One of the questions that has long fascinated me is how human beings experience the spaces around them, and how those experiences are shaped, narrated, and transformed in literature. In the Byzantine world – stretching from 330, when Constantinople became the new capital of the Roman Empire, to 1453, when it fell to the Ottomans – literature was a window into these experiences, capturing how people imagined and interpreted space.
Among the many spaces that captured Byzantine imagination, few are as revealing as the prison. The narratives of Christian martyrs – stories inspired by the early Christian persecutions (first to fourth centuries) yet mostly composed during the Byzantine era – portray imprisonment not merely as suffering, but as a spiritual turning point. These texts recount the trials of devout men and women who were interrogated, tortured, imprisoned, and executed for refusing to renounce their faith. I first became deeply interested in this topic while examining how confinement was depicted in Byzantine hagiography, a line of inquiry that culminated in my monograph Gefängnis als Schwellenraum in der byzantinischen Hagiographie (Prison as a Liminal Space in Byzantine Hagiography, De Gruyter, 2021) . In this first part of a two-part blog, I return to that subject to explore the prison as a threshold space – one that mediates between human endurance and divine transformation.
Why start with martyrs? Among all genres of Byzantine literature, martyrs’ Passions – accounts of Christian martyrdom – offer the richest and most detailed depictions of imprisonment. These accounts were not only compelling to read but also deeply instructive, showing how imprisonment shaped a martyr’s journey toward holiness. In light of our own recent global experiences of confinement, such as during the COVID-19 pandemic, these medieval depictions of (in)voluntary isolation speak to us in new ways.
Prison as a Threshold
In martyr narratives, the prison is more than a location – it is a liminal space, a threshold between the human and the divine. After enduring brutal tortures, the martyr is thrown into a cell, often bloodied and near death. Conditions are harsh: hunger, thirst, vermin, filth, and extreme overcrowding challenge the body and spirit. Yet, the prison also becomes a space of transformation.
Inside these walls, martyrs pray fervently, and divine intervention is depicted in vivid ways. Christ or angels may appear to heal or strengthen them. Dreams and visions bring the imprisoned closer to God and the promise of Paradise. Simultaneously, martyrs often convert visitors and heal fellow prisoners, demonstrating that the prison is also a space of active spiritual engagement. It is here that martyrs begin to transcend their human limitations and move toward sanctity.
Sometimes, the narratives even hint at the possibility of escape, yet martyrs choose to remain. They understand imprisonment as a necessary step on the path to holiness, a phase through which they must pass to achieve ultimate communion with God.
Beyond Martyrs: Voluntary Confinement of Ascetics and Monks
While martyrs faced forced imprisonment, Byzantine literature also explores voluntary forms of confinement, particularly among ascetics and monastics. These individuals deliberately withdrew from society, seeking solitude in caves or cells to cultivate spiritual virtues. Here, too, the space of confinement is transformative.
The ascetic’s cell or cave is not a site of punishment, but of self-imposed discipline. The narratives show how sustained solitude shapes character, deepens devotion, and influences the progression of the story itself. By examining both involuntary and voluntary forms of confinement, we can see a continuum of experiences: whether imposed by external authorities or chosen freely, these spaces are intimately linked with personal and spiritual growth.
You might wonder: why should readers care about Byzantine martyr narratives today? Part of the answer lies in their timeless human themes. Confinement – whether imposed or voluntary – forces reflection, endurance, and transformation. In our contemporary world, moments of isolation, such as quarantine or personal retreat, echo the ancient experiences depicted in these texts. By understanding how Byzantines imagined and narrated confinement, we gain insight not only into a distant past but also into our own relationship with space, suffering, and growth.
Moreover, these texts offer a rare glimpse into the Byzantine worldview. Hagiographies – texts dedicated to the lives of saints – served multiple purposes: honoring saints, promoting veneration, instructing readers in moral and ethical behavior, and even entertaining them with vivid depictions of daily life, including violence and crime. In this sense, Byzantine hagiographies were a medieval form of “television,” engaging their audience on many levels.
The richness of these texts, preserved across centuries, allows scholars and enthusiasts alike to explore a world where physical spaces and spiritual journeys are inseparably intertwined. The prison is not simply a place of punishment; it is a threshold, a transformative environment, shaping human experience and bringing one closer to the divine.
In studying how Byzantines imagined confinement, we discover not only their mindset, but something essential about ourselves: the ways in which the human spirit turns limitation into transcendence.
