Through my dissertation research on the middle Byzantine Maeander Valley in Western Asia Minor (modern Türkiye), I had become fascinated by an eleventh-century estate ledger, known as the Praktikon of Adam, and how Byzantine surveyors described landscapes in technical language.[1] The boundary description or periorismos was composed of formulaic phrases describing the route taken needed for a surveyor to encircle a property. Sometimes, but not always, these descriptions are accompanied by measurements, which can be rationalized from the Byzantine units into meters. I am interested in mapping these boundary descriptions to compare them with the results of archaeological field surveys.
This blog entry will be a short musing upon the shifting role of precision in the tradition of Byzantine land survey. In our modern world, cartographic precision has become an unquestioned backdrop to how we view landscapes. We rarely feel the need to justify spatial precision when representing a landscape on a map (i.e., Fig. 1). Such a casual aesthetic commitment to cartographic precision has no counterpart among ancient and medieval representations of landscapes. Therefore, any study of boundary descriptions must rest upon why such precision was necessary. The presence (and absence) of that precision reveals the underlying motivations of the surveyors. Such motivations must be considered when using these documents to understand Byzantine landscapes.
The Casual Use of Cartography on a Mural for the City of Owego, New York. Photo by author.
Surveying for Taxation
The original goal of Byzantine land survey was calculating the tax burden of a property. Twelve Byzantine survey manuals survive, which were written to instruct new bureaucrats on how to survey the land and then use those measurements to calculate area. The study of these textbooks provides a starting point for understanding how and why Byzantine surveyed the land.[2] Surviving documents found in Byzantine archives, such as the Praktikon of Adam, show how the recommendations of these textbooks were or were not enacted.
The purpose of taxation prioritized the taking of measurements. Land is measured with ropes (schoinioi or sokaria). An illustration from a Byzantine Octateuch (Fig. 2) shows the survey of land in action. I took the title of the blog entry from the Byzantine Greek written on this image: “A cord laid tight loosens discord” – akin to the English proverb “Good fences make good neighbors.” The whole set of illustrations show a Byzantine twist on the delineation of land in the last ten chapters of the Book of Josuah in the Old Testament. These ropes were not just a tool but also the most important unit of measurement. Ropes are divided into fathoms (orgyia), based on two different criteria: the quality of the soil or the region of the empire. The 10-fathom rope was the standard for high quality soils, while lesser soils were measured with a 12-fathom rope. In Thrakesion (western Asia Minor), the 10-fathom rope was the standard for all soils.
Two Byzantine Surveyors Measure Land with a Rope, Vat. Gr. 746, f. 461r. By permission of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, with all rights reserved.
The desired product of the fiscal survey was calculating the area of many properties efficiently. Therefore, the methods were less than geometrically sound. Or as Jacques Lefort and his team wrote: “The geometric technique of the tax office is nevertheless very simple, since it consists, in a world implicitly conceived as almost everywhere orthogonal, in multiplying the length by the width. It therefore owes nothing to geometric science and is in fact resolved by arithmetic, and even then, only by the art of multiplying well.”[3] In other words, no field cannot be reduced to a rectangle (Fig. 3). While scholars in the past attributed these imprecise methods to the decline of geometry in the Middle Ages, the Byzantines were capable of complicated geometry when it suited the task at hand. Precision in individual measurements was not important for the tax office.
Fields were Simplified into Rectangles to Calculate Approximate Area. Drawn by Author.
Finally, the tax surveyors were interested in a space, but not in a place. The taxation surveys of fields are often unmoored from their landscapes. The precise location of the field made little difference when calculating the tax burden. Therefore, without other correlating data, the precision of the tax survey, while useful for maintaining an empire, provides little help to the archaeologist.
The Motivation of the Boundary Description
On the other hand, a boundary description represents a diverging motivation for land survey within the same tradition. Not all have measurements, but when they did, the individual measurements appear to be more important than the whole. The description is grounded in the specifics of the landscape. The precision of individual measurements included often outstrips the needs of calculating area (Fig. 3). Instead, precision correlates with the presence of properties owned by neighbors of the estate (Fig. 4). Instead of taxation, the purpose of the precision of the boundary description appears to be related to the control of land. Theft of land by unscrumptious neighbors was a growing problem from the late eleventh century through to the end of Byzantium. The Praktikon of Adam reveals two such cases where theft was discovered. Still, the former was recorded in a boundary description, while the latter still relied upon the taxation-based survey technique, which shows that both techniques could theoretically reveal theft even if the boundary description appears better equipped.
The Correlation between Neighbors and Precision in a Boundary Description.
While there is more research to be done, I am still convinced that the embeddedness of the boundary description within their respective settings and the incorporation of measurements into the descriptions can make these technical descriptions valuable comparanda to archaeological survey data in reconstructing the landscapes of the Byzantine world.
Tyler Wolford, PhD Byzantine Studies Postdoctoral Fellowship Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
[1] M. Nystazopoulou-Pelekidou, ed., Βυζαντινὰ ἔγγραφα τῆς Μονῆς Πάτμου. Volume 2. Δημοσίων λειτουργῶν. Athens: National Institute of Research, 1980, Document 50.
[2] J. Lefort, B. Bondoux, J.-Cl. Cheynet, J.-P. Grélois, V. Kravari. Géométries du fisc byzantin. Réalités Byzantines 4. Paris: Éditions P. Lethielleux, 1991.
[3] Lefort et al., Géométries du fisc byzantine, 244.
I recently gave a guest lecture during Dr. Megan Hall’s fall 2024 course entitled “Witches, Warriors, and Wonder Women: Women, Power, and Writing in History.” To prepare for my visit, students read excerpts from Jean d’Arras’s Melusine; Or, the Noble History of Lusignan as translated and edited by Donald Maddox and Sara Sturm-Maddox (Penn State UP, 2012). The story of Melusine, for those not in the know, is steeped in folklore. Various accounts of the tale involve a fairy woman named Melusine who takes on a half-serpent form from the waist down during part of the week and must hide this from her lover lest they suffer the consequences! Jean’s version of the tale, which dates to 1393, offers an account of the founding of the Lusignan dynasty and how Melusine, a half-fairy woman cursed to assume a half-serpent form on Saturdays, played a major role in its establishment and prestige. The House of Lusignan in its heyday counted Crusader kings among their ranks. My goals were to get Dr. Hall’s students thinking about the representation of non-humanness, the ways in which Melusine wields and exercises power, the significance of relating a historical family’s lineage to a fairy founder, and the truth claims that Jean makes. Certainly a tall order for our hour and fifteen minutes together, but trust me: the students rose to the occasion!
Tour Mélusine was built at the end of the 12th century/beginning of the 13th century to support the fortified town of Vouvant in western France. It is a vestige from when members of the House of Lusignan built a castle in the area.Legend has it that Melusine herself built the tower in a single night. (Right, close up) Note the weather vane at the top! It’s shaped like Melusine’s half-serpent form.
The text’s prologue immediately draws you into Jean’s narrative web. I find it striking how he claims to weave together various sources and reconciles them with his Latin Christian faith so that he can then go on and discuss Melusine. He references Aristotle and Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Romans in his discussion of marvels. Yet, he writes that “even those well versed in science can hear or see things they cannot believe but which are nonetheless true. I mention these matters because of the marvels that occur in the story I am about to tell you, as it pleased God my Creator and at the behest” of his patron, John, Duke of Berry (20). The marvels that Jean references, of course, are the ones associated with fairy magic and power. Fairies—and Jean references Gervase of Tilbury’s account of fairies for this portion of the prologue—can take on the form of beautiful human women. They can marry human men and even bear children with them, but these men must make promises to their fairy wives and uphold them. These promises can range from a prohibition from seeing the fairy wife nude to never seeing her in childbed.
According to Jean’s summary of Gervase, “[a]s long as these men kept their promises, they increased in rank and prosperity, but at the moment they broke them, they lost the women, and their fortunes slowly declined” (21). In a few short paragraphs, Jean not only tries to bolster the authority of his tale with these references to notable predecessors, but he also builds the world of fairies for his audience. Melusine then is but one example of how the marvel of fairies can operate, leading to some major consequences. As a class, we tried to make sense of Jean’s claims and how he reconciles fanciful fairy tales with what seemed like major authoritative sources. Surely, there must be something special about fairies—why else would Jean spend so much time insisting on their existence and the truth of the tale he is about to share? Furthermore, why would a powerful family like the Lusignans want to connect their family line to a fairy? After discussing the prologue, we were ready to tackle the rest of the text.
