San Esteban in Segovia

 
Today is the feast of Stephen Protomartyr, whose death by stoning is recorded in Acts 7 and came to be a ubiquitous scene in pictorial programmes of Christian art in the Latin West. The figure of Stephen was an important point of orientation in the Christian cult of saints, and since he belonged to the biblical saints his cult spread early, quickly, and widely. Consequently, his feast was celebrated with a high liturgical rank, and churches were dedicated to him throughout the Christian world.

One of these churches is the beautiful Romanesque structure of San Esteban in Segovia, situated within the medieval city and dating to the decades around 1200. Its tower, typical of Spanish churches of the period, is a characteristic feature in the cityscape, and can be seen from quite some distance despite the clustered buildings of the medieval centre. Of all the many landmarks in Segovia, this is by far my favourite, even more so than the impressive late medieval cathedral.   

I have passed by this church a number of times, but never found it open. I keep hoping that next time I visit this wonderful city, I will be able to find my way in.

SS Cosmas and Damian in Segovia

 

Today is the feast of SS Cosmas and Damian, the famous saintly brothers who were medical practitioners in the time of Diocletian (284-306). According to legend, they refused to accept payment for their cures, and they were executed as a part of Diocletian's persecution of Christians. There is a great likelihood that they never existed, but their cult seems to be an old one, and their feast can be found in calendars and liturgical books from all over Latin Christendom. I have several times come across them in Spain, and their widespread distribution in the northern parts of the country would suggest that the cult was introduced to Spain already in Late Antiquity. However, this is merely an hypothesis. 

I have written about elements of the cult of Cosmas and Damian in previous blogposts (here and here), but this time I will have a quick look at a spectacular representation from one of the early modern chapels in Segovia Cathedral. The chapel in question is the Chapel of SS Cosmas and Damian, and can be seen in a more complete view here.

Upon the death of Damián Alonso Berrocal in 1603, the archpriest of Pedraza, one of the villages within Segovia's jurisdiction, the cathedral chapter donated this chapel for his inhumation. It appears that the dedication of the chapel to the saintly brothers was occasioned by the archpriest's connection to his namesake saint. In 1629, the retable of the chapel was commissioned, and in the early 1630s the sculptures decorating the retable were completed by a carver. 

Cosmas and Damian as envisioned in the 1630s

One of the many interesting elements of this retable is how it conveys the legend of the two saints. As is typical of medieval and early modern Christian art, stories become compressed into a sequence of highlights, capturing the most important points of the legend of the saints, reminding the viewers about the story, and demonstrating to the saints in Heaven that their ministrants on earth were familiar with their story and therefore worthy of their help and prayers. In this, the retable in Segovia Cathedral is typical and in no way unique, but nonetheless fascinating and astounding in the way it communicates the story of the brothers.

At the base of the retable we can follow the story. The two brothers heal a man bitten by a serpent, a miracle that is likely to be an echo of one of the stories about Saint Paul, who reportedly was bitten by a snake during one of his missions and was unharmed. The second and final scene of the base is their execution before the seated emperor. It is noteworthy that their death by decapitation - a very common way of dying for late-antique saints - follows after a failed attempt at killing them by arrows, as the arrows redounded back onto their would-be executioners. 

Lifting the eyes from the base - which seems to be logical sequence of reading this retable - we see the brothers safe and sound and with their heads reattached to their bodies, signifying their current state as saints in Heaven. Above them, we see - though not in these pictures - the Virgin Mary. 

There are several elements of the legend of Cosmas and Damian that have not been included in the version of the retable. The story of how their sanctity was confirmed by a speaking camel, and the miraculous cure of how they performed a leg transplant are not to be found, for instance. The absence of these episodes, however, are only natural given the limited space for visual storytelling in the retable, and by looking at what is kept and what is omitted, we can understand what was considered to be the most important elements of the story.  

The legend of Santiago, as summarised in the cathedral of Segovia

Today is the feast of Saint James the Elder, one of Christ's apostles. According to the legend that solidified at the turn of the eleventh century - and that was later popularised through Legenda Aurea - James was beheaded in Judea, whereupon his disciples brought his body with them in a rudderless boat which God directed to Galicia, where James was eventually buried on July 25. This legend is the kernel of the cult of Saint James, or Santiago, at Compostela, and it was elaborated through the composition of Liber Sancti Iacobi, the Book of Saint James, early in the twelfth century.

Through the legend of Santiago, the apostle's saintly personality was elaborated and accrued more layers. From being an apostle preaching in Judea, he also became the apostle of Spain, a pilgrim, and a battle-helper, who could be called upon to assist in vanquishing enemies. This latter feature is a very common aspect of several saints, but in the case of Santiago this feature has become dominant. In the course of the conflicts between the Christian kingdoms and the Muslim leaders on the Iberian peninsula, Santiago developed into the figure of Santiago Matamoros, the Moor-killer, and he was very popular among knights and soldiers. 