Christodoulos Papavarnavas Visiting Assistant Research Professor Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
In stark contrast to the almost non-reception of the events of 1054 in the literary Byzantine world, discussed here, on the Latin side of the equation, the report of the legation penned by Cardinal Humbert of Silva Candida quickly found its way into various historical chronicles and into theological literature. Two particularly fascinating examples that appear in Patrologia Latina 145 are both published under the name of Peter Damiani, who was, together with Humbert himself, one of the leading members of the papal curia in the mid-eleventh century. Although he would not be elevated to the cardinalate until 1057, under Pope Stephen IX, by the time of Humbert’s legation to Constantinople he was already active in attending various synods and had written the deeply influential Liber Gomorrhianus (addressed to Pope Leo IX). What makes these two works interesting, in light of their purported joint authorship, is that they take views of the azyme conflict (the use of unleavened bread in the celebration of the Eucharist) that are at odds both with each other and with the stance adopted by the Humbertine legation.
Photograph of a bust of Peter Damiani taken from the Florentine church of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Credit to Srnec at English Wikipedia. CC 2.5.
The first example is a letter fragment written by Peter Damiani to Henry, the Archbishop of Ravenna, most likely between 1052 and 1058 [1]. The text is eye-opening both for the historian and for the contemporary canonists, so I’ll cite the full text of Fr. Blum’s translation:
…Just as it makes little difference whether at Mass we offer wine or unfermented grape juice, so, it seems to me, it is all the same whether we offer leavened or unleavened bread. For that “living bread that came down from heaven,” just as he wished to manifest himself under the appearance of wheat, he did so also under the form of the vine. “Unless,” he said, “a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains a solitary grain.” And again, “I am the real vine.” Therefore, it suffices for me to offer either whatever is made from grain or whatever is produced by the vine. Nor am I too careful to inquire whether the bread was preserved in an immature dough until it could ferment, or also whether the grape juice was kept in a vat until it could turn into what one calls wine. But since it is not my purpose here to discuss these matters, I leave them to be handled by others…. [2]
Peter Damiani here showed himself to be vastly more permissive than most of the mainstream Latin West when it comes to the correct materials for confecting the Eucharist, and even more tolerant than the legates to Constantinople. Humbert, while he tacitly acknowledged that the Greek practice of using leavened bread was permissible, also had a clear preference for the unleavened Latin host. Peter, interestingly, does not here even mention the Greek practice: his letter is entirely within the context of the Latin rite, addressed to an archbishop of an (admittedly Byzantine-influenced) Latin see. This text allows us to see an approach very different from the one that appears in the aforementioned Liber Gomorrhianus. Given the fact that this was a topic of considerable polemics when he wrote the letter, Peter Damiani appears as a moderating, or even progressive, voice in the conflict.
What a surprise, then, when we examine the second text, taken from the Expositio canonis missae. The work as a whole falls into the genre of Mass commentaries, theological treatises that explain the various ritual components of the eucharistic celebration with historical or scriptural parallels and allegory. Fairly early in this treatise, while discussing the phrase “He took bread” (“accepit panem”) the author complains:
Leavened bread should not be offered in the sacrifice, both by reason of deed and by reason of the mystery. As is read in Exodus: “Leaven signifies corruption”, and as the Apostle witnesses: “A little leaven corrupts the whole lump”. But the Greeks, persisting in their error, celebrate [the Eucharist] from leaven. [3]
Now present is a direct mention of the conflict with the Greeks, using scriptural references that were first applied to the debate by the Humbertine legation. And gone is the tolerance of the previous passage, in which the matter of the Eucharist – so long as it comes from grapes and wheat – is a matter of indifference. Instead, for the author, the use of leavened bread violates the spiritual message of the scriptures, signifying corruption, and is therefore wholly unsuitable for the celebration of the Eucharist.
The wildly divergent views, of course, lead the reader to question the traditional attributions of authorship for one or both of the passages, and indeed, the Expositio canonis missae has caught the attention of several scholars for containing passages that seem out of place in the literary corpus of Peter Damiani. In particular, the text uses the word “transubstantiation” (“transubstantiatio”), which would be the first appearance of this terminology if it could, in fact, be dated to the middle of the eleventh century. It is this terminological incongruity that caused Joseph de Ghellinck to conduct a line-by-line comparison with other commentaries on the Mass and to conclude that the Expositio postdates not only the De sacramentis of Hugh of St. Victor (d. 1141) but also the De sacro altaris mysterio of Lothar of Segni (later Pope Innocent III), which was written in 1198 [4]. The true date of composition, then, would fall somewhere around the turn of the thirteenth century, about a hundred and fifty years after originally supposed.
When applied specifically to the passage about leavened bread, this reattribution to an anonymous author of the thirteenth century clears up a couple of difficulties. In the first place, the notion of the Greeks persisting “in their error” makes much more sense with the later dating. The use of un/leavened bread in the Eucharist didn’t arise as a point of contention until the 1050s, so the Greeks couldn’t have persisted in the error for very long if it had been Peter Damiani admonishing them. By the year 1200, of course, Latin polemicists could much more reasonably suppose that the Greeks had been given sufficient warning, and therefore that their continued use of leavened bread qualified them as “persisting” (“pertinaces”). Similarly, the hard-and-fast rule that “leavened bread should not be offered” is much more typical of the later period, in contrast with the more permissive attitude found in the eleventh century. We see, for example, an identical notion, in nearly identical phrasing expressed in Lothar’s De sacro altaris mysterio: “Not leavened bread, but rather unleavened, should be offered in the sacrifice, both by reason of deed and by reason of the mystery” [5].
But I want to conclude with an emphasis on the relative openness and permissiveness of the mid-eleventh century. Contrary to the reputation that the events of 1054 have developed in the centuries since, the Latin Christians at that time had only begun to develop their stance on the various points under discussion, un/leavened bread being maybe the most important among them. Had the more irenic figures like Peter Damiani (and even Humbert!) exercised a little more influence on this topic, the West might have maintained a more permissive tone by the time of the authorship of our Pseudo-Peter, and indeed, perhaps a different approach taken under the leadership of Innocent III, who had clearly been swayed by a century and a half of increasing aggressive liturgical polemics in his approach to the Greek rite. Whether openness to a variety of liturgical forms could have prevented the entirety of the calamity of the Fourth Crusade is doubtful, but it certainly couldn’t have hurt.
Nick Kamas PhD in Medieval Studies University of Notre Dame
For the Latin text and date, see Kurt Reindel (ed.), Die Briefe des Petrus Damiani, MGG Briefe d. dt. Kaiserzeit 4.2, (München, 1988): 1–2.
Owen Blum (trans.), Peter Damian, Letters 31–60, The Fathers of the Church: Medieval Continuation, (CUA Press, Washington, D.C., 1990): 215.
(Ps.) Peter Damiani, Expositio canonis missae, PL 145.88. “Panis fermentatus non debet offerri in sacrificium, tum ratione facti, tum ratione mysterii. Sic legitur in Exodo. Fermentatum etiam corruptionem significat, teste Apostolo: modicum fermentum totam massam corrumpit. Graeci tamen in suo pertinaces errore de fermento conficiunt.”
Joseph de Ghellinck, Le mouvement théologique du XIIe siècle: études, recherches et documents (Paris: Librairie Victor LeCoffre, 1914), 355–359.
Lothar of Segni (Pope Innocent III), De sacro altaris mysterio, PL 217.854. “Panis autem non fermentatus, sed azymus debet offerri in sacrificium, tum ratione facti, tum etiam ratione mysterii.”
When students take a literature class, they often expect the familiar routine: read, analyze, write essays, repeat. But what happens when we shake it up and ask them to step creatively into the voices of the historical figures they’re studying? The results, as I’ve discovered in my teaching, can be transformative.
Benjamin Bloom’s 1956 taxonomy of knowledge, still considered a pedagogical standard (with some revisions), suggests that creating is the highest level of learning. When students can take apart information and put it back together again in a new way, they’ve fully integrated that knowledge into themselves. It’s not just remembering a rote list of facts (level 1) or understanding what those facts means (level 2). It’s not applying facts and ideas to real-world situations (level 3) or analyzing what different components make up ideas (level 4). Nor is it evaluating (level 5) — scrutinizing and making judgments about information and ideas.
Bloom’s revised taxonomy organized as a pyramid of learning levels with explanations of each, created by Tidema. CC-BY-4.0, Wikimedia.
When my students turn in creative assignments, I get to see all the levels at work: have they remembered and understood what’s happening in the readings and the historical facts? Have they caught key themes and concepts? Are they able to answer questions about them? Have they correctly identified the components of the information and concepts? Can they judge what is biased versus factual, what information is reliable and what is suspect? And then finally, when they blend it all together in a creative way, I can see what they’ve truly learned. Any concepts they haven’t quite grasped stand out clearly, and we can work on those further.
While I use creative writing in a literature class—a natural fit—it can be used in any subject, in and outside of the humanities. Have your theology student write a letter to God. Have your aerospace engineering student write a story about designing a turbine blade. Have your computer science student write a haiku in binary code. This approach works for any subject matter.
And let’s not forget the importance of fun! These assignments are often far more engaging for students to write than yet another analytical research paper. And they’re more enjoyable for us professors to read too.
If you’re worried about academic rigor, don’t be: you can ask your students to include a short essay reflecting on the process of creation. What sources and research did they engage with? Why did they choose that particular diction and imagery? What parts of the class readings inspired them? (This reflection process also uses Bloom’s highest level, creating).
Reader Responses: A Simple Starting Point
Let me show you one of the simplest ways I use creative assignments: reader responses in my course “Witches, Warriors, and Wonder Women: Women, Power, and Writing in History.” It’s a second-year course that meets both Fine Arts and Literature and Writing Intensive curriculum requirements.
I present the reader responses and creative option in my syllabus this way:
Written reader responses, 15%. Let’s dive into some reader responses! You’ll need to submit 10 of these total (no more than one per module). Each response should be about one double-spaced page. Be sure to turn it in before we discuss that person in class (for example, bring your Joan of Arc response on a day we talk about her). Graded ✓+ (3 points), ✓ (2 points), ✓- (1 point), or 0 points for not turned in.
(a) Feeling creative? You can mix it up! For up to 5 of your responses, write something in the voice of the historical figure we’re studying (like Boudica or Joan of Arc). Just make sure it shows you’ve really connected with the texts.
(b) Prefer prose? Submit 5 or more responses that explore how the historical figure and the texts about her make you think about women, power, and writing. Don’t forget to back up your thoughts with quotes (include page numbers too!).
A surprising number of students choose Option A pretty frequently! (This particular class is in Medieval Studies, cross-listed with English, History, and Gender Studies. It often attracts the lit kids and poets so I know I’m going to get some fantastic creative writing—but students in all majors turn in remarkable work!
Three of my students volunteered to let me publish their writing here.
Boudica: Celtic Warrior Queen
By Paul Walter—Boudica statue, Westminster, London, England. CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia
The first piece was written by civil engineering student Kate Ancona in the voice of Boudica, Celtic warrior-queen. We had read Tacitus’s account of Boudica and the uprising she led in about 61 A.D. against the Romans occupying Britain; we had also read William Cowper’s “Boadicea, An Ode” (1782). Kate captured beautiful details from Tacitus (like her flaming hair ) and drew inspiration from Cowper’s metrics. She meditates on Boudica’s iron strength, her fierce warriorhood, her quest for revenge against the violence done to her and her daughters and to her Iceni people.
Queen of the Rebellion
By: Boudica
I stood tall against the storm, Iron in my veins, a mother’s scorn, For daughters shamed and lands defiled, I raised my sword, fierce and wild.
They came with chains, with fire and lies, But I, Boudica, would not be disguised, By their power, by their might, I called my people to the fight.
We lit the night with Roman fear, For every tear, for every year, I became the roar of ancient land, A queen who’d die, but never stand.
In history’s grip, I’ll hold my name, A woman’s strength, forever flame, Beneath the earth, my heart may rest, But my spirit rides, the warrior’s quest.
This second piece was written by psychology student Anastasia Tejeda about a lesser-known aristocratic British woman who perished in the English Civil War while defending her family home. Notice how Anastasia approached the assignment thoughtfully, presenting contextual details about Lady Brilliana and assembling many pieces of information to imagine the rallying speech she might have given before battle. We have diary entries from Lady Brilliana but no account from her during her final siege. We rely instead on the account of an observer, Captain Davies. Anastasia masterfully captures the rallying rhetoric of the battlefield, drawing on Queen Elizabeth’s Speech to the Troops at Tilbury, which we’d read shortly before Lady Brilliana.
Anastasia’s Introduction
Like Joan of Arc and Queen Elizabeth I before her, Lady Brilliana Harley held military command and power during a time of war. Defender of her family’s castle in her husband’s absence during the English Civil War, she endured and emerged victorious as a Parliamentarian in a seven-week-long siege of the estate. Captain Priamus Davies, in his account of the siege, writes of the “honorable and gallant” Lady Harley and her confident, wise, and authoritative leadership (Hudson, The Grand Quarrel, 85). On August 22, 1643, the besieged received intelligence of the “low condition the Parliament party [was in] throughout the kingdom,” encouraging Harley to surrender (Hudson, 88). Yet far from despairing, Davies writes that “the noble lady protested that she would rather choose an honourable death, for she was confident that God would own His cause both in the public and private. We needed no better an encouragement” (Hudson, 89). This is the encouragement I imagine Harley would have given her troops on that night:
The Brampton Bryan Castle Address
My people, we have defended our home well thus far, and by the grace and care of God have proven ourselves brave and steadfast. I pledge to you, my loyal household, that as God has entrusted this estate to me to protect and preserve, He shall not abandon us now. So long as we stand here alive, so too is our cause alive, whatever news we hear from the outside. I urge you to remain firm and fight on against those who dare to make war against God and the sacred institution of Parliament. I will not abandon our commission for reason of fear. We shall fight, and fight nobly, certain of our favor with the Almighty, for should we perish, we shall perish nobly as well, preferring death to cowardice. I am confident in our imminent victory, and the glory and courage with which we will continue to fight until it is ours.
Anastastia’s Reflection on Creative Assignments
In composing a speech in the voice of Lady Harley, I was able to step inside her world, catching a glimpse of her convictions, passions, desires, and dreams, or what they might have been. When writing in prose on a historical figure, I am an outsider, evaluating and interpreting their life, drawing comparisons and conclusions about them. Speaking from the perspective of Lady Harley, I began to ask questions I never had before. What was she feeling at that moment? What were the words she would have said? Why would she choose these words and not others? I stepped into the voice of Lady Harley and learned who she was, not simply what she did.
Joan of Arc
Historiated initial depicting Joan of Arc. Public Domain, Wikimedia.
The third piece was written by Megan Ferrello, a history student, about Joan of Arc. Notice how Megan selected key details from Joan’s trials and stories written about her to get into Joan’s inner world. The only compositions we have directly from Joan—and even these are not certain—are a few letters written from the battlefield to rulers and to French cities. Megan pulled together details from various sources written about Joan, including her trial testimony, to weave a beautiful picture. Megan’s deliberate punctuation choices also reveal much about how she imagines Joan’s voice.
Joan of Arc: Reader Response—Poem
I led men into combat And it’s true I dressed as them But I battled under God’s order So why see me and condemn?
I have been beaten and battered and bruised But those were physical attacks I fear this quarrel you’ve brought me to Is something that from which I cannot come back
My only desire was to serve Him And perhaps in the end I did Yet the words of earthly men scream louder My actions they forbid
Like my holy Mother I remain untouched Though fire and flame consume me My purity I still clutch
I cry for Michael, for Catherine, for Margaret For they have never led me wrong I remain steadfast in my devotion So, to Heaven’s arms I now belong
They labeled me a heretic and an idolater But history will know the truth Of a girl who fought for God and Country Who was taken down in her youth
While my end was unjust, you must remember How the story did actually end Not of the flames, and the tears, and the dread But of the maiden who refused to bend
Megan’s Reflection on Creative Assignments
I really enjoyed having the creative options for reader responses, as I loved to write poetry when I was young, and these assignments have gotten me back into it! It even enabled me to choose creative alternatives in other classes, which is unusual for me, since the feedback I received from completing poems in Witches, Warriors, and Wonder Women helped me grow in my confidence! I loved putting myself in the mind of the historical woman, and I think it allowed me to read the primary sources at a deeper level.
The Impact: What Creative Writing Reveals
See what happens when students move beyond traditional analysis into creativity? Each student discovered something different through the creative process—not just about their historical subjects, but about their own capacity for empathy, research, and synthesis. They weren’t just analyzing these women’s experiences; they were wrestling with the same questions of power, identity, and purpose that their subjects faced.
Creative writing assignments don’t replace rigorous analysis; they enhance it. When students create an imagined narrative or commentary, they engage more deeply with primary sources, consider multiple perspectives, and grapple with ambiguity in ways that traditional essays sometimes miss. They move from studying history to experiencing it, from analyzing literature to creating it.
Whatever you teach, consider how creative assignments might transform your students’ relationship with your subject matter. The results might surprise you—and them.
Megan J. Hall, Ph.D. Associate Director Medieval Institute University of Notre Dame
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