(1064–1150)
The Book of St. James was intended by the propagandists of Cluny to be an account of the great pilgrimage written at the height of its fame, and they created by personality of Archbishop Turpin, the faithful prelate of Charlemagne in Cluny, with the object of giving wider significance to the cult of the Apostle and of reviving the mystical heroism of Charlemagne and Roland.—Walter Starkie1
The Age of El Cid, Ferdinand, and his immediate successor sons, Sancho II and Alfonso VI, represent the first triumphal peak of the Reconquista. It was during this era that Christian Iberia, previously a loose confederation of northern kingdoms simply trying to preserve their independence, now found themselves imposing their will on southern city-states, sometimes with surprising cooperation from local Muslim rulers and citizens. Part of this willingness to pay tribute was due to a realization that their greatest immediate danger was posed not by the Christians, but rather Islamic fundamentalist movements from North Africa. Soon enough, successive waves of Berber jihadists would engulf southern Iberia, blindsiding the Christians and temporarily putting them back on their heels. Another reason for local cooperation was that Iberian Muslims also feared that, with the recent demise of the Umayyad Caliphate, there was now nothing left to enforce Islamic unity. Consequently, the city-states were no longer strong enough to withstand armed assaults from the likes of El Cid or allied Christian invaders. In effect, the city-states wanted to maintain a unique Iberian identity while preserving self-rule and religious freedom. Sadly, however, by the time the Reconquista finally ended some four centuries later, these desirable goals would be completely lost.
In 1072, the same year that Sancho II was assassinated and succeeded by Alfonso VI as King of León and Castile, another strange development was taking place far away in the Holy Land. In Jerusalem, under the distracted watch of rival Islamic rulers (the Fatimid Egyptians and Seljukian Turks), the Georgian Orthodox Church began building a new place of worship on the site of an ancient shrine located within the confined Christian Quarter of Jerusalem. As early as 444 CE, a church or shrine dedicated to the obscure Saint Menas, a fourth century Egyptian military saint and martyr, was reported at this site.2 This same structure was destroyed during the Persian Sasanian conquest of Jerusalem in 614, but rebuilt after the Byzantines under Heraclius regained the city by 630.3 Although very little can be historically verified about either Saint Menas or his primitive Jerusalem shrine, by the 10th century it appears that a substantial cult had developed around his legend.4 Interestingly, the earliest written sources on the Saint Menas tradition reflect a number of similarities with that of Saint James the Greater.5 By the late 11th century, Georgian Christians were presumably living and worshipping side by side with Armenian Christians, also their immediate neighbors from a common Caucasian homeland. It is likely that the relationship between the two sects was uneasy.6 Even before the Roman Empire, the Armenians had been the first nation on earth to officially declare itself Christian (see Chapter 1), and their early presence in Jerusalem as a religious-oriented community was as distinguished as any. By the year 1078, however, a new Georgian Orthodox Church in Jerusalem was reportedly completed.7
With the cataclysmic arrival of the First Crusade in Jerusalem on June 7, 1099, the status of the Armenian Christian community in Jerusalem underwent a significant transformation. Having been expelled from the city along with all other Christians by the Fatimid governor prior to the siege, the Armenians were spared the carnage and mayhem ensuing over the next two months. After local Muslims and Jews had been massacred by the Crusaders, a newfangled Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem was established by the victors. It proved to be an environment in which Armenians were not only welcomed, but singled out for special favor. Part of the reason for this favoritism was that Armenian Christians had provided valuable aid and support to the Crusaders during their perilous march through modern-day Turkey in route to the Holy Land. As circumstances played out, the very first independent Crusader state was officially established at Edessa in 1098, where Baldwin of Boulogne, after taking an Armenian wife, set himself up as monarch with strong support from local Armenian Christians.8 Two years later (in late 1100), Baldwin was invited to become the second king of Jerusalem when its first elected king, Godfrey of Bouillon, died prematurely after less than a year of rule. Consequently, within two years after arriving in the Holy Land, the First Crusade had resulted in an Armenian Christian queen at Jerusalem. As one might expect, the Armenian community in Jerusalem would continue to wield great influence within the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem during its short period of existence.
The most durable and visible legacy of this influence was construction of the spectacular, still-standing Armenian Cathedral of Saint James sometime during the mid–1100s over the same site of the Georgian Orthodox Church erected during the previous century, partially incorporating the old structure into the new design.9 Later in 1165, the visiting German pilgrim John of Würzburg recorded that included among numerous relics housed by the new Armenian Cathedral was the skull of Saint James the Greater, in addition to claiming the entire bodily remains of Saint James the Just, first Bishop of Jerusalem, and (for good measure), the arm of Saint Stephen, proto-martyr from Acts of the Apostles (see Chapter 1).10 Possession of James’ skull has been consistently maintained by the Armenian Orthodox Church ever since, and obviously stands in contradiction to the longstanding tradition of Santiago de Compostