 3/192 in the Archivo San Fernando.
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architectural and liturgical context of the cathedral. The building has been dissected, its
contents laid out, analyzed, and labeled.
In a more Romantic vein, the artist Francisco Javier Parcerisa, together with a
series of authors, produced eleven volumes entitled Recuerdos y bellezas de España. The
volume for Asturias and León appeared in 1885. Its author, José María Quadrado,
dedicates several lines to a description of the apostolado, and the Cámara Santa is given
its own engraving, with minimal human presence. The space is given a scale and
monumentality belied by its relatively small size, and the sculptures here take on a certain
importance in this monumental vision of the Cámara Santa (Figure 4.15). This depiction
of the Cámara Santa contrasts with period photographs of the space before its restoration
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around 1920 (Figure 4.16).
The Commission of Monuments did manage to take
photographs inside the Cámara Santa around 1898/1899, and we see the whitewashed
walls, painted dado level and paintings cluttering the wall that would later be removed—
none of which appear in Parcerisa’s lithograph of 1885.
This late nineteenth-century photograph is a valuable witness to the actual
condition of the Cámara Santa before the more dramatic interventions of the twentieth
century. The vast majority of photographs, however, come from the period between the
first restoration campaign in 1920 and the destruction of 1934. The 1920s were the time
of the great “Spain or Toulouse” debate between the American scholar Arthur Kingsley
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Porter and the French scholar Émile Mâle.
Porter was a vocal proponent of the priority
of Spanish sculpture, articulated in his seminal work, Romanesque Sculpture of the
Pilgrimage Roads (1923). Porter was particularly enthusiastic about the apostolado of
Oviedo, writing that “[n]othing in Toulouse, nothing in Languedoc, nothing in Spain
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See the photographs in the Archivo Provincial de Asturias, caja 83735/3. A note on the reverse of these
photographs suggests that these photographs might have been taken in 1898.
370
Mann, “Romantic Identity,” as well as the chapter dedicated to this topic in her recent monograph,
Romanesque Architecture and its Sculptural Decoration. See also the work of Brush, especially “Arthur
Kingsley Porter, le Fogg Art Museum.”
183
(unless it be Santo Domingo de Silos), I almost wrote nothing in Europe, surpasses the
apostles of Oviedo.”
371
The photographs of the apostolado that Porter published were taken by
photographers working for the Archivo Mas in Barcelona, sometime between the first
restoration campaign in 1919/1920 and the destruction of 1934 (Figure 4.17).
372
These
photographs show the apostolado as isolated sculptural pairs, distinct from the
nineteenth-century engravings which clearly placed them in the architectural context of
the Cámara Santa. One reason for this may be the considerable difficulty in
photographing the entirety of the space. Photographs cannot convey both details of the
apostles themselves, and the relationship of the sculpture to its architectural setting. The
role that such photographs play in the formation of academic opinions about this
sculpture has not been taken into account, despite the importance of the photographic
medium in the creation of art-historical narratives in the early twentieth century. Indeed,
these photographs were used in numerous post-war publications on the medieval
sculpture of the Cámara Santa. Although the photographs did not change, the same
certainly cannot be said of the sculpture itself, which suffered considerable damage
during the explosion of the Cámara Santa in 1934.
Scholars’ silence and seeming lack of interest in the extent to which the physical
fabric of the sculptures themselves has changed since these early twentieth-century
photographs were taken is remarkable. The stylistic analysis that has dominated the study
of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa is rendered particularly problematic in the context of
373
the numerous restorations of the early twentieth century.
371
372
Following the dramatic
Porter, Romanesque Sculpture, 262.
It is likely that the Porters took their own photographs of the Cámara Santa, but they chose to publish
the Archivo Mas images. Research in the Arthur Kingsley Porter archive at Harvard University is necessary
to determine if the Porters did photograph the Cámara Santa, a research project that I would like to
undertake at some point in the future.
373
My thinking on this subject has been shaped by the work of Cohen, “Restoration as Re-Creation.”
184
destruction of the Cámara Santa in 1934, the artist Víctor Hevia Granda was brought in to
restore the sculpture of the twelve apostles. In addition to his work as a restorer, Hevia
also collaborated with the scholar José Fernández Buelta in what is still the most
extensive archaeological investigation of the Cámara Santa, as discussed in chapter one.
Despite considerable scholarly attention to their conclusions about the chronology and
construction of the Cámara Santa, little has been said about the restorations made to the
sculpture itself. I wish to look more closely at Hevia’s artistic interventions, and consider
the implications of his restoration on the subsequent historiography of the site.
This was not the first time that Hevia had worked in the Cámara Santa. He was
brought in to restore the damaged apostolado precisely because of his participation in a
previous restoration campaign, which took place between 1919 and 1920 under the
canons José Cuesta Fernández and Arturo Sandoval. Víctor Hevia thus serves as a sort of
hinge figure, connecting pre- and post-war restoration. He provides us with a useful locus
to explore the larger story of the Cámara Santa’s restoration during the modern era, and
specifically the pre-history of the ideologically charged reconstruction of the site in the
1940s.
While overshadowed by the more dramatic post-war restorations, the work
undertaken of Cuesta and Sandoval (along with Víctor Hevia) before the Civil War
deserves closer examination. Three pamphlets in the guise of archaeological “memorias”
were presented to the cathedral chapter between 1919 and 1920. The canons characterize
their work as “archaeological research” combined with restoration, with the goal of
writing a more definitive history of the Cámara Santa. They signal from the start their
primary interest: the traces of mural paintings on the vault and walls. Despite references
to photographs taken during their work, no photographs or drawings are known to survive
of the remains of mural paintings that Cuesta and Sandoval cleaned and restored. We
must thus rely on their written descriptions of what they saw and did in the Cámara
Santa.
Cuesta and Sandoval begin by invoking Ambrosio de Morales’ rather terse
description of the paintings in the Cámara Santa, which he characterizes as being of the
time of Alfonso II. Morales states that, in the center of the vault, there is a painted image
185
374
of Christ surrounded by the four Evangelists.
Our canons describe seeing traces of
painted drapery, as well as one full arch and the beginnings of another, on the vault. They
connect this to the depiction of Christ in Majesty, flanked by the twelve apostles under
arches, on the front of the Arca Santa and the miniature of Alfonso II in the Liber
Testamentorum.
375
On the north and south walls, they found traces of black lines that
they suggest constitute the outlines of painted drapery, and they highlight the presence of
copious quantities of pilgrims’ graffiti and traces of wax on the dado level. On the
western wall, the paintings appeared to be better conserved, for Cuesta and Sandoval
describe seeing two angels holding pieces of cloth, one with the sun and the other with
the moon, above the scene of the Crucifixion. The figures of Christ, John, and Mary in
the Crucifixion group were discernable, as well as the figure of a mitered bishop next to
the Virgin.
376
Although they express uncertainty about the chronology of these wall
paintings, Cuesta and Sandoval suggest that they are twelfth century in origin.
Cuesta and Sandoval focused on restoring these paintings, cleaning off layers of
377
whitewash and repainting where possible.
They also removed layers of whitewash,
varnish, dust, and polychromy from the sculpture, revealing the apostles to be the
medieval masterpieces that so delighted Arthur Kingsley Porter. Although they never
mention Víctor Hevia by name, we know that he was responsible for the majority of
restoration work. It is difficult to assess what, if any, restoration took place beyond the
374
“La boveda desta capilla es lisa, y tiene pintado en medio a nuestro Redemptor, en medio de los quatro
Evangelistas, y la obra es tan antigua, que assegura bien ser del tiempo de su fundador.” Morales, Crónica
General, fol. 63v.
375
376
377
Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 6-7.
Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 15.
Cuesta and Sandoval, Memorias (I), 10. “Es de advertir que las pinturas y todo lo demás que se ha
descubierto ha sido escrupulosamente respetado, no habriendose hecho otra cosa sino rellenar, con el
conveniente color, las muchas picaduras que, por efecto de los posteriores trabajos de blanqueo, habian
sido practicadas.” Later, on p. 23, they say that they repainted “lo que se creyera más acertado” on the
Cruifixion scene on the western wall.
186
cleaning of the sculpture, as we have no detailed record of the appearance of the sculpture
before this time.
We are on somewhat firmer ground in analyzing the restorations made by Hevia
in the wake of the explosion of 1934. Restoration of the apostolado began in 1940, and
Hevia was put in charge of the entire process. His collaborator Fernández Buelta
compares his “recreation” of the apostolado to the reconstruction of the Cámara Santa
itself following its destruction in 1934, observing that it is difficult to separate the two
378
endeavors.
Six of the apostles were removed completely from the wall, and lay on the
floor of the sculptor’s workshop (Figure 4.18). The other six statues, still in place on the
wall, were restored in situ. The three sculpted heads of the Calvary scene were removed
from the wall and restored in the studio. Hevia spent ten months studying the sculptures,
trying out various ways to replace missing pieces and restore the whole ensemble.
Hevia’s restoration work is described by his collaborator, who tells us how the
hands of the sculptor brought back to life the bodies of the apostles.
379
He describes a
conversation with one of the masons working on the reconstruction of the building that is
indicative of the philosophy that informed both the architectural and sculptural
restoration of the Cámara Santa.
One time, I asked an old workman: “Why do you call on Don Víctor to
‘ruin’ the stone? Don’t you know how to do that?” And the
octogenarian man from Navarra, whose father had been a mason and
who left the maternal cloister with these skills already learned,
answered me: “I know how to cut stone. I don’t know how to make the
stones that I cut look as old as the old stones. I do what I am ordered,
and I do so without varying one centimeter. But Don Víctor has to do
this other task.”
378
379
380
380
Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 127.
Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 128.
“Una vez le pregunté al viejo obrero:
187
From this description, it is clear that the criteria for the restoration of the sculpture were
similar to that of the architecture; what is new must appear to be old. It must, as
Fernández Buelta might say, share the same spirit.
We see this quasi-mystical conception of the sculpture repeatedly in
contemporary descriptions of the apostolado. Hevia’s role as restorer was celebrated
during the re-consecration ceremony of 1942, as expressed in rather florid terms by a
poem printed in the newspaper La Nueva España together with photographs of the
restored apostles. Our anonymous poet declares, “Beauty did not die, for it still breathes/
and, among the broken stones, it lives again/ revived by the most wise hands of Víctor
[…].” The broken bodies of the apostles are brought back to life by the hands of the
restorer. The photographs of the apostles, restored and whole, that accompany the poem
underscore the contrast with photographs of the mutilated sculpture, fragmented and
missing both their capitals and bases. As we saw in the case of the architectural
reconstruction of the Cámara Santa, attention was focused on the restored and whole
monument, and images of the mutilated statues were employed in order to evoke horror
at the destruction wrought by war and, specifically, by Republican forces. The newspaper
chose to illustrate this poem, and their stories about the 1942 reconsecration ceremony as
a whole, with images of the restored denizens of the Cámara Santa rather than the
damaged and dismembered apostolado (Figure 4.19). The sculpture was thus conscripted
to the cause of post-war propaganda, its restoration naturalized, like that of the building
itself, as a perfect recreation of what had been lost.
Stepping away from these ideologically fraught interpretations of the sculpture,
let us consider the changes made by Hevia during the course of these restorations. In
--¿Por qué llama usted a don Víctor para que ‘estropée’ la piedra? ¿No sabe usted estropearla?
Y el octogenario Navarro, que había nacido de padre cantero y había salido del claustro materno con el
oficio aprendido, me contestaba:
--Yo sé labrar; lo que no sé es hacer que las piedras que yo labro queden tan viejas como las viejas. A mi
me mandan hacer y yo lo hago sin variar un centímetro. Pero eso otro tiene que hacerlo don Víctor.”
Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 129.
188
some cases, such as the figures of Simon and Judas in the northwestern corner, the
replacements for missing fragments are clearly visible (Figure 4.20). The staff carried by
James, for example, has been replaced (Figure 4.21). Fernández Buelta’s references to
Hevia’s close study of the drapery and subtle modeling of the figures, however, leads one
to wonder what sorts of changes might not be so readily visible, particularly those made
during the initial restoration campaign.
Over a decade after Hevia’s restorations, José Manuel Pita Andrade published his
seminal Los maestros de Oviedo y Ávila (1955). Pita illustrated his slender monograph
with the same Archivo Mas photographs used by Porter before the war, and, indeed, his
general conclusions echo pre-war scholarship. Pita connects the sculpture on the west
façade at San Vicente and the Pórtico de la Gloria of the Cathedral Santiago de
Compostela with the apostles of Oviedo, a connection that Porter himself had made in
previous publications.
381
Both Santiago and Ávila, and the connection between them,
continue to be the subject of intense study, but the apostles of Oviedo have rather fallen
out of contemporary scholarly narratives of late Romanesque sculpture in northern
382
Spain.
Oviedo now fits neither in grand sweeping master narratives about the
formation of late Romanesque art, nor does it have a place in more recent studies of
381
See, for example, Porter, Spanish Romanesque Sculpture, 33-35 and his Romanesque Sculpture of the
Pilgrimage Roads, vol 1, 261-63.
382
Manuel Gómez Moreno argued over the course of his long and illustrious career that the famous Master
Mateo, responsible for the Pórtico de la Gloria, or west façade of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela,
had been formed in Ávila, thereby establishing a clear line of descent from the sculpture of San Vicente to
that of Santiago de Compostela. See his “Prólogo” to García Guinea’s 1961 El arte románico en Palencia,
as well as his “Problemas del segundo período,” in the 1961 catalogue, El arte románico. Tormo, “Ávila.
Castilla excursionista” and Camps, El arte románico en España shared Gómez Moreno’s theory. However,
Porter, Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, vol. 1, 33-34, and Mayer, El estilo románico en
España, 157, inverted this relationship of dependence, while Goldschmidt, “El Pórtico de la Gloria,” held
that Ávila and Santiago were too different stylistically to be so closely compared. Finally, Gaillard, “La
Porche de la Gloire,” argued that both monuments were the product of parallel developments, occurring
simultaneously rather than one dependent on the other.
189
workshop production. Some of the reason for this must lie in the extensive restoration of
the Cámara Santa and its sculpture both before and after the Civil War, which renders
383
minute analysis of style problematic.
Part of the problem must also lie in the way in which the history of late
Romanesque art has been constructed over the course of the twentieth century: a linear
sequence of sites— established by means of close formal analysis—that follows the path
of itinerant masters, each with an identifiable style. In an astute critique of this
methodological mindset, Moralejo cautions his fellow art historians that “[c]onceiving of
these relationships in terms of anteriority or posteriority, and thereby concluding that one
must be dependent on the other, is to create—we believe—a false problem, which,
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moreover, distorts an accurate view of the late Romanesque.”
Unfortunately, this
construction of the relationship between works of art as anterior versus posterior, in a
singular and linear fashion, still dominates the study of this material. More recent
scholarship has moved away from the language of connoisseurship and emphasizes issues
of patronage and documentation, but the end goal is the same: to date the sculpture, and
place it within this sequence of sites. I now turn to questions of patronage not in order to
date the sculpture of the Cámara Santa, but instead to think about the wider formal and
functional context of the late twelfth-century reforms to the space.
383
There is a suggestion of this in Jacques Lacoste’s recent treatment of the apostolado in Le maîtres de la
sculpture romane. “On aimerait parvenir à une meilleure connaissance de l’art du Maître et de ses aides,
préciser la distribution des tâches dans l’atelier, et mieux cerner les possibles filiations, en étudiant
attentivement les visages des statues et en analysant leurs expressions. Il est malheureusement impossible
d’obtenir aujourd’hui des renseignements aussi précieux à propos de beaucoup de visages.”
384
“Plantearse sus relaciones como necesariamente formulables en términos de anteriordidad/
posterioridad, y concluir en consecuencia en la fatal dependencia del que se juzgue posterior respecto del
anterior es crear—pensamos—un falso problema, que altera además toda correcta perspectiva para abordar
nuestro románico final.” Moralejo, “Esculturas compostelanas,” 50.
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Patronage Problems: Varieties of Agency in Twelfth-Century Oviedo
Let us turn to the historical context of mid- to late-twelfth century Oviedo,
between the reign of Alfonso VII (r. 1126-1157) and Fernando II (r. 1157-1188).
Fernando II and his half-sister Urraca “la Asturiana” (1133-1164) were very generous to
the see of Oviedo. This contrasts sharply with the legacy of their father, Alfonso VII, for
385
whom only two major donations survive.
No fewer than twenty-two donations from
Fernando II survive in the cathedral archive, starting in 1161 and lasting until his death in
1188.
386
While Fernando II wished to be buried in the Cathedral of Santiago, his half-
sister declared, in an 1161 document, her desire to be buried in the Cathedral of
Oviedo.
387
In addition to her own anniversary commemorations, Urraca expressly stated
that her donation was “for building and restoring the church of Oviedo.”
388
While Urraca’s role as a donor to and protector of the Cathedral of Oviedo is
surely significant, the language of her bequest makes it clear that agency is shared
385
ACO ser. 3, folder 3, nos. 4 and 7. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. nos.
149 and 158.
386
ACO ser. A, folder 4, nos. 6, 9, 12/13; ser. B, folder 3, nos. 9-20; and ser. B, folder 4, nos. 2-10. Edited
by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. nos. 173, 178, 179, 182-87, 190, 193, 194, 195, 197,
198, 200, 201, 204, and 209.
387
Fernando II had stated his wish to be buried at Santiago, but upon his death in 1188, his son Alfonso IX
had to personally intervene to get his remains translated to Santiago. See the discussion by Moralejo
Álvarez, “El 1 de abril de 1188.”
388
“Hec omnia suprascripta ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris [in margin, et cultoribus eius do et per cartam
testamenti confirmo ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris] hereditario iure in perpetuum, tali seruata determinacione ut
predicta palacia cum domibus suprascriptis et uillam ipsam Uillam nouam cum bonis suis obtineat unus de
personis ecclesie per ordinacionem Christi et consilium Capituli et fructus quo inde potuerit habere per
consilium episcopi et capituli expendatur in edificium et restauracionem ecclesie Ovetensis et post mortem
meam et de mei aniuersarii et pro mea commemoratione do in refectione canonicorum uacam obtimam,
duos porcis bonos, quinque arietes, uiginti gallinas, in superposita beati Peratas? sex quartarios scandule
per eminam canonice et siceram suficat.” ACO ser. B, folder 3, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta,
Colección de documentos, doc. no. 172.
191
between the queen-regent, bishop and canons. Patronage here is not a top-down
imposition of royal will, but rather a process of negotiation between the monarch, bishop,
and canons. Despite this political reality, one still encounters accounts of patronage that
prioritize the agency of the monarch. Contemporary scholarship concerned with dating
the sculpture of the Cámara Santa attributes it either to the Fernando II or his half-sister,
Urraca. María Soledad Álvarez Martínez and César García de Castro propose a date of
389
around 1161 for the apostolado on the basis of Urraca’s donation.
Isabel Ruiz de la
Peña González as well as a research group based at the University of León including
María Concepción Cosmen Alonso, María Victoria Herráez Ortega, and Manuel Valdés
Fernández prefer to date the apostolado and the architectural reformation of the Cámara
390
Santa to the 1180s, attributing it to the patronage of Fernando II (r. 1157-1188).
Scholars’ desire to identify a royal patron has overshadowed the importance of agency of
bishops and canons as patrons. The late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa
must be seen as the result of a collaborative patronage process, in which the canons were
key players.
The twelfth century saw the growth of the cathedral chapter as a corporate entity,
as well as the construction of spaces in which the canons were to live, pray, eat, and
sleep. Before the buildings of capitular life could be erected, however, some sense of the
corporate identity of the chapter as a whole had to be developed. This was a long process
that leads us back to the eleventh century, and to the shifting landscape of liturgical
reform on the Iberian peninsula discussed in chapter two. In 1055, the Council of
Coyanza was held, followed in 1056 and 1063 by two more councils in Santiago de
389
Martínez Álvarez, El Románico en Asturias, 107-10 and her entry on the Cámara Santa in the García
Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias, vol 1, 60722. For more on Urraca herself, see Fernández Conde, “Urraca ‘la Asturiana.’”
390
Ruiz de la Peña González, “La reforma románica;” Cosmen Alonso, María Herráez Ortega, and Valdés
Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica,” 128-31.
192
391
Compostela.
In Peter Linehan’s succinct summation, these councils attempted to
392
“strengthen episcopal control over clergy, monks, and laity.”
The Council of
Coyanza’s ambit was much broader than the smaller Composetalan councils, which
focused more on the organization of life within the cathedral. The 1056 council insists
that the cathedral clergy must live under a rule, and establishes a basic bureaucratic
hierarchy under the leadership of the bishop for the administration of diocesan business.
Indeed, it is in these mid-eleventh century council texts that the very term “canonici” is
first used within the lands of León-Castilla to distinguish between monastic and cathedral
clergy, an important moment in the development of the identity and function of the
393
cathedral chapter.
In the late eleventh-century world of reform, rhetoric often overshadows reality.
When we turn from the proscriptive texts of these councils to more prosaic documents
that attest to the activities of the cathedral clergy in Oviedo, we see that the process of
articulating the chapter as an coherent entity, whose members carried out specific
functions, was a slow and piecemeal one. On a purely semantic level, it is not until the
very end of the eleventh century that the term “canonici” appears in surviving
394
documentation from Oviedo.
391
This brings us to the eventful episcopate of Pelayo (d.
García Gallo, “El Concilio de Coyanza;” Martínez Diez, “García Gallo y el Concilio de Coyanza;”
Martínez Diez, “El Concilio Compostelano.”
392
Linehan, History and the Historians, 186. For the text of the 1055 Council of Coyanza, see Martínez
Diez, “La tradición manuscrita,” 179-88. For the 1056 Council of Santiago de Compostela, see Martínez
Diez, “El Concilio Compostelano,” 126-31.
393
Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 85. Eduardo Carrero astutely points out that we should not
extrapolate from the use of the term that the canons within these dioceses in northwestern Spain and
Portugal (including Oviedo) were the Roman-style canons of the Gregorian Reform. Carrero, El conjunto
catedralicio, 14.
394
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, no. 108. A donation made in 1096 by the noblewoman
Jimena Peláez to Bishop Martin and “clerici canonici commorantium cum eo in ipsam sedem.” Survives in
193
1153), whose role in the reorganization of the cathedral chapter was decisive. Pelayo
himself made two significant donations to the chapter, first in 1117, when he donated to
the canons a large swath of territory belonging to the archdeaconry, and again in 1136,
when he donated hereditary lands in León, to the south of Asturias, specifically to the
canons’ refectory.
395
In addition to attention to the practical matters of funding the chapter, Pelayo also
left us with more theoretical, proscriptive texts relating to the role of the cathedral
chapter. His reforming agenda is manifested in both the Liber Testamentorum and Liber
Cronicorum. The transmission of the text of the Council of Coyanza derives from
Pelagian manuscripts, and Martínez Diez has identified his hand behind one of the
396
redactions of the Compostelan council of 1056.
Moreover, Pelayo includes in the
397
Liber Cronicorum a new rule for the canons of Oviedo.
This text is peculiar on several
levels. Pelayo frames his text as a letter addressed to our bishop from none other than the
Patriarch of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, William (r. 1130-1145).
398
Eduardo Carrero points out that the Church of the Holy Sepulcher had been reorganized
under the Augustinian Rule between 1113 and 1114, and thus the rule described in the
putative letter bears little resemblance to the rule under which the Jerusalem canons
two contemporary documents (ACO series B, nos. 14 and 15), as well as in the Liber Testamentorum, fol.
94v-95v.
395
ACO series A, folder 2, no. 17. García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 138; ACO series A,
folder 3, no. 6. García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 151.
396
It appears in the Batres Codex (Madrid, BN MS 1513, fol. 106r-108r) and the manuscripts descended
from it, as well as in the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1, fol. 62v-63v. On the Council of Coyanza, see
Martínez Diez, “La tradición manuscrita,” 141-47. On the Compostela council, see Martínez Diez, “El
Concilio Compostelano,” 134-38.
397
It appears in the Batres Codex (Madrid, BN MS 1513, fol. 108r-109v) and the manuscripts descended
from it.
398
For the text, see Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 157-60.
194
399
actually lived during William’s patriarchate.
Perhaps Pelayo was thinking not only of
the contemporary religious community of the Holy Sepulcher, but more broadly of the
apostolic community of Jerusalem, which was held up as a model for the communal life
of canons.
400
Pelayo’s text lays out rules for food and dress across the liturgical year, as well as
specifying the number and type of readings. Via its putative author, William, Pelayo
invokes papal authority repeatedly, specifically that of Gregory VII and Urban II.
Fernández Conde identifies the Pelayo’s text as one contained in the late-eleventhcentury compilation of Gregory VII’s capitular legislation, but argues that, given repeated
reforms to the chapter later in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Pelayo’s rule was
401
never actually observed in Oviedo.
Regardless of whether or not this rule was ever
observed, the existence of this text points to a context in which the cathedral chapter
took on more significance in the practical and spiritual life of the cathedral, becoming an
integral part of its institutional function and identity.
Although there is no surviving rule from eleventh- or twelfth-century Oviedo,
there are some indications of chapter organization during this period. Of particular
interest is the figure of the treasurer, charged (among other things) with the care of the
relics of the Cámara Santa. Documentary references to the treasurer are sparse before the
mid-eleventh century. A “presbiter thesaurarius” appears as a witness in three documents
of the early tenth century (all of which, it should be noted, survive only in later
copies).
402
In 1006, a Serenianus “presbiter et tensorarius” is given as the notary,
although, again, this document survives only in the Liber Testamentorum and a much
399
400
401
402
Carrero, El conjunto catedralicio, 22.
As discussed within a broader twelfth-century context in Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society, 220.
Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 92. He identifies the text as MS Vat. Lat. 628, fol. 268v-270r.
Laurelius, 906, García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 18; Aurelius, 908, García Larragueta,
Colección de documentos, 19; Dauid, 912, García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 20.
195
403
later royal confirmation.
Treasurers appear more frequently beginning in the middle of
the eleventh century; a certain Fredenandus appears in 1056 as the “tesaurario” and in
404
1058 as “abba et erarius.”
Again, though, both these documents survive only in
405
Pelayo’s Liber Testamentorum.
We are on somewhat firmer ground in the later eleventh century because
contemporary documents survive, in addition to references in the Liber Testamentorum.
A certain Alvarus appears eight times in documents from the years 1078 and 1097. In
1078, 1079, 1090, 1092, 1096, and 1097 he signs as both abbot and treasurer, while in
1081 he is the “archidiaconus clauiculario de ipsius thesauro sancto.”
406
A Petrus
Sescutiz appears as the treasurer from 1104 until 1117, while Ciprianus was abbot and
407
treasurer from 1127 until 1143.
Later, in 1177 and again in 1197, Pelagius Artero
408
“thesaurarius” appears as a witness a pair of documents.
409
reference to “Gomez Pelagius thesaurarius.”
Finally, in 1200 there is a
The characterization of Alvarus as the
keeper of the key to the treasury recalls other medieval and early modern references to
the guardians of the Cámara Santa. Pelayo mentions “custodes thesauri” inside the
Cámara Santa, while the sixteenth-century customary of the cathedral tell us about the
office of the claveros, two canons charged with safeguarding the keys to the Cámara
403
404
405
406
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 37. In the Liber Testamentorum, fol. 51r-51v.
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 58 and 61.
On fol. 66v-67v and 67v-68v, respectively.
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 80 (1078), 81 (1079), 83 (1080), 84 (1081), 96 (1090),
104 (1092), 108 (1096), and 113 (1097).
407
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 125 (1104), 134 (1113), 137 (1117), 138 (1117), 146
(1127), 148 (1128), 152 (1136), 154 (1143), 155 (1143).
408
409
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 191 (1177) and 214 (1197).
García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 215.
196
410
Santa and controlling pilgrims’ access.
Finally, a late-twelfth-century account of the
Arca’s origins and miracles makes a reference to the presence in the Cámara Santa of an
411
archdeacon who took care of the treasury.
The identification of the treasurer in this text as an archdeacon points to another
issue in the development of this ecclesiastical office. Fernández Conde has argued that
high-status abbot-treasurers like Fredenandus, Alvarus, and Cirprianus were typical from
the early eleventh century, but Suárez Beltrán points out that he bases his argument on
documents that survive solely in the Liber Testamentorum, and which thus may reflect
the reality of the early twelfth century rather than previous centuries.
412
As we have seen,
treasurers appear more frequently from the late eleventh through the mid-twelfth
centuries. Suárez Beltrán has linked the growth of the cult of the relics of the Cámara
413
Santa to the growth of the status of the treasurer himself.
As I argued in my first
chapter, pilgrimage to the relics of the Cámara Santa increased over the course of the
later eleventh and twelfth centuries. I suggest we extend this argument into the realm of
artistic and architectural patronage, seeing the late twelfth-century reforms to the building
as a response to these large-scale and protracted devotional and institutional changes.
The Cámara Santa between Apse and Cloister
The architectural reforms of and sculptural installations in the Cámara Santa must
be seen in relation to its location within the larger ecclesiastical complex of the cathedral.
410
BN MS 1513, fol. 48r, ed. by Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons‘ III, 89-90. Libro de los Estatutos y
Constituciones, fol. 24v-25v.
411
“Cumque venisset apud Sanctum Salvatorem, statim ingressa est ecclesiam, et sub archa in qua sancte
reliquie continentur se projectit sine mora. Vix ibi se projecerat, cum ecce malignus, in eam ingressus, cepit
magnis vocibus clamare et omnia verba illa et plura alia replicare que superius dicta sunt: ‘Ego eam non
dimittam, et cetera.’ Ilico archidiaconus qui thesaurum custodiebat collo ejus stollam injecit.” Edited by
Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 15.
412
413
Fernández Conde, La Iglesia de Asturias, 95-97. Suárez Beltrán, 42, n. 27.
Suárez Beltrán, El cabildo, 43.
197
As is clear on the plan, the Cámara Santa is tucked between the south transept to the
north, and the cloister and conventual buildings to the south (Figure 4.22). Its placement
relative to these larger structures suggests the intermediary status of the Cámara Santa,
literally between apse and cloister. In what follows, I will explore these two structural
and functional contexts. First, I place the late twelfth-century reforms to the Cámara
Santa in the larger context of the construction going on around it in the cathedral cloister.
Then I move to a consideration of a suggestive comparanda for the sculpture of the
apostolado itself that can be found in a series of decorated apses dating to the second half
of the twelfth century.
As the care and divulgation of the relics of the Cámara Santa came under the
purview of canons, the space itself became integrated into the ensemble of capitular
buildings—cloister, refectory, dormitory, and chapter house—erected between 1100 and
1150. Located between the south transept of the cathedral and the cloister, the Cámara
Santa’s location suggests its status as the lynchpin of this architectural ensemble. Indeed,
the shape of the cloister’s north flank conforms to the Cámara Santa and crypt of Santa
Leocadia. In what follows, I revisit Eduardo Carrero’s foundational work on the
Romanesque cloisters of northwestern Iberia in order to place the Cámara Santa and its
sculptural decoration within the context of these often-overlooked structures of
communal life.
The Romanesque cloister of Oviedo was likely built between 1100 and 1150, and
may even have been begun during the episcopate of Pelayo. The opening folio to
manuscript 1513 in the Biblioteca Nacional, the most complete medieval copy of
Pelayo’s Liber Cronicorum, contains a notice about his architectural reforms throughout
the city of Oviedo, including the cathedral, although the text does not mention the cloister
specifically. The text describes how thirty “weak and very old” (vetustissimae et debiles)
wooden beams in the cathedral were replaced with new beams. Several altars across the
city that were “foul and small” (foeda et exigua) were renewed, including the images that
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were atop them.
414
These descriptions of Pelayo’s widespread renewal of altars and
buildings themselves, together with the bishop’s clear interest in reforming the cathedral
chapter, suggest that Pelayo himself might have been an active force behind the initial
construction of the cloister and its associated buildings.
Carrero’s meticulous documentary and architectural analysis has shown that these
structures existed in some form from the late 1130s. Carrero points to a series of
documentary references to the refectory, likely in place by the 1130s and located on the
415
southern flank of the cloister.
1136.
416
Pelayo himself made a donation to the refectory in
The 1161 donation by Urraca also mentions the refectory, specifying the number
417
of cows, pigs, sheep, and hens to be given to the canons’ kitchen.
As for the chapter
house, an 1144 document from the monastery of San Juan Bautista in Corias describes
414
BN MS 1513, fol 1r. Published by Manuel Risco, España Sagrada, vol. 38, doc. 40, 371. “Erant tunc in
principali Ecclesia ligniae vetustissimae et debiles XXX. trabes quas cum filiis Ecclesiae suae praecipitavit,
et novas XIII. sicut modo apparent, composuit. Deinde subscripta altaria, quae erant foeda, et exigua,
praecipitavit in Oveto, et majora, et optima sicut modo apparent condivit in Idus Octubris, scilicet: altare
nostri Saluatoris, altare Apostolorum Petri et Pauli, altare Sancti Johanis Apostoli et Euangelistae, altare
Sancti Nicholai Episcopi, et imagines quae sunt supra eam, altare Sanctae Mariae semper Uirginis, altare
Sancti Pelagii Martyris, altare Santi Vicentii Levitae et Martyris, altare Ecclesiam Sanctae Mariae
Magdalenae cum omnibus Sanctic Virginibus, altare Sancti Johanis Baptistae quod est situm in hospitali
palatio, altare Sancti Cypriani Episcopi et Martyris, quod extra secus Ovetum. Vis ergo fratres karissimi qui
ad praedicta altaria Dominis exortatus, et psalmos canitis, et divina misteria celebratis, praedictum
Episcopum Pelagium die at nocte in memoriam habeatis, ita ut et vos qui digne orationis, a Domino Deo
nostro Jesu-Christo exaudri valeatis. Amen.”
415
416
Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 91-95.
ACO ser. A, carp. 3, num. 6; edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, 384-86, doc. no.
151. Pelayo states: “Has supradictas hereditates cum omnibus bonis sibi perinentibus tali conuencione eas
concedo ut dum ego uinens fuero iuri meo teneam ad usufructuario per manum prioris et canonicorum qui
comedunt in predicto refectorio.”
417
“...do in refectione canonicorum uacam obtimam, duos porcis bonos, quinque arietes, uiginti gallinas
[...].” ACO ser. B, folder 3, no. 8. Edited by García Larragueta, Colección de documentos, doc. no. 172.
199
legal proceedings taking place “in capitulo Sancti Saluatoris,” while an 1157 donation by
Urraca “la Asturiana” refers to her father, Alfonso VII, being present in the chapter
418
house.
The chapter house as it stands today is a product of later medieval reforms,
although its location in the northeastern corner of the cloister remains the same.
Carrero has linked the promulgation of capitular reform with the construction of
cathedral cloisters and communal spaces in the first half of the twelfth century.
419
In
Oviedo, only traces of the Romanesque cloister survive, but a handful of other sites in the
north of the Iberian peninsula (Santiago de Compostela, Zamora, and Tuy) offer material
and textual evidence for a direct connection between capitular reform and the
construction of the buildings required for communal life.
420
While the agency of
individual bishops like Pelayo is instrumental in these architectural projects, the long
time-frame during which the Oviedo cloister was built suggests the necessity for a model
of patronage that does not depend solely on a single individual, but rather a group whose
identity and interests remain relatively consistent over a period of time: namely, the
chapter itself. As we have seen, in Oviedo, between the 1130s and the 1170s (at the very
least), the refectory, chapter house, and cloister were constructed, and the Cámara Santa
itself remodeled. These construction projects span the tenure of several different bishops,
418
Floriano, El libro registro de Corias, 202, doc. no. 657. Rodríguez Díaz, El libro de la ‘Regla
Colorada’, 407, doc. 42. “...domnus rex Adefonsus bone memoriae, eius auus ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris
ueniens itaque imperator domnus Adefonsus benigno animo, pura deuocione in ecclesie Sancti Saluatoris
causa orationis sub era millesima Ca nonagesima Va, sede(n)te in capitulo Sancti Saluatoris astantibus
comitibus [...] atque baronibus sui inperii necnoc [sic] et Martino eiusdem ecclesie episcopo presente...”
419
420
Carrero Santamaría, “Cathedral Cloisters,” 91.
On Bishop Diego Gelmírez’s reforms and frustrated building plans in Santiago, see the Historia
Compostelana, ed. Falque Rey, 98-99, 11, 284, 401 and 494. On Bishop Bernard of Perigord’s similarly
frustrated attempts to build a cloister, refectory, and dormitory in Zamora, see Carrero Santamaría, “El
claustro medieval de la catedral de Zamora.” Bishop Pelayo Menéndez adopted the Augustinian Rule at
Tuy in 1138 and the chapter house dates to 1150: see Cendón Fernández, La Catedral de Tuy, 91.
200
namely, Pelayo (r. 1101-1130 and 1143-1143), Alfonso (1130-1142), Martin I (11431156), Pedro (1156-1161), and Gonzalo (1161-1175).
421
One aspect of the construction undertaken in the Cámara Santa during the twelfth
century that stands out is the survival of the eastern apse of the earlier structure, which, as
I have mentioned, suggests that this space had particular significance. Only fragments of
the twelfth-century cloister survived after it was destroyed to make way for the larger
422
fourteenth-century cloister that still stands today.
What was preserved, however, was
the general shape and location of the cloister and its dependencies. Thanks to a series of
archaeological interventions in the site over the course of the twentieth century, we have
some notion of what this cloister looked like, as well as where it was located. As today,
the cloister was located to the south of the cathedral, taking in the southern flank of the
Cámara Santa itself (see Figure 4.22). A series of relief panels, column bases, capitals,
and impost fragments survive from the destroyed cloister and its dependencies.
423
A few
of these fragments show similarities to elements of the sculpture in the Cámara Santa. I
refer in particular to two capitals; one depicts a pair of rampant feline hybrids, whose
depiction is similar to the smaller creatures found beneath the feet of Simon and Judas
Thaddeus (Figure 4.23), and another with a vegetal motif that recalls the decoration
carved beneath the feet of Paul (Figure 4.24).
424
All of these fragments have been dated
on the basis of style to the second half of the twelfth century.
Among the most remarkable pieces surviving from the Romanesque cloister of
the Cathedral of Oviedo are a series of six relief panels, which offer valuable evidence
421
422
Fletcher, The Episcopate in the Kingdom of León, 72.
Like Carrero, I, too, find García de Castro’s assertion that no cloister existed before the fourteenth
century to be problematic in the light of archeological, textual, and comparative evidence to the contrary.
García de Castro, “Las primeras fundaciones,” 506.
423
See the catalogue entries in Caso, ed., La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, Catálogo y bienes muebles, plates
78-123.
424
See Caso, ed., La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, Catálogo y bienes muebles, cat. nos. 78 and 94.
201
about the larger monumental and iconographic context of the apostolado. Of these six
panels, two have been located likely since the fifteenth century high up on the façade of
the chapter house (Figure 4.25), while the other four were discovered by Fernández
Buelta and Hevia Granda during their archaeological work in 1950. The sculptures had
been reused as building material in the chapter house, and were found beneath the large
late Gothic windows (Figure 4.26).
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The two panels in the chapter house wall depict
Peter and Paul, both of whom are identified by inscriptions. Peter, standing in a rigidly
frontal posture and holding a key and a book, appears with the inscription, “+ EST : MICHI
: FAS : CELI : PORTAS : APERIRE : FIDELI” (Figure 4.27). Paul holds a scroll and turns to the
right, one leg crossed over the other, identified by the inscription above his head as “+
426
QVI FVERAM SAVLVS : SVM : XPI : MVNERE : PAVLUS”
(Figure 4.28). Three of the other
four panels are more difficult to identify based on iconography alone; one is labeled by
an inscription as “+ NICOLAVS : EPISCOPUS” (Figure 4.29), and the other three remain
unidentified. One of them may represent a female figure because of its form of dress
(Figure 4.30), another perhaps an ecclesiastic of some kind (Figure 4.31), and only the
bottom half of the third panel survives, with the detail of a figure holding a closed book
(Figure 4.32).
The identity of the three figures that are labeled—Peter, Paul, and Nicholas of
Bari—has led some scholars, namely Vicente José González García and Francisco de
Caso, to suggest that these relief sculptures correspond to the renovations made by
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Bishop Pelayo in the first part of the twelfth century.
Despite the quite understandable
desire to attribute the sculptural program of the cloister to Pelayo, the period of his
episcopacy is too early for the production of these relief panels. Carrero argues on
stylistic grounds that the four mutilated relief panels date to around the middle of the
425
426
Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del Oviedo primitivo, 42-45.
Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 95. “To me is given to open the doors of heaven to
the faithful,” and “I who was Saul by the grace of God am Paul.”
427
Caso, La construcción de la Catedral de Oviedo, 31 and González García, El Oviedo antiguo y
medieval, 91-92.
202
twelfth century, while the two reliefs of Peter and Paul still in the chapter house façade
date to the second half of the twelfth century.
428
Carrero’s mid-century dating for the four
mutilated fragments in the cloister has been reiterated in the most recent study of these
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sculptures by Cosmen Alonso, Harráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández.
They point to
the relationship between the Oviedo panels and the sculpture now on the south façade of
Santa Marta de Tera, in Zamora, usually dated on the basis of style to the second quarter
of the twelfth century (Figure 4.33).
430
The figure of Santiago, depicted as a pilgrim with
his staff and satchel, has attracted particular attention, as it is, by all accounts, the earliest
depiction of the iconographic type of St. James dressed as a pilgrim.
431
The façade
sculpture at Santa Marta shares stylistic and iconographic features, such as the pilgrim’s
shell and crossed legs, of the sculpture in both the cloister and the Cámara Santa. Cosmen
Alonso and her colleagues point to the distinctive treatment of the clothing on the figures
at Santa Marta and on the cloister reliefs in Oviedo as an indication of close connection
between the sculptors working at both sites, and argue for a dating around 1150.
432
Both the identity of these figures in Oviedo and their placement in the cloister
have important parallels with the later sculpture of the Cámara Santa. Manzanares
suggested that the Oviedo panels once decorated the sides of pillars in the twelfth-century
cloister, much like the famous reliefs of Santo Domingo in Silos, Saint-Pierre in
428
429
430
Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 104.
Cosmen Alonso, Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica.”
Moralejo writes that the sculpture of Santa Marta “dificilmente puede ser anterior al segundo cuarto del
siglo XII.” See his “El claustro de Silos,” 149.
431
On Santa Marta de Tera, see Regueras Grande, Santa Marta de Tera; Martín Benito, Juan Mata Guerra,
and Regueras Grande, Los caminos de Santiago, 45-50; Viñayo, León y Asturias, 335-49; Gómez Moreno,
Catálogo monumental de la provincia de Zamora, pp. 182-86; Gómez Moreno, “Santa Marta de Tera.”
432
Cosmen Alonso, Herráez Ortega, and Valdés Fernández, “La escultura monumental tardorrománica,”
124.
203
433
Moissac, and Saint-Étienne and Saint-Sernin in Toulouse.
In support of this
hypothesis, Carrero points out that the northeastern and southeastern corners of the
Gothic cloister in Oviedo contain figures carved in niches that are mounted on compound
piers, which can be interpreted as harkening back to the sculpted decoration of the
434
Romanesque cloister.
The figures of the apostles Peter and Paul fit well into what Ilene
Forsyth termed the iconography of the vita apostolica so often found in Romanesque
435
cloisters.
Their particular connection to the canons themselves is underscored by the
reuse of these panels over the monumental doorway to the Gothic chapter house. Other
panels in this group also speak to this iconography of the apostolic life in the context of
the cathedral cloister. One of the fragmentary figures in Oviedo may be identifiable as a
bishop, as we have in the lost Romanesque cloister at León Cathedral, which contained
carved panels depicting two local Leonese bishop-saints, Alvito and Froilán, in addition
to panels depicting Peter and Paul (Figure 4.34).
436
These reliefs in Oviedo and León can
thus be placed in the context of other more well-known depictions of important
foundational members of the religious community, such as the panel with Abbot
Durandus at Moissac, as well as the reliefs depicting Abbot Gregory in Saint-Michel de
Cuxa and Abbot Berga in Santa María in Ripoll, both dated to around 1150.
433
434
435
436
437
Monzanares Rodriguez Mir, “Relieves románicos del antiguo claustro.”
Carrero Santamaría, El conjunto catedralicio, 100.
Forsyth, “Vita apostolica.”
Froilán died in 905, and some of his relics were transferred from where they had been interred in
Moreruela to León in 1175. Alvito was thought to have been instrumental in bringing the remains of Isidore
to León in the eleventh century. Boto Varela, La memoria perdida, 85-100; Carrero Santamaría, Santa
María la Regla, 40-47; Herráez, Cosmen Alonso, and Valdés, “La catedral de León;” Sánchez Ameijeiras,
“Una empresa olvidada.”
437
On Moissac, the classic study is Schapiro, “The Romanesque Sculpture of Moissac.” See also Droste,
Die Skulpturen von Moissac and the work of Rutchick, especially “Visual Memory and Historiated
Sculpture.” On the panel in Cuxa, see Cazes and Durliat, “Découverte de l’effigie de l’Abbé Grégoire.” On
the Ripoll figure, see Barral i Altet, “La sculpture à Ripoll au XIIe siècle,” 338-39.
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The sculpture of the Cámara Santa thus fits within the context of the cloister
decoration and speaks to the identity of its inhabitants, the canons themselves. Moreover,
the pairing off of these panels in the corners of the cloister offers a useful parallel to one
of the many idiosyncratic elements of the sculpture of the Cámara Santa: the paired
column figures. Although there are a series of column figures found of exterior portals in
the Iberian peninsula over the latter half of the twelfth century and early thirteenth
century, the formal and functional context of the portal does not speak to the unusual
438
interior arrangement of sculpture we see in Oviedo.
Indeed, part of the problem posed
to scholars by the sculpture of the Cámara Santa is the lack of comparanda not only for
the style, but also the disposition of the sculpture.
The most relevant parallels to the apostles in the Cámara Santa can be found not
in the celebrated portals of Santiago de Compostela and Ávila, but rather in a series of
apses decorated with monumental sculpture in the late twelfth and early thirteenth
century. I argue that both the disposition and iconography of the sculpture at these sites
can shed light on the meaning of the apostles in Oviedo. Large-scale sculptures decorate
the apses of San Martín in Uncastillo (Aragón), Santo Domingo de la Calzada (near
Nájera in La Rioja), the Cathedral of Zaragoza (known as La Seo), San Juan in Alba de
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Briefly, the portals with column figures are as follows: Santa María in Sangüesa, San Vicente in Ávila,
San Martín in Segovia, Santa María de Carrecedo in León, and the cathedrals of Santiago de Compostela
and Ourense in Galicia. On Sangüesa, see Ancho Villanueva and Fernández-Ladreda Aguadé, Portada de
Santa María de Sangüesa; Müller, “Santa María la Real, Sangüesa” and her summary article, “La
arquitectura plástica.” On San Vicente, see Rico, San Vicente de Ávila. On San Martín in Segovia, see
Merino de Cáceres and Reynolds Álvarez, “La Iglesia de San Martín de Segovia.” On Santa María de
Carrecedo, see Gómez Moreno, Catálogo monumental de León, vol 1, 406-15; Porter, Spanish Romanesque
Sculpture, 30-31; Abundio Rodríguez, Castille romane, vol. 1, 428-29; Martínez Tejera’s entry in García
Guinea, Miguel Ángel, José María Pérez González, and José Manuel Rodríguez Montañés, eds.,
Enciclopedia del Románico en León, 269-87. On Santiago, see, among others, Moralejo, “Le Porche de la
Gloire” and Yzquierdo Perrín, “El Maestro Mateo.” On Ourense, see Pita Andrade, La construcción de la
catedral de Ourense. On the Pórtico del Paraíso, see also Carrero Santamaría, El Pórtico del Paraíso de la
Catedral de Ourense and the essays in García Iglesias, ed., La Catedral de Ourense, esp. José Carlos Valle
Pérez, “La arquitectura,” 51-104, and Marta Díaz Tíe, “La escultura medieval,” 105-70.
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Tormés (near Salamanca), and San Martín in Fuentidueña (now in the Cloisters Museum
in New York). The simpler or more damaged sculpture in Uncastillo, Zaragoza, Alba de
Tormés and Fuentidueña was studied by René Crozet in a 1969 article, while the complex
sculptural ensemble at Santo Domingo de la Calzada has been the subject of considerably
439
more scholarship.
Study of this sculpture has focused on placing the figures within the
context of workshops active in the Iberian peninsula in the last quarter of the twelfth
century. Less attention has been paid to the role played by these sculptural ensembles in
the architectural and liturgical context of the apse itself. Let me briefly describe each of
these sites and sketch what little is known about their relationship to one another, in the
process pointing out significant parallels to the sculpture in Oviedo.
The site that most closely resembles the iconography and distribution of the
sculpture in the Cámara Santa is San Martín in Uncastillo.
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The church dedicated to St.
Martin of Tours was completed in several phases, culminating in the consecration of the
new apse by Bishop Pedro of Pamplona (r. 1167-1193) in 1179. The apse was originally
decorated with three pairs of column figures, of which only two survive in situ (Figure
4.35). The statues clearly depict the apostles, although not all have been identified. On
the northern side are Paul and Thomas, while on the south, Peter is accompanied by an
unidentified apostle. Arbuniés suggested that the fragments in the cloister belong to a
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figure of St. James, while de Egry identified him as the titular bishop-saint, Martin.
The capitals are decorated with scenes of the life of Christ, including the Annunciation,
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Crozet, “Statuaire monumentale.” On Santo Domingo, see Moya Valgañón, Etapas de construcción, as
well as the essays by Bango Torviso, Yarza Luaces, and Español in La cabecera de la catedral calceatense.
The classic study on Santo Domingo in the context of late Romanesque sculpture is Iñíguez Almech,
“Sobre tallas románicas.”
440
On San Martín specifically, see the entry by Delia Sagast e Abadía in García Guinea, Pérez González,
and Martínez de Aguirre, eds. Enciclopedia del Románico en Aragón: Zaragoza, vol. 2, 703-16; Canella
López and San Vicente, Aragon roman; Egry, “Esculturas románicas inéditas;” Abbad Ríos, Catalogo
monumental de España: Zaragoza; Bayarte Arbuniés, “El arte en la villa de Uncastillo.”
441
Bayarte Arbuniés, “El arte en la villa de Uncastillo,” 69; Egry, “Esculturas románicas inéditas,” 186.
206
Visitation, Nativity, Annunciation to the Shepherds, Epiphany, a Virgin orans, and,
442
perhaps, the Three Marys at the Tomb of Christ or the Presentation in the Temple.
Thanks to its relationship with more canonical monuments, the apse sculpture at
San Martín has been placed in the context of the workshop of a figure known as
Leodegarius. This figure has been associated on the basis of style with a network of sites
and monuments in the northern Iberian peninsula, including the sarcophagus of Doña
Blanca of Navarre, Santa María la Real in Sangüesa, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, and
finally San Martín in Uncastillo. Some time between her death and 1156 and the death of
her husband Sancho III in 1158, the sarcophagus of Doña Blanca of Navarra was carved,
making this the first monument in the chain of works associated with Leodegarius and his
workshop.
443
The latest work associated with him is San Martín, whose apse sculpture, as
we have seen, has a terminus ante quem of 1179. In between these two relatively firm and
widely agreed-upon chronological markers are two other important monuments that
contain sculpture identified with the workshop of Leodegarius: Santa María la Real in
Sangüesa and Santo Domingo de la Calzada, both of which are on the route to Santiago
de Compostela.
The façade of Santa María de la Sangüesa is a veritable patchwork of sculpture
from different dates and hands. The jamb figures that flank the west portal of the church
444
have been attributed to Leodegarius and dated on the basis of style to circa 1160-70.
These are the earliest known jamb figures in the Iberian peninsula. A French origin has
been suggested for the sculptor on the basis of the resemblance between the jamb figures
442
443
Melero-Moneo, “El sarcófago de doña Blanca,” 19.
Melero-Moneo, “El sarcófago de Doña Blanca.” See also Valdez del Alamo, “Lament for a Lost
Queen.”
444
Ancho Villanueva and Fernández-Ladreda Aguadé, Portada de Santa María de Sangüesa; Müller,
“Santa María la Real, Sangüesa,” 234.
207
445
of Sangüesa and their more famous cousins at Chartres.
Questions of the national
origin of the column figure, or indeed of the mysterious Leodegarius himself, are not
what interest me here. I wish instead to think about some of the other locations in which
column figures are found, and the functions and possible meanings of this distinctive
sculptural form.
Further west on the pilgrimage route to Santiago is the church of Santo Domingo
de la Calzada, founded in 1158 around the cult of its titular saint, Dominic (d. 1109),
famous for his care of pilgrims. Yarza has identified at least four sculptural campaigns in
the years between the site’s foundation and the early thirteenth century. Yarza connects a
group of historiated capitals in the ambulatory with the workshop of Leodegarius, and
dates them to between 1162/65 and 1170/75. The most remarkable sculpture, however, is
the group of four carved pilasters sandwiched between paired columns that divide the
apse from the ambulatory (Figure 4.36). Yarza leaves open the question of the possible
relationship between the sculptors of the capitals and those of the pilasters, carved
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sometime during the 1170s.
The imagery on the pilasters can be read both vertically
and horizontally, thereby expanding the possibilities for narrative reading and
interpretation within its architectural and liturgical setting.
445
447
Porter, Romanesque Sculpture of the Pilgrimage Roads, 254. Porter’s suggestion was taken up by
Gudiol y Ricart and Gaya Nuño, Arquitectura y escultura románicas, 156, and still persists in the literature.
446
447
Yarza Luaces, “La escultura monumental,” 167-85.
Yarza Luaces, “La escultura monumental,” 181-94. The basic iconographic program of these pilasters
as a group has been identified as the Tree of Jesse. Only two of the four pilasters have figural decoration.
At the base of the southernmost pilaster is Jesse himself. Above him are several unidentified busts, atop
which is a seated figure with a halo that has been identified as the Virgin Mary. Above her now-missing
head is a small cross within a circle, and traces of a dove, and above this God the Father with the Christ
Child in his lap. On the other decorated pilaster, at the same height as the figure of the Virgin, is an angel
who turns in her direction, forming an Annunciation group. Beneath Gabriel is another headless seated
figure, identified as the prophet Isaiah. At the base of the third pilaster is a seated depiction of King David,
playing a musical instrument. Many of the figures are also framed by rich foliage, underscoring the
iconography of the Tree of Jesse.
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Discussions of the decoration of the apse and ambulatory at Santo Domingo are
largely isolated from the larger liturgical and devotional use of the space. I would like to
suggest that we must see the sculpture in relation to the building’s raison d‘être: the cult
of St. Dominic. The original location of the saint’s shrine has been the subject of some
dispute. It is now located in the south transept, and many sustain that the shrine was
always located there.
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Francesca Español has argued that the saint’s tomb, elevated on
columns, was placed in conjunction with the main altar in the apse.
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If we follow
Español’s proposal, the tomb of the saint would have been framed by the four carved
pilasters that divide the apse from the ambulatory. Even if we hesitate to embrace this
proposal, we should interpret the imagery of the sculpture in light of the presence of the
main altar in the center of the apse. These carved pilasters, an unprecedented sculptural
form within the Iberian peninsula, can thus be seen as a sculptural amplification or frame
of the liturgical space of the apse, whose main altar was dedicated to the Trinity (depicted
at the top of the southernmost pilaster).
In the cathedral of Zaragoza, known as La Seo, we see an analogous ensemble of
apse sculpture, whose imagery plays out on historiated capitals, narrative friezes, and
large-scale individual figures located between columns. The cathedral was founded in
1188, and the decoration of the apse has been dated to the last decade of the twelfth
century. Although not directly associated with the workshop of Leodegarius, the
sculpture of the apse of La Seo of Zaragoza has been linked on the basis of style to that of
Santo Domingo de la Calzada.
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The sculpture of the apse of La Seo has been badly
damaged and is still hidden behind a large altarpiece, making photography difficult.
Large-scale sculptures of the apostles stand between columns with decorated and
historiated capitals with scenes from the New Testament, amidst a narrative frieze
448
Bango Torviso, “La cabecera de la catedral calceatense,” 96-103; Moya Valgañón, Etapas de
construcción, 16-17; Sánchez Ameijeiras, “La ritualización del camino de vuelta.”
449
450
Español, “Santo Domingo de la Calzada,” 280.
Buesa Conde, “La catedral románica de San Salvador;” Ruiz Maldonado, La Seo románica; Iñiguez
Almech, “El abside de La Seo de Zaragoza.”
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recounting the Old Testament story of Adam and Eve.
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Only two of the apostles
survive, although there may have originally been five (Figure 4.37). The remaining two
sites, San Juan in Alba de Tormés and San Martín in Fuentidueña, represent somewhat
simplified late twelfth or early thirteenth-century responses to the innovative sculptural
ensembles of Santo Domingo de la Calzada and La Seo. A chorus of seated apostles
frames the central apse of the church of San Juan in Alba de Tormés, which has been
connected to the apse decoration in Zaragoza (Figure. 4.38).
452
Finally, at San Martín in
Fuentidueña we have two column figures that are not apostles, but rather an Annunciation
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and a mitered bishop, perhaps the titular saint Martin (Figure 4.39).
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Crozet (“Statuaire monumentale,” 292-94) has the most thorough description of the iconography. There
are three large sections, each of which is divided once more into three parts. Starting with the first part in
the first section in southern end of the apse, the two capitals depicts the Presentation it the Temple (on the
left) and the Three Pilgrims on the Road to Emmaus (on the right). The frieze between these capitals
depicts the parable of Dives and Lazarus. Below this frieze is an apostle, beneath which is another frieze
depicting the Creation of Adam. The next two capitals show harp-playing and dancing (left) and the Supper
on the Road to Emmaus (right). A statue of an apostle with a phylactery stands between the two columns.
The frieze above him depicts more musical shenigans, and beneath him is a depiction of Adam being
shown Paradise. The next part is damaged, though we can see beasts in an interlace design on the capitals.
The frieze below the capitals shows a hunting scene, beneath which stands another apostle. Beneath the
apostle is a frieze depicting the Creation of Eve. The middle section is the most badly damaged, and it is
difficult to discern any of the iconography. The northern section is better preserved. In the first part, the
capital to the right shows a hunting scene, and the left capital depicts Peter cutting off the ear of Malchus.
The frieze beneath the capitals shows humans and dragons in an interlace pattern. The statue, presumably
of an apostle, has been lost, as has the frieze below it. In the middle part, the left capital depicts fantastical
birds, and the right, the Kiss of Judas. The frieze beneath shows Pilate ordering the flagellation of Christ.
The bottom frienze depicts the Original Sin. Finally, the third part is largely destroyed except for a frieze
depicting the moment when Adam realizes his nakedness.
452
See the entry, with relevant bibliography, García Guinea et al, eds., Encicplopedia del Románico en
Castilla y León: Salamanca, 69-78.
453
Simon, “Romanesque Art in American Collections. XXI,” 145-49; Gómez Moreno, “History, Stylistic
Analysis, and Dismantling.”
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While their connections of the level of workshop production remain unclear, what
these sites have in common is the presence of monumental sculpture in the apse,
surrounding the altar and the relics within it, permanent witnesses to the mass taking
place in the liturgical heart of the church. I contend that the disposition of the apostles in
the Cámara Santa must be seen in relation to these apse ensembles. The apostles in
Oviedo surround the Arca Santa, acting as reminders of the apostolic origins of the
reliquary and standing in for the canons themselves, heirs to that apostolic authority and
curators of the space and its relics. Their disposition, so similar to that of these apse
ensembles, also suggests if not a specific liturgical function, then at least a ritual frame
within which to interpret the sculpture of the Cámara Santa.
Ritual and Meaning in the Decoration of the Cámara Santa
The enlargement and elaboration of the Cámara Santa in the twelfth century took
place within a context of an expanding ritual program celebrating the relics of the Arca
Santa. Alfonso III’s fortified treasury of the tenth century was not longer adequate for the
increasing number of pilgrims or the new liturgies that emerged over the course of the
later Middle Ages, such as the Feast of the Relics. The changing shape and status of the
Cámara Santa can be directly linked to the Arca Santa itself. In my previous chapter, I
argued that the contents of the Arca Santa were visually and rhetorically divulged to
devout pilgrims in the form of multiple texts enumerating the reliquary’s contents, as well
as by means of the fragmentation of its voluminous contents into smaller reliquaries. I
wish now to turn to examine how the Arca gives meaning to the late twelfth-century
decoration of the Cámara Santa, focusing not on formal or iconographic parallels with the
reliquary’s silver revetment, but rather on the ritual context that gives life to both the
space and its contents.
Easter, the death and resurrection of Christ, constitutes the “liturgical substrate”
of the decoration of the Cámara Santa, a phrase I borrow from Serafín Moralejo’s
discussion of the Pórtico de la Gloria. In the context of the Pórtico, the inscription
commemorating the work of Maestro Mateo specifies the date of 1 April 1188, the Friday
of the fourth week of Lent. This liturgical context connects directly to the Arca Santa not
only in the form of the numerous relics of Christ contained within it, but also the history
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of the reliquary itself. The famous opening of the Arca Santa in the presence of Alfonso
VI that is commemorated on the inscription of the lid also took place on the Friday of the
fourth week of Lent, 13 March 1075.
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The story of the Arca Santa thus is woven into
the larger liturgical context of Easter, the central part of the liturgical year.
Moralejo connects this liturgical context of Easter with the imagery of the
Resurrection of Christ in the Pórtico de la Gloria, in particular the Harrowing of Hell and
the visit of the three Marys to the tomb of Christ. As the closest parallel to the
iconography of the Pórtico, Moralejo points to a pair of capitals in which the three Marys
at the tomb of Christ is juxtaposed with the triumphant risen Christ.
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These capitals,
both from the region of Palencia, are dated to the 1180s; one is from the otherwise
undocumented church of Santa María de Lebanza (Figure 4.40) and the other from Santa
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María la Real in Aguilar de Campoo (Figure 4.41).
Moralejo connects the Harrowing
of Hell in Santiago with these depictions of the risen Christ on the Palencian capitals,
underscoring his liturgical reading of the imagery in Santiago.
Although the representation of the risen Christ does not appear in the Cámara
Santa, we do have a depiction of the Harrowing of Hell juxtaposed with the three Marys
at the tomb. The double capital above the apostles Peter and Paul on the north wall is
devoted entirely to the scene of the three Marys at the tomb of Christ (see Figure 4.10),
while the Harrowing of Hell is depicted directly across the space on the capital atop the
figures of James and John (see Figure 4.13). Interestingly, there are two angels in the
Ovetense representation of this scene, one of which stands behind the open tomb,
touching it. It appears that the sculptor ran out of space to depict the three female figures,
for there are three heads, but only two bodies—the second head emerges rather
improbably behind the shoulder of the second Mary. This peculiarity can likely be
454
455
456
Moralejo, “El 1 de abril de 1188,” 115.
Moralejo, “El 1 de abril de 1188,” 115.
Described by David Simon in The Art of Medieval Spain, cat. nos. 97 and 98, 218-19. The Lebanza
capitals are also described by Seidel, “Romanesque Sculpture in American Collections,” 138-41.
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explained by considering this capital in tandem with the Palencian capitals that also
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depict the three Marys at the tomb of Christ.
In both of these capitals, there is only one
angel, while in the Oviedo capital, there are two. This second angel occupies the same
location relative to the tomb that the first Mary does in the two Palencia capitals. The
Oviedo sculptor has added, intentionally or by accident, a second angel to the scene,
necessitating the extra head for the third Mary. Why might this be?
Small details of the composition that differ among these three capitals suggest
that, despite the similar iconography, subtly different meanings were intended in each
one. In the Aguilar de Campoo capital, the angel points towards the visibly open tomb,
from which a cloth spills out. The figure closest to him holds up her hands in a gesture of
surprise or acclaim, and all three women look towards the angel. In the Lebanza capital,
the first Mary points towards the angel, looking towards her companions. The angel
points again to the open tomb with the shroud, and the edge of the tomb bears the
inscription: “Simile sepulchro Domini quodammodo” (In some measure this is a likeness
of the tomb of the Lord). On the Oviedo capital, both angels touch the tomb, while the
second angel also points towards the three Marys. The tomb here is depicted differently
than in the Palencian capitals, for although it appears to be open, it lacks a visible shroud.
We can relate these iconographic differences to the relics of the Cámara Santa,
and how were divulged, verbally or visually, to pilgrims. The iconography of the three
Marys at the tomb has long been a touchstone for studies of the interaction between ritual
and representation, established by Émile Mâle’s classic thesis on the connection between
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this iconography and the Quem queritis drama.
In the context of the Lebanza capital,
Linda Seidel has argued that the gestures of the three Marys “visually reconstruct the
chain of responses found in the liturgical dramatization of the Quem queritis
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Simon, The Art of Medieval Spain, astutely notes the stylistic similarity to the Oviedo capital, although
he does not address the particular issue of the number of figures.
458
Mâle, L’art religieux du XIIe siècle, 125-39.
213
passages.”
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I would like to suggest that something similar is happening in the Cámara
Santa: not liturgical drama, per se, but the perhaps para-liturgical drama of divulging the
relics of the Arca Santa to pilgrims.
According to Morales, the eldest canon told pilgrims about all of the relics of the
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Cámara Santa, performing a verbal inventory of the Arca’s voluminous contents.
We
know from the surviving sixteenth-century customary of Oviedo Cathedral that two
clerics, referred to as claveros, had to open the Cámara Santa on Sundays after mass so
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that the devout could visit the relics.
The capital depicting the three Marys can thus be
seen as a visual narrative device analogous to these clerical interlocutors who explain to
pilgrims the miraculous origins of the Arca Santa, just as the angels explain to the three
Marys that Christ is no longer in his tomb. The pilgrims, in turn, mimic the behavior of
three Marys, marveling at the miraculous relics.
This imagery also resonates with the form and contents of the Arca Santa. The
Arca contained several relics associated with the death and burial of Christ, including the
fragments of the True Cross, tomb of Christ, and his burial shroud. While the shroud is
now the cathedral’s most venerated relic, the growth of the cult of this specific relic can
be traced back to the period of the Countereformation; during the twelfth century, this
relic formed part of a larger ensemble of other Christological relics found inside the Arca.
Perhaps there is even a visual parallel made between the tomb of Christ depicted on the
capital and the Arca Santa itself, appropriate given the reliquary’s tomb-like form. The
tomb of Christ depicted on the capital is supported on short columns, and while the Arca
today rests on a plain concrete plinth, a late twelfth-century text suggests that this was not
always the case. According to this account of the Arca Santa, redacted sometime between
1175 and 1187, Alfonso II made a new golden revetment for the Arca. When he placed
the venerable reliquary inside its new container, the four feet of the shrine pierced the
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460
461
Seidel, “Romanesque Sculpture in American Collections,” 140.
Morales, Viaje Santo, 85.
Libro de los Estatutos y Constituciones, fol. 24v-25v.
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corners of the golden shrine. These feet was “most devotedly touched and kissed by
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pilgrims, and in the presence of God prayers and tears flowed beneath that ark.”
This
text thus presents us with an image of the Arca Santa elevated on columns, not unlike
numerous other saints’ shrine on the Iberian peninsula and beyond.
Whether or not the Arca Santa was ever actually elevated on columns remains
unclear. Regardless, I would like to point to other imagery in the twelfth-century
sculpture of the Cámara Santa that seems to take advantage of the familiarity of such an
arrangement for medieval pilgrims. Cuesta and Sandoval mention seeing visible signs
(such as incised crosses) of the presence of pilgrims on the dado level of the Cámara
Santa, particularly on the layer of stucco covering the elaborate pedestals that support the
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apostolado.
These supporting structures merit further comment in the context of the
wider play of meanings of the sculptural and pictorial decoration of the Cámara Santa.
The apostles stand on pedestals that are in turn supported by finely-rendered
microarchitectural supports; the column capitals of this microarchitecture are often
carved with the same level of detail as the larger-scale capitals of the apostolado (Figure
4.42). The architectural details on these supports were meant to be visually read as
columns, and their location on the dado level made them readily accessible to pilgrims in
ways that the larger figures of the apostolado and its decorated and historiated capitals
were not.
The elaboration of this microarchitecture becomes be meaningful when we
consider the decoration and disposition of numerous twelfth- and thirteenth-century
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“Rex autem castus fecerat aliam archam parari, majorem illa in qua reliquie continetur, que miro opere
sculpta et tota deforis inaurata devotionem Regis casti et prudentiam artificis videntibus representat atque
testatur. In hac majori archa collocavit sanctam archam tali modo quod quatuor pedes sancti scrinii
perforatis angulis majoris arche foris apparent et a peregrinis tanguntur et devotissime osculantur et sub
archa illa preces et lacrime coram Deo effunduntur. De unoquoque pede sancte arche foris apparet
longitudo pedis et dimidii.” Edited by Kohler, “Translation de reliques,” 10.
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Cuesta and Sandoval, Trabajos realizados en la Cámara Santa, 23.
215
saints’ shrines, which were elevated on columns.
464
The columns themselves were the
object of pilgrims’ rituals, and contact with the columns supporting the shrine could stand
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in for contact with the saint himself, with similarly miraculous effects.
Sánchez
Ameijeiras argues that the architectural decoration on saints’ shrines, particularly
depictions of columns, “employ[s] a visual language of expectation and desire, inspired
or determined by actual rites that took place at saints’ tombs, and intended to provoke the
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pilgrims’ active response.”
The four minutely-rendered columns that support each of
the bases beneath the pairs of apostles recalls the four feet of the Arca that perforated the
new container built by Alfonso II, described in the late twelfth-century text discussed
above. Thus, direct contact with this dado-level microarchitecture might stand in for
direct contact with the reliquary itself and its sacred contents.
The presence of the relics in the Cámara Santa was underscored, and pilgrims’
experience intensified, by what is arguably the most unusual element of the sculpted
decoration of the space. High up on the western wall, above the entryway, are three
sculpted heads of Christ, the Virgin, and John the Evangelist, making up a Calvary scene
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(Figure 4.43).
Evidence exists that the bodies were painted rather than sculpted, and
Cuesta and Sandoval mention seeing the painted figure of a mitered bishop next to the
Virgin, now lost. This remarkable ensemble has received surprisingly little consideration
in the scholarship. While such “multi-media” ensembles of painting and sculpture are not
unknown, they are unusual.
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On the Iberian peninsula, among the most noteworthy shrines are those of San Vicente in Ávila, Santo
Domingo de la Calzada, and San Millán. For a general contextualization of these reliquaries, see Español,
“Santo Domingo de la Calzada.”
465
466
467
Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and Interactivity,” 27-29.
Sánchez Ameijeiras, “Imagery and Interactivity,” 30.
García Guinea, Pérez González, and Martínez Álvarez, eds., Enciclopedia del Románico en Asturias,
622.
216
Another set of heads of a Calvary group, similar though not stylistically identical
to those in the Cámara Santa, was installed in the nearby church of Santa María del Rey
Casto (Figure 4.44).
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Santa María was primarily a funerary church, and several kings
and queens of the Asturian monarchy are buried there. The building, constructed during
the reign of Alfonso II according to ninth-century chronicles, was torn down and rebuilt
in the eighteenth century as a chapel attached to the main body of the cathedral. These
sculpted heads were conserved, and are now located above the western entrance to the
chapel. According to witnesses of the building before it was torn down, the Calvary
group was located on the arch between the central apse and the nave.
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The location of
this Calvary group immediately preceding the apse in Santa María underscores the status
of the twelfth-century Cámara Santa as an apse-like space, similar to the decorated apses
in Uncastillo, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, Zaragoza, Alba de Tormés, and
Fuentidueña.
The prominence of the sculpted heads of the Cámara Santa recalls some of the
enamels of Limoges, on which the “classical heads” of the figures project from the flat
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surface of the object.
468
469
470
The nature of the Arca Santa as a metalwork object, although
García de Castro, La Catedral de Oviedo, vol. 2, 92.
Carvallo, Antigüedades y cosas memorables, 180.
On these heads, see Enamels of Limoges, 52-53. The presence and origins of objects de opere
lemovicensi in the Iberian peninsula has been the subject of much debate. The so-called Silos workshop
was likely producing enameled objects by the mid-twelfth century, and objects with sculpted heads by
around 1165. See Martín Anson, “Los esmaltes silenses.” See also Gauthier, “L’atelier d’orfèvrerie de
Silos;” Hildburgh, Medieval Spanish Enamels. Español, “Los esmaltes de Limoges en España,” 88, has
examined references in inventories, and asserts that Limoges work is attested to in Iberian treasuries
starting in 1217 in the Crown of Aragón, and 1231 for the kingdoms of Castilla and León. One of the most
important enamel reliqaries, likely made in Silos, is the Urna of Santo Domingo de Silos. In the specific
context of this object, Gauthier (Émaux méridionaux, cat. no. 80, 89) has suggested that the sculpted heads
were inspired by figural sculpture on capitals and column-figures, while Hildburgh (Medieval Spanish
Enamels, 78-79) cites as evidence of the Spanish origin of several enamel objects with these projecting
heads the presence of the three sculpted heads in the Cámara Santa.
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decorated using the repoussé technique rather than with enamel, thus resonates with this
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aspect of the Cámara Santa’s decoration.
In terms of architectural sculpture, the
medium of stucco offers suggestive parallels to the detached limestone heads in Oviedo.
While not much eleventh and twelfth century stucco survives, we do have examples of a
sculpted head and painted body at the monastic church of Saint-Chef-en-Dauphiné (Isère)
(Figure 4.45). The paintings have been dated to the first half of the twelfth century,
although it is uncertain whether the stucco was put in place at the same time or somewhat
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later.
As Christian Sapin and Bénédicte Palazzo-Bertholon write, the stucco head of St.
George “underscores the human nature” of the saint, standing out from the rest of the
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painted decoration as the sole sculptural element.
The three-dimensional sculpture thus
stands in for the physical body of the saint, making his presence more palpable in much
the same way that the projecting heads on enamel reliquaries might have functioned to
embody the presence of the holy bodies contained within.
The sculpted heads that emerge from the flat painted surface of the Cámara
Santa’s western wall function underscore the reality of the Crucifixion and the physical
presence of Christ in the form of the relics contained there. The semi-sculpted
Crucifixion above the entrance to the Cámara Santa is analogous to the arrangement in
the sacristy of San Filippo Neri in Pontone (Amalfi), where a stucco Crucifix emerges
from a painted Calvary scene above the entryway into the space. As Jill Caskey points
out, “[c]ross and body are formed of the same liquid material as wall, vault, and painted
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ground.”
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This melding of media creates a vividly embodied space in which viewers
A similar argument has been made for a series of late twelfth-century altar frontals from Cataluña,
which use a technique known as pastiglia that involves sculpting in low relief with a paste such as gesso.
See Castiñeiras and Camps, “Pintura pintada, imagen esculpida,” 141.
472
473
474
Sapin, Le Stuc, 205-06.
Sapin, Le Stuc, 206.
Caskey, “Liquid Gothic,” 118.
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can participate in the drama of the Crucifixion, and feel the palpable truth of the
Incarnation.
In Oviedo, as in many other pilgrimage sites, pilgrims left their own mark on the
walls of the Cámara Santa in the form of what we now term graffiti. As recent studies
have made clear, medieval and early modern graffiti “was not trespass,” and did not have
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the same negative meaning it has in contemporary society.
Rather than being against
the rules, graffiti-making was an important visual and textual practice engaged in by
medieval and early modern pilgrims. It can be seen as expressing devotion, as well as a
desire to remember and be remembered. In the Cámara Santa, the stuccoed surface of the
wall was a locus for pilgrims’ communication with the relics and connection to the wider
narratives of death and resurrection that play out in the sculpture and painting. By
incising into the surface of the stucco that forms the ground for the painted and sculpted
decoration of the space, they participate directly with these powerful narratives and
connect to the holy figures whose relics they have come to venerate. Although their
traces have been lost, these marks form an integral part of the function and meaning of
the decoration of the Cámara Santa. In the end, we are left not only with the hands of
sculptors—Pita’s “masters of Oviedo”—but also with the hands of centuries of
anonymous pilgrims.
*
*
*
I have presented a vision of the Cámara Santa as a complex ensemble of painting,
sculpture, and ritual, inhabited by canons and pilgrims. This contrasts with the
fragmentary and frankly reductive vision of the space offered by the purely stylistic
analysis of the sculpture alone. As consideration of the nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury publications on the Cámara Santa suggests, the process of restoration went hand
in hand with the increasing focus on the apostolado as an art historical monument that
needed to be categorized in terms of style. Treating this as a separate history, with
specific implications for our understanding of the apostolado, helps clarify the issues at
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Fleming, “Wounded Walls,” 3. See also Kupfer, “The Cult of Images;” Plesch, “Memory on the Wall;”
Jäggi, “Graffiti as a Medium for Memoria.”
219
stake in our study of this material and allows us to explore alternative meanings for the
sculpture. Contrary to the focus on style and formal details that has thus far characterized
the study of the apostolado, I have argued for an interpretation of the sculpture that is
based on its meaning in the space, particularly how it engages with its viewers, both
canons and pilgrims alike.
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Conclusion: Monuments, Memory, and the Dead
A monument is so named because it admonishes the mind to remember the
deceased person. Indeed, when you don’t see a monument, it is as what is
written, ‘I have slipped from the heart as one who is dead.’ But when you
see it, it admonishes the mind and brings you back to mindfulness so that
you remember the dead person. Thus both monument and memory are so
called from the admonition of the mind.
476
Isidore of Seville here emphasizes the active role of the monument in provoking
viewers to a state of mindful awareness of the dead person being commemorated. As we
have seen, the late twelfth-century decoration of the Cámara Santa functioned similarly to
provoke awareness of the sacred treasures housed within and to elicit devotional behavior
on the part of pilgrims. The drama of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ plays out
on the walls of the space and is materialized in the relics housed therein. Just as Isidore
envisioned, the Cámara Santa is a monument that creates a physical link between the
living and the dead, reaching between the past and the present.
Several hundred years separate Isidore from the contemporary disciplines of art
history and historic preservation that now define, manage and study monuments. Despite
this, we are, if anything, even less concrete than Isidore in our definition of what
constitutes a monument. In the words of Margaret Olin and Robert Nelson, a monument
is “what art history chooses the celebrate and proclaim a monument.”
477
While
nineteenth- and twentieth-century notions of the monument privilege its ability to
476
“Monumentum ideo nuncupatur eo quod mentem moneat ad defuncti memoriam. Cum enim non
videris monumentum, illud est quod scriptum est (Psalm. 31, 12): ‘Excidi tamquam mortuus a corde.’ Cum
autem videris, monet mentem et ad memoriam te reducit ut mortuum recorderis. Monumenta itaque et
memoriae pro mentis admonitione dictae.” Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter
11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville, Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis,
Beech, and Berghof, 313.
477
Olin and Nelson, “Introduction,” 2.
221
embody and crystallize a particular vision, often of national history or identity, more
recent studies have instead pointed out that the power of monuments also comes from the
fact that they are “living, vital, immediate, and accessible,” rather than static
embodiments; monuments are “things we think with,” not about, a formulation with
478
which Isidore himself might have agreed.
This is the perspective I have brought to bear on the Cámara Santa. Its status as a
monument in the traditional, art historical sense is unquestionable, as the scholarship and
tourism it has generated attest. The post-war restoration of the site intended to produce a
single, stable interpretation of the building and its early medieval origins, but I have
shown that the Cámara Santa is ripe for alternative interpretations that attend to multiple
pasts over the longue durée. I began by revisiting the twentieth century debates
surrounding the destruction and reconstruction of the Cámara Santa, revealing the
ideological interpretations that continue to shape scholarship on the site. I then turned to
the early medieval form and function of the building, arguing that we must understand it
as a two storey structure, a treasury atop a martyrs’ shrine. It was only in the late eleventh
and twelfth centuries when both these functions come together in the upper storey space
known as the Cámara Santa.
My second chapter focused on this rich twelfth century context, particularly the
writings of Bishop Pelayo of Oviedo (d. 1153), who oversaw the production of an
illuminated cartulary and chronicle. I analyzed text and image in these manuscripts,
showing how they work together to enhance the antiquity and authority of the see of
Oviedo in ways that still shape our contemporary experience of the Cámara Santa and its
contents. The focus of Pelayo’s textual labors was the Arca Santa, the most important
reliquary and object of pilgrimage in Oviedo, and the the centerpiece of the Cámara Santa
itself. In my third chapter, I considered the Arca Santa as well as a constellation of texts
and objects associated with it, arguing that this reliquary shapes the form and function of
the space as a whole. Finally, in my fourth and final chapter, I focused on the late twelfthcentury expansion and decoration of the Cámara Santa. I argued that the sculpture that
478
Olin and Nelson, “Introduction,” 3 and 6.
222
lines the walls of the space animates and embodies the relics contained within the Arca
Santa, interacting with the pilgrims and canons who used the space. Thus, this sculpture
represents the culmination of the long twelfth-century transformation of the Cámara
Santa into a space of pilgrimage focused around the Arca Santa and the memory of the
early medieval patrons of the Cathedral of Oviedo, a memory which abides to this day.
Throughout my dissertation, I strove to maintain a balance between synchronic
and diachronic narrative. I traced the changing form, function and meaning of the
building from its origins in the early tenth century, its reconfiguration in the twelfth
century and finally its reconstruction in the twentieth. The diptych structure of my
chapters encouraged a more diachronic reading of these texts, images and spaces across
time periods usually isolated from one another in more synchronic narratives. In other
words, I attended to the historical life of the building, but also its afterlife, or
479
resurrection.
This metaphor is not accidental. Isidore tells us that monuments are
tombs for the dead. Thus, within Christian eschatology, those dead will be resurrected.
Buildings and bodies can thus come together in this metaphor of resurrection.
Medieval debates about the resurrection of the body offer a rather literal but
nonetheless productive perspective on architectural restoration and reconstruction.
Caroline Walker Bynum highlights a pervasive concern about bodily change and decay,
understood as the consumption or fragmentation of the body, within early writing on the
idea of resurrection. Here, Isidore of Seville is once again pertinent, for he points to some
of these anxieties about bodily decay within the context of the physical spaces within
which the dead rest:
A sepulcher is so called from ‘buried.’ Originally, people were buried in
their own homes. Later, this was prohibited by law, so that the bodies of
the living would not be infected by contact with the stench.
479
480
480
On the “life of buildings,” see Camerlenghi, “The Longue Durée.”
“Sepulchrum a sepulto dictum. Prius autem quisque in domo sua sepeliebatur. Postea vetitum est
legibus, ne foetore ipso corpora viventium contacta inficerentur.” The Latin text is from Isidore,
223
This fear of decay is thus contained by the separate space of the sepulcher, although the
sepulcher itself becomes a locus of anxiety about the consumption and fragmentation of
the body. Specifically, Isidore recalls the Greek etymology of the word “sarcophagus,” so
481
called “because bodies are consumed there.”
Augustine describes the moment of resurrection as being like a sculptor recasting
a bronze statue to remove imperfections, and Bynum observes the frequency with which
early medieval thinkers represented the idea of bodily resurrection by means of
metaphors of remaking, either the recasting of sculpture, or the reconstruction of
buildings. Bynum terms these metaphors “inorganic images” that attempt to contain the
threat of bodily change and physical decay.
482
Taking into account Isidore’s vivid
language, I would like to suggest that buildings and sculptures were not so “inorganic” as
they seem from our modern perspective. Such material and architectural metaphors do
not represent the inorganic disembodiment of the human body; rather, they actively
embody the spaces and objects associated with the dead. Instead of seeing bodies as
being like buildings, we might instead reverse the logic of this metaphor, seeing buildings
as being like bodies, subject to the organic processes of change, decay and fragmentation.
Scholars such as David Freedberg and Alfred Gell have highlighted the power and
agency of images, and work on iconoclasm and the destruction of images likewise
483
underscores their capacity to take on life—and to die.
If works of art can die, they can
also be resurrected through reconstruction. Such is the case of the Cámara Santa and its
Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville,
Etymologies, ed. and trans. Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 313.
481
“Sarcophagus Graecum est nomen, eo quod ibi corpora absumantur.” The Latin text is from Isidore,
Etymologies, ed. Lindsay, book 15, chapter 11, “De sepulchris.” English translation, Isidore of Seville,
Etymologies, ed. and trans., Barney, Lewis, Beech, and Berghof, 313.
482
483
Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body, 72.
Freedberg, Power of Images; Gell, Art and Agency; Gamboni, The Destruction of Art; Latour and
Weibel, eds., Iconoclash.
224
sculptural inhabitants, the twelve apostles that line the north and south walls of the space.
A photograph taken soon after the destruction of 1934 shows six of the apostles, laid out
on the floor like shrouded bodies, the fragmentation of the stone recalling the wounded,
broken bodies of the victims of war (see Figure 4.19). The uncanny quality of this
wounded sculpture was noted by contemporaries. José Fernánadez Buelta, who
collaborated with Víctor Hevia, the sculptor responsible for the restoration of the
apostles, wrote that “[t]hey displayed horrible mutilations, and a sense of unease was
484
provoked, viewing those fragmented bodies and disfigured faces.”
As even a cursory glance at our medieval sources indicates, this metaphorical
association of remade sculpture and resurrected body is not unique to Spain in the 1930s.
Given the intense National Catholicism which imbued much Francoist rhetoric with
religious associations, I believe that this resonance between modern practices of
reconstruction and medieval ideas of resurrection takes on particular significance. In the
wake of the Civil War, explicit parallels were drawn between the reconstruction of cities
and the remaking of the Spanish nation and its people. Buildings stand in visually and
rhetorically for bodies, and an explicit correspondence was made between devastated
cities and wounded bodies. A series of postcards packaged together and entitled “Oviedo,
ciudad mártir” makes this comparison explicit. The damaged buildings stand in for
wounded bodies, otherwise absent from these photographs.
The story of the martyred city’s reconstruction has its own victims, heretofore
invisible. As more than seventy-five percent of its urban fabric had been destroyed,
Oviedo was officially “adopted” by Franco in 1940, which meant that the State took it
upon itself to fund and carry out all reconstruction.
485
Prisoners of war were forced to
rebuild cities in order to “redeem” themselves, and it is likely that prisoners of war were
484
“Presentaban horribles mutilaciones y causaba desasosiego contemplar aquellos cuerpos fragmentados
y aquellos rostros desfigurados hasta lo espantoso.” Fernández Buelta and Hevia Granda, Ruinas del
Oviedo primitivo, 127.
485
On the pueblos adoptados, see Viejo-Rose, Reconstructing Spain, 49-50.
225
used extensively to rebuild Oviedo.
486
The language used to describe urban
reconstruction embodies the city and its buildings, even as the actual individuals who
labored to rebuild it were condemned to invisibility and anonymity.
The invisibility of these prisoners, as well as other victims of Francoist repression,
has prompted a move to exhume their bodies, literally bringing their existence to light.
This has been the most polemical aspect of the 2007 Law of Historical Memory,
487
provoking passionate debate in Spanish society.
The stated objective of this piece of
legislation is “to recognize and widen the rights of those who suffered persecution or
violence for political, ideological or religious reasons during the Civil War and
Dictatorship,” which has been taken as a legal basis on which to proceed with these
controversial exhumations.
488
As Francisco Ferrándiz rightly observes, the popular
movements to exhume the remains of the war dead carry with them a heavy weight of
489
history.
We cannot, like Miguel de Unamuno, shrug off the weight of the past; the
contemporary movement to exhume the dead must be understood in the context of the
486
On 22 November 1938, Pedro Muguruza (the head of the General Direction of Devastated Regions)
wrote to Menéndez Pidal requesting housing for prisoners in monasteries and castles of lesser artistic
importance, sites that would then be reconstructed by these prisoners. ACO, papers of Luis Menéndez
Pidal, folder 1, no. 99. The program, Redención de penas por el trabajo, was the brainchild of the Jesuit
José Pérez de Pulgar, and was instituted before the end of the war, in 1938. It was featured in the first issue
of the journal Reconstrucción (1940), 28-31. For a recent monograph on this program, see Lafuente,
Esclavos por la patria. In the context of architectural reconstruction, see the remarks in Muñoz-Rojas,
Ashes and Granite, 9-10. See also Viejo-Rose, Reconstructing Spain, 50.
487
For a useful summation of these debates, with additional bibliography, see Faber, “The Price of Peace,”
and his “Revis[it]ing the Past.”
488
Boletín Oficial del Estado (BOE). “Ley 52/2007, de 26 de diciembre, por la que se reconocen y
amplían derechos y se establecen medidas en favor de quienes padecieron persecución o violencia durante
la guerra civil y la dictadura.”
489
Ferrándiz, “The return of Civil War ghosts.”
226
violence of the 1930s and of the explicitly Christian symbolic language in which that
violence was carried out.
During both the medieval and modern eras, the Cámara Santa has been employed
for ideological ends. While I do not wish to draw a simple correspondence between the
medieval and modern uses of the building, or suggest an equation between twelfthcentury bishops and twentieth-century dictators, it is important to take the persistent
ideological power of the site seriously. The extent to which the political agenda of the
early Francoist government has shaped both the physical form and historical
interpretation of the monuments of medieval Asturias poses a fundamental ethical
question. When the preservation of the past and its monuments is so deeply implicated in
political ideology, how should we engage with these restored remains? As art historians,
we value the bienes culturales of the past and have a stake in their survival, for they are
our objects of study. But when their survival depends on a highly ideologically charged
practice of reconstruction which puts them in the service of political agendas, how should
490
we respond?