Raymond walks in on his wife, Melusine, in her bath and discovers she has the lower body of a serpent. Illustration from the Jean d’Arras work, Le livre de Mélusine (The Book of Melusine), 1478.
The tale unfolds as Jean recounts Melusine’s first encounter with her soon-to-be husband, Raymondin. Melusine’s enchanting beauty causes Raymondin to fall in love at first sight. The two marry under one important condition: that he never attempt to see her on Saturdays. Ever! Unbeknownst to Raymondin, on Saturdays Melusine keeps away from him and hides the fact that her lower half takes on a serpentine form. For years, they enjoy a prosperous marriage. They have numerous sons together, and the majority of them, according to Jean, go on to be rulers of Cyprus, Armenia, and more. Melusine takes on the role of master planner and architect. She builds fortresses and advises her husband on how to increase his wealth and prestige. This marital bliss, however, comes to an end when Raymondin spies on Melusine and discovers her Saturday secret. Though he keeps it to himself for some time, in a moment of anger he reveals knowledge of her weekly transformation and weaponizes it against her in an argument. Since he breaks his promise to her, Melusine takes leave of him. When his death nears, she returns in the form of a dragon.
Dr. Hall’s students truly impressed me with their thoughtful engagement with the text. We had conversations about female agency and power. I asked them to think about narratives parallels in the text and the role of curses and magic across similar events. I pointed out how when fairies and humans reproduce, their progeny bear remarkable physical features ranging from gigantism to having an unusual number of eyes. We pondered what a prestigious family like the Lusignans would gain from claiming a half-fairy woman as a major progenitor and have her powers be a major explanation for their wealth and prestige. I had so much fun diving in the text with them. It was clear to me that they had plenty to say about the ways in which the text represents various interpersonal dynamics. Melusine’s fairy qualities add to her allure and ability to influence those around her, for better or worse.
As our short time together came to an end, I asked them to think about Melusine’s legacy and afterlives. The legend of Melusine has endured and continued to captivate over the centuries. The major coffee chain Starbucks, for instance, has a rendition of Melusine as its logo (though the company’s own lore obscures this link!). For the jazz fans reading, please know that there is an incredible musician by the name of Cécile McLorin Salvant, whose seventh solo album, Mélusine, was released in March 2023. In the description for the album on the website Bandcamp[1] , Salvant unpacks the significance of the Melusine story and how it resonates with her.
Album art for Cécile McLorin Salvant’s Mélusine (2023).
What I find striking about Salvant’s reflections on the Melusine story is her reading of how significant gazes are. She shares that the tale is “also the story of the destructive power of the gaze. Raymondin’s sword pierces a hole into [Mélusine’s] iron door. His gaze does too. The gaze is transformative and combustible. She sees that he is secretly seeing her. Her secret is revealed. This double gaze turns her into a dragon.” Dr. Hall’s students definitely picked up on the power of the gaze but also recalled that it is a power that had to be weaponized before it could transform. In other words, when Raymondin first sees Melusine’s true form, he keeps his transgression to himself. His gaze is a breach of trust, and Melusine knows that her husband spied on her but decides to forgive him because he maintains her secret. However, when he becomes enraged, his anger causes him to lose all discretion. Raymondin angrily reveals that he knows about Melusine’s weekly transformations and resents her. The students recognized that it was precisely this resentment that made the revelation of the secret so powerful.
Another powerful way that Salvant relates to the Melusine story is through the idea of hybridity. Salvant was born in the United States to a French mother and a Haitian father. She spent ample time studying music in Aix-en-Provence, France. She is intimately familiar with negotiating various languages and cultures. When discussing the album Mélusine, she says it is “partly about that feeling of being a hybrid, a mixture of different cultures.” Though we did not get ample time to discuss Salvant’s feeling of hybridity, I do love how she draws a connection between her experiences and that of the legendary Melusine, who also had to navigate different cultures and human/non-human experiences. I find it beautiful that the tale of Melusine endures after all this time and can inspire people to explore the intersections of their own identity and reflect on how they experience the world.
While students were packing up their bags and heading out the door, one student lingered behind and wanted to keep the conversation going. This student wanted to talk about how Melusine’s representation of fairies as having conflict with God struck them; in their culture, fairies and even gnomes are guardians and protectors. The enthusiasm that the student exuded was infectious! And reflecting on this moment now, this just speaks even more to the allure not just of Melusine but of the magical realm at large: a space of play and imagination, sure, but also of power relations, of fidelity, of exploring identity, and so much more.
Anne Le, Ph.D. Public Humanities Postdoctoral Fellow Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
The Republic, The Symposium, The Phaedrus, The Apology, and The Phaedo––these are just a few of the works of Plato that were not widely available throughout most of the Middle Ages. No extended depiction of the most just city in the Republic. No discussion of love in The Symposium and The Phaedrus. No self-defense for Socrates at his trial as found in The Apology, and no final dialogue before his suicide as found in The Phaedo. For lovers of great texts, especially Plato, such news can be shocking. What kind of Plato does a person know if they don’t have these key works? How much of Socrates’ life and Plato’s philosophy could even be known? These are the questions that many medieval scholars of the Latin Platonist tradition have dedicated their lives and careers to answering, and the answers can be quite surprising.
One aspect of this research that ought to be appreciated by the wider reading public (outside of the narrow confines of medievalists) is that Plato’s Timaeus wasthe most widely available Platonic work throughout most of the Middle Ages. In fact, examining the text of the Timaeus and why itwas such one of the few Platonic texts preserved reveals how peculiarly modern our current canon of Platonic literature is.
What we value in Plato was not necessarily what late antique or medieval readers valued, and yet, their ability to read well meant that they understood a lot more than might be supposed. An attention to the reception history of Plato’s Timaeus can give modern readers of Plato a better appreciation for the importance of both mathematics and poetry in Platonic philosophy.
The Timaeus is Plato’s work on the origins of the universe. It begins with a dialogue between Timaeus, Socrates, Hermocrates, and Critias, in which Socrates expresses a desire for a “moving image” of the city they had been talking about the day before. The summary of the previous day’s discussion appears to bear some resemblance to the conversation found in the Republic although scholars are divided over whether this summary perfectly matches the Republic that we now possess. Regardless of its accuracy, this summary would have been the closest a medieval reader would have had to a taste of the Republic. The opening dialogue covers all sorts of fascinating topics from Solon’s visit to Egypt, oral culture, the mythic origins of writing, and the myth of Atlantis, but the bulk of the work features a narration about the origins of the universe recounted by the Pythagorean, Timaeus.
The Timaeus was received in the Middle Ages through three main channels of Latin translations: the translation of Calcidius (which ends at 53b), the translation of Cicero (available but not widely used or even known, which ends at 42b), and the excerpts from the Ciceronian translation of the Timaeus that can be found in Augustine’s City of God. Although it does not contain the whole text of the Timaeus, Calcidius’ translation is much more complete than Cicero’s: rather than giving merely the speech of Timaeus like Cicero’s translation does, it includes the opening dialogue (even though the commentary itself ignores it).
Most modern Plato scholars would probably not choose The Timaeus as theone and only work they could save from destruction for all time. But, a better understanding of who Calcidius was and why he wrote the commentary on the Timaeus suggests that the preservation of the Timaeus in the Latin West was not an accident of fate. Rather, the results of Gretchen Reydams-Schills’ lifelong study of Calcidius give a plausible reason for why Calcidius’ commentary may have been the Platonic work of choice for many late antique philosophers.
Reydams-Schils argues that Calcidius wrote his commentary as an introduction to the Platonic corpus, essentially reversing the Middle Platonic curriculum, which traditionally ended with the Timaeus. One major piece of evidence for this theory is that Calcidius’ commentary often reserves discussion of harder philosophical concepts for the end of the commentary.Furthermore, unlike the Neoplatonists, Calcidius did not read the Timaeus synoptically and believed strongly in the importance of sequential reading of the Platonic corpus. In Calcidus’ Platonic curriculum, the Timaeus came first with its teachings on natural justice, then the Republic with its teaching of positive justice, and finally, the Parmenides came with its teaching of the forms and intelligible realities. Calcidius believed that a thorough understanding of mathematics was necessary for understanding of almost all of the Platonic works, which is why his commentary on the Timaeus turns out to be something like a crash course in Pythagorean mathematics.