Altarpiece for the chapel of Saint James the Elder, 1591 

Cathedral of Segovia

The development of the legend of Santiago shows how malleable the stories about the saints could be, and the historical evolution of the figure of Santiago is eminently well summarised in an altarpiece in the cathedral of Segovia. The altarpiece is situated in the chapel of Saint James. The altarpiece itself was made in 1591 by Pedro de Bolduque, while the depictions of Santiago as a pilgrim and the translation of his body were executed by Orazio Castellino. From bottom to top, we see here the iconographical development of Santiago, meaning that his entire legend is summarised elegantly in one framework comprised of three layered elements. In this way, the altarpiece shows how compressed the representations of saints' legends could be, and how efficiently church art could convey and remind the viewers of the complex and at times lengthy stories of the saints.

The bottom, the beginning and root of the cult, as it were, shows the translation of James' relics to his Galician resting place. This shows James the Apostle, the first configuration of Santiago.

We then see James the pilgrim, dressed in the cloak and hat emblematic of the pilgrim, and carrying the pilgrim's staff, signifying the numerous pilgrims that flocked to his alleged tomb from all over Latin Christendom. This is the second configuration of Santiago.

And on the top we see the last configuration, which is perhaps also the most visible configuration in Spanish iconography, namely Santiago Matamoros. This is the latest offshoot of the legend, and due to its dominating position in Spanish history, it is also fitting to see this configuration presiding at the top of the altarpiece.


The legend of Santiago shows better than most legends how saints keep evolving in the traditions of their venerators, and the custodians of their cult centres. This blogpost serves merely as a very cursory overview of the matter, but there are many and exciting layers of historical accretions to dig through in order to follow this development in its details.

Saint Michael in Segovia, a modern medieval knight

In my previous blogpost I ruminated briefly on the iconography on Saint Michael the Archangel for the occasion of today being Michaelmas, and I had intended to leave it at that this year. But as I was looking through some pictures from earlier this year, I came across another depiction of Saint Michael that I encountered on a late night in Segovia just a few months ago, and this is a picture I really want to share.

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle

From a medieval prayer to the archangel

I was puzzled by this image, especially as it was posted on the door of a cafe in a way that made it seem that there was no clear relationship between the image and the place in which it was placed, and that this was not a part of the cafe's deliberate decor. In and of itself, the image is perhaps only to be expected in a city like Segovia, where the medieval cityscape is very well preserved, and where medieval iconography is ubiquitous. And to be sure, the image is a variation on the typical medieval representation of the archangel: A sword-wielding knight standing above his vanquished enemy, the satanic dragon. The legend arching across the upper part of the image is the opening of a liturgical chant for the feast of Michael going back to at least the ninth century (as can be seen here). He is carrying a shield that resembles that of Saint George, a common detail in Renaissance imagery, as illustrated by one of Raphael's famous paintings.

Saint Michael and the dragon

Raphael, between 1504 and 1505

Courtesy of Wikimedia

But there is one detail that strikes me as notably modern in this depiction, and which shows to me that this is a case of a modern medievalism used in representing Saint Michael as a symbol of fantasies of medieval knighthood. That detail is his armour, which is a chainmail armour covering most of his body (including his feet, from what it seems to me), partly covered by a tunic that reaches to the knee. This is a very common feature of medieval depictions of knights, including illuminations of Saint George. But it is not a typical feature of medieval depictions of Michael the Archangel. In medieval illuminations, Michael is usually wearing a kirtle or, more typically from the fourteenth century onwards, a full plate armour as in the painting by Raphael.

The monk Gelduin presents his work to Saint Michael 

Avranches - BM - ms. 0050, f.001, c.980-1000 

(Courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

The final battle from BL MS Additional 11695, ff. 147v-148

Beatus of Liébana, Commentary on the Apocalypse, 10th century

(Courtesy of British Library)

Saint Michael battling the dragon 

Cambrai - BM - ms. 0528, f.198v, Homiliary, twelfth century 

(Courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

A minuscule rendering of an epic battle

Cambrai - BM - ms. 0190, f.149, Epistolary, Cambrai, 1266 

(Courtesy of enluminures.culture.fr)

In short, despite efforts, the Saint Michael I encountered in Segovia is clearly a product of the modern imagination and its imaginings of the medieval period, rather than a product of the medieval period itself, even though the iconography and the liturgical intertextuality clearly draw inspiration from the cult of Saint Michael as it was established in the medieval period. All in all, I will argue that this rendition has more in common with the Spanish comic book hero El Capitán Trueno (Captain Thunder) than with medieval renditions of the archangel.

When I encountered Saint Michael in this guise, I was intrigued as I always am when I see examples of how medieval culture inspires modern imitations. But I was also a bit perturbed, and precisely because I know that modern imitations of medieval culture are often likely to have their genesis in fantasies that champion violent nationalism. In Scandinavia, this is seen in racist appropriations of the Viking past, and in Spain the medieval past and its chivalric trappings can easily be applied to fuel sentiments of anti-Semitism and islamophobia. When seeing the modern rendition of the medieval Saint Michael, one immediate question was: Who is the speaker of the supplication in the legend, what is the battle in question, and against whom is Saint Michael to be expected? I would love to know whether this imagery is more widespread in Spain, and whether it does have the kind of troubling connotations that I fear, or whether it is simply an act of enthusiasm.