We must, I believe, respond actively and self-consciously, because nonengagement is its own kind of choice and often a highly problematic one. As Sebastiaan
Faber has shown in the context of the Spanish Civil War, North American scholars of
Spain were encouraged to be non-partisan and to refuse to engage in politics. In Faber’s
blunt assessment,
Throughout much of the postwar period, academic Hispanism . . . proved
too depoliticized, specialized, and conservative an institution to take on the
war as a topic of serious scholarly discussion and investigation. Instead,
490
Scholars looking at the cases of fascist Germany and Italy have asked similar questions, but fascist
Spain still loiters at the margins of these larger debates. For a general consideration of monuments and the
construction of national identiy, see the essays in Gillis, ed., Commemorations. The German case is
explored in works such as Koshar, From Monuments to Traces. For fascist Italy, see Lasansky, The
Renaissance Perfected and Lazzaro and Crum, eds., Donatello among the Blackshirts.
227
academic Hispanism appeared largely willing to accept the Franco regime
as the new status quo.
491
Meanwhile, within Spain, the participation of intellectuals in the workings of the Franco
regime has received little study or comment.
492
This is particularly true within the
traditionally conservative field of medieval studies, and my footnotes are full of
references to works by individuals who were complicit, either as active participants or
passive bystanders, in the regime. My goal here is not to judge the actions of individual
scholars, but rather to propose a way forward from this painful history precisely by
engaging with it directly.
The legacy of the Civil War has become increasingly visible in recent years,
particularly in the wake of the passage of the Law of Historical Memory in 2007. The law
seeks to make “moral reparations” to those who suffered, recovering their personal and
familial memory and commemorating their suppressed history in public space and
popular discourse. As part of this attempt at reparations, the fifteenth article of this law
orders the removal of “seals, insignia, plaques or other objects or commemorations
exalting, personally or collectively, the military uprising, Civil War and repression under
the Dictatorship.” Some crucial qualifications were made to this sweeping
pronouncement; it does not apply to purely private commemoration or to monuments
protected by law on artistic, architectural, or religious grounds. In effect, this exempts
works of art and religious structures, some of the very monuments most freighted with
ideological baggage during the Civil War and Dictatorship. The extent to which the
physical and political landscape of Spain is constructed out of the legacy of Francoism
renders the stated goal of the Law Historical Memory difficult to achieve. What does it
mean to make “moral reparations,” when, as we have seen, the act of reparation—
meaning literally to restore—is itself highly problematic?
491
492
Faber, Anglo-American Hispanists, 220.
See the discussion in Jerez-Farrán and Amago, “Introduction.”
228
In producing a smooth façade—both ideological and architectural—the Francoist
government buried the traces of the conflict and dissent that marked its own difficult
formation. The bodies of the Civil War dead have come back to haunt contemporary
Spanish society; whether those bodies are exhumed or remain buried, their existence is
undeniable. They are present not only in numerous unmarked graves, but also in the very
stones and substance of the buildings rebuilt in the wake of the war. Attending to the
buried history of monuments thus helps us to remember the dead, the fundamental goal of
history-writing since the time of Isidore.
229
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Appendix 1
Geneaological Chart of the Kings of Asturias, ca. 718-910 (From Collins, Caliphs and
Kings, fig. 2)
279
Appendix 2.1
Contents of BN MS 1358, known as the Alcalá Codex
1. Catalogue of the cities ruled by the Goths (ff. 1r-1v)
2. Second Castilian Annals (ff. 1v-4r)
3. Annals of the monastery of Corias (ff. 4r-4v)
4. Computation of the judges, kings and emperors of different lands (ff. 5r-5v)
5. Synopsis of the ages of the world (fol. 5v)
6. Historical descriptions of Toledo, Zaragoza, León and Oviedo (ff. 6r-8v)
7. Liber chronica seu fabularium (ff. 8v-27v)
a. Computation of the history of the universe, from Adam until 883 (ff. 8v-9r)
b. Sequence of the ages of the world (ff. 9r-9v)
c. Exquisitio tocius mundi (ff. 9v-10r)
d. Ordo Romanorum (ff. 10r-14v)
e. Ordo gentis Gotorum (ff. 14v-18r)
f. Ordo Gotorum regum (ff. 18r-22r)
g. Noticia episcoporum cum sedibus suis (fol. 22r)
h. Continuation of the Ordo Gotorum regum until 883 (ff. 22r-25r)
i. List of distances between certain Spanish and European cities (ff. 25r-25v)
j. Item Sarracenorum (ff. 25v-26r)
k. Ingresso Sarracenorum in Spania (ff. 26r-27r)
l. Explanatio huius a nobis edita (ff. 27r-27v)
8. Universal Chronicle of Isidore of Seville (fragmentary) (fol. 28r)
9. Ordo annorum breui collectus a beato Iuliano Pomerio (ff. 28r-29r)
10. Pelagian version of the Chronicle of Alfonso III (fragmentary) (ff. 29r-35r)
11. Chronicle of Sampiro (ff. 35r-49r)
12. Chronicle of Pelayo of Oviedo (ff. 49r-55r)
13. Cities whose names changed after the conquest (fol. 55r)
14. De Salomonis penitentia (ff. 55r-55v)
15. Council of León, 1020, or Decreta Aldefonsi (ff. 56r-60v)
16. Chronicon Iriense (ff. 61r-69v)
280
17. Privilege known as the Votos de Santiago (ff. 70r-74v)
281
Appendix 2.2
Contents of BN MS 1513, known as the Batres Codex
1. Notice of the date of Pelayo’s consecration as bishop (fol. 1r)
2. A list of work undertaken by Pelayo in the cathedral (fol. 1r)
3. Table showing the division of the earth between the sons of Noah (fol. 1v)
4. Pyramid showing degrees of consanguinuity, with accompanying text (ff. 2r-2v)
5. Two versions of the rose of the winds, with central text “Pelagius episcopus me fecit”
(ff. 3r-3v)
6. Liber cronicorum ab exordio mundi (ff. 4r-72v)
a. Prologue (fol. 4r)
b. Ortographia Iunioris Isidori (ff. 4v-8r)
c. Brief sequence of Roman emperors (ff. 8r-19r)
d. Biblical genealogy up to Saint Anne (ff. 19r-22r)
e. Computation of the time of birth of Christ (ff. 22r-22v)
f. Prophetic calculations about the time of the arrival of the Antichrist (ff. 22v23r)
g. Ordo annorum mundi breui collectus a beato Iuliano Pomerio Tholetane sedis
archiepiscopo (ff. 23r-24r)
h. Cronica Vandalorum regum (ff. 24r-26v)
i. Suevorum cronica (ff. 26v-28v)
j. Cronica regum Gothorum (ff. 28v-38r)
k. Brief continuation of the History of the Goths (fol. 38r)
l. Chronica Visegothorum of the Chronicle of Alfonso III, Pelagian version (ff.
38v-52v)
m. Chronicle of Sampiro, Pelagian version (ff. 52v-64r)
n. Chronicle of Pelayo (ff. 64r-69v)
o. Privilegium domini Urbani pape II (ff. 69v-70v)
p. Privilegium Pascalis pape II (ff. 70v-71v)
q. Privilegium Pascalis [sic] pape II (should read “Calixti”) (ff. 71v-72v)
7. Liber historia francorum of Pseudo-Fredegar (ff. 72v-101v)
282
8. Cities whose names changed after the conquest (fol. 101v)
9. Decreta Adefonsi regis et Geloire regine (ff. 102r-106r)
10. Decreta Fredenandi regis et Sancie regine (ff. 106r-108r)
11. De regularibus canonicis (ff. 108r-114v)
12. Historical descriptions of Toledo, Zaragoza, León and Oviedo (ff. 114v-116r)
13. Alfonso II’s donation to the cathedral of Oviedo (ff. 116r-117v)
283
Appendix 2.3
Contents of the vetustissimus ovetensis, as recorded by Ambrosio de Morales in BN MS
1346
1. A series of royal geneaologies, prefaced by the text, “Pelagius de Obeto indignus
episcopus propria manu scripsit hanc Genealogia.”
2. Biblical geneaologies up to the Virgin and Saint Anne
3. Numerus sedium Hispaniensum, or the Division of Wamba
4. Liber de nominibus successorum Vandalorum, Alanorum et Gotorum, also known as
the Liber Itacii
5. First letter sent by Pope John
6. Second letter by Pope John
7. Papal privilege conferring metropolitan status on Oviedo
8. Council of Oviedo
9. Narrative of the Arca Santa
10. Isidore’s Chronicle of the Goths
11. Brief continuation of the Chronicle of the Goths, with a list of the number of years
each king ruled
12. Chronicle of Julian Pomerius
13. Chronicle of Sebastian of Salamanca (Chronicle of Alfonso III)
14. Foundation of the church of Santiago (marginalia added by Morales)
15. History of the Franks of Gregory of Tours (this entry is crossed out by Morales)
16. Index of abbreviations in Visigothic script
17. Treatise on the seven liberal arts
18. Diplomatic formulas from Visigothic documents
19. Letters from various Visigothic bishops
20. Sisebut’s Life of St. Desiderius
21. Letter from Sisebut
22. Verse and prose legal defense mounted by a monk before Sisebut
23. Corographia Isidori Iunioris (marginalia added by Morales)
24. Genealogia totius bibliotecae ex omnibus libris veteris namque testamenti
284
285
Appendix 2.4
Description of the Liber Testamentorum, ACO MS 1
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
Appendix 3.1
Inscription from the Lid of the Arca Santa
Transcription by Diego Santos, Inscripciones medievales de Asturias, 62.
The inscription is read beginning in the innermost line of text on the front of the Arca,
moving to the innermost line on the right side, and so on in a clockwise direction around
the reliquary. Single foreward slashes indicate the next line of text in this clockwise
sequence around the reliquary. Double foreward slashes indicate the transition from the
inner line of text to the next, outer line. Square brackets contain material supplied by
Diego Santos. Parentheses contain letters expanded by Diego Santos from abbreviations,
although it should be noted that there are some abbreviations he did not expand; these
have been left as they are found in Santos’ transcription.
† Om(n)is conventus populi Deo dignus cat(h)olici cognoscat q(u)orum inclitas veneratur
reliq(u)ias intra preciosis(s)ma pr(a)esentis arc(a)e/2 latera, hoc est de Ligno plurimum,
sive de cruce Dni de vestimento illius quod per sorte(m)/3 d[on]u(m)
493
est de pane
delectabili unde in c(o)ena usus est, de sepulchro dnico, eius atque sudario et cruore
scisimo de t[erra]/4 sca qua piis calcavit tunc vestigiis de vestimentis v[irginis] Matris
eius Mari(a)e, de lacte//5 q(u)oque illius q(u)od multum est mirabile, hi(i)s pariter
c[on]iunct(a)e sunt qu(a)edam scorum maxime pr(a)estantes et reliqui(a)e q(u)orum pro
ut/6 potuimus hic nomina subsripsimus [sic] [hoc est de sco. Petro] de sco. T(h)om(a)e
sci. Bart(h)olom(a)ei, de o(s)s[ibus prophetarum]/7 et de omnibus aplis. et de aliis quam
plurimis scis. q(u)oru(m) nomina sola Dei sciencia co(l)ligit, his om(n)ibus egregius rex
Adefonsus humili devocione/8 [pr(a)editus fecit] hoc recept[aculum pignoribus scorum.]
penitus [insignitum ext]erius adornatum non//9 vi[libus artis oper]ibus p(er) quod post
vi[tam eius merea]tur [con]sorcium illorum in c(o)elestibus [scorum] eiusd(em) as(t) †
iuvari p[recibu]s/10 H(a)ec quidem s[alutif]er[a ac veneranda mu]nera novit om[nis
provincia in] her/11ra sine [d]ubio MaCa atqu[e Xa IIIa per ma]nus et industriam
clericorum et pr(a)esulum qui prop[ter]/12 [hco {sic} convenimus cum dicto Adefonso]
493
d[on]u(m) for d[ivis]u(m): emendation suggested by M. Mulchahey.
293
Principe, cum Germana l(a)etissime Ur//13[raca dicta nomi]ne quibus Redem(p)tor
omnium con[c]edat indulge[nciam et suorum pecc]atoru[m veniam]/14 [per h(a)ec scisima
pign]o[ra apostolorum et martirum hoc] est de sci Iusti et Pas[toris]/15 Adriani et
Na[tali(a)e Cosm(a)e et Damiani I]uli(a)e Veri(s)simi [e]t Maximi Ger[ma]ni Baudu[li
Panta/16leonis Cypri]a[ni et E]ul[ali(a)e Sebastian]i Cuc[ufati Felici]s [Sulpi]ci.
294