Thus, although the Timaeus was one of the only Platonic works available throughout the early Middle Ages, Calcidius’ commentary gave readers some introduction to the entire Platonic corpus as well as a great deal of Pythagorean mathematics. Perhaps there might be good reason for a philosopher to save The Timaeus (especially a copy with Calcidius’ commentary)from a burning building!
Medievalists who study the textual reception of the various translations of The Timaeus have been able to identify a shift in kinds of interest in Plato over time. The primary Latin translation of the Timaeus used until the eleventh century was Cicero’s. Medieval scholars used to assume that the revival of Calcidius began with the twelfth century Platonists, but Anna Somfai has demonstrated that the proliferation of copies of Calcidius’ text and commentary began in the eleventh century when championed by Lanfranc of Bec (c.1050). The late twelfth-century actually experienced a decline of copying the Timaeus as interests shifted towards other texts.
What motivated the eleventh-century interest in Calcidius appears to have been the mathematical content of the Calcidian commentary because, by the Carolingian period, much of the actual content of the quadrivial arts had been lost, and scholars in the Middle Ages attempted to piece together what scraps of it remained from a variety of sources. Calcidius’ commentary on the Timaeus appears to have been particularly valued as a source text for the quadrivial (or mathematical) arts. As my two previous MI blogs have explored here and here, medieval thinkers in the traditional liberal arts tradition recognized that the quadrivial arts were the foundation for philosophical thought, even if they had few textual sources for actually studying them.
And although some of the interest in the kinds of mathematics found in the Timaeus and Calcidius’ commentary may have declined after the twelfth century, it was by no means lost completely. As David Albertson has demonstrated, the mathematical interest in Plato found in the work of the twelfth-century scholar, Thierry of Chartres, would eventually be picked up by the fifteenth-century scholar, Nicholas of Cusa, and many scholars have noted resonances of Cusa’s quadrivial agenda in the thinking of Leibniz, the founder of calculus:
It seems that God, when he bestowed these two sciences [arithmetic and algebra] on humankind, wanted to warn us that a much greater secret lay hidden in our intellect, of which these were but shadows. (Leibniz as quoted by Albertson, p.2)
Even though the interest in scribal copying of the Timaeus seems to have declined somewhat by the twelfth-century, another kind of imitatio or translatio studii was being enacted by a different kind of scholar, Bernard Silvestris. He wrote a prosi-metric telling of the creation of the world that emulates Plato’s Timaeus. The title of his work, Cosmographia, roughly translates as “universe writing,” and Bernard delivered an oral performance of itbefore Pope Eugenius III in 1147. Bernard’s creative retelling of the Timaeus poetically depicts the role of imitation in the divine creation of the world in the form of “divine writing.” Performatively, the Cosmographia demonstrates that this divine writing is then imitated by poets in the form of human writing. In other words, Bernard values Plato’s Timaeus here not merely for its insights into mathematics or even the structure of the universe, but also what this mathematics in the universe implies about the mimetic nature of poetry itself.
As many literary scholars have demonstrated, much of the European literary tradition follows suit in seeing the value of Timaean Platonism for the production of literature. This interest can be seen in such diverse authors as Alan of Lille, Chrétien de Troyes, and Dante.
While I would personally be loath to give up the access to the Platonic corpus that I possess, the medieval reception of the Timaeus constantly pushes me to reconsider how I am reading that corpus. Having a large corpus of texts actually places an onus on the modern reader to ask the question of where to place the textual emphasis: Which texts of Plato should be considered central (and which ones periphery) and why? For example, should Plato’s Republic be considered his last word on poets and poetry? What would happen if Plato’s Timaeus were given more weight?
C.S. Lewis once wrote in his introduction to On the Incarnation by Athanasius:
Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books.
These words about reading the great books can also apply to reading the old books as they were read by past readers. Understanding medieval readings of Plato might very well be a good counterweight to modern presuppositions about who Plato was and what he was about. How might the idea of Plato as both a mathematician and myth-maker transform our modern understanding of Platonism and its history?
Somfai, Anna. “The Eleventh-Century Shift in the Reception of Plato’s Timaeus and Calcidius’ Commentary.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, vol. 65, 2002, pp. 1–21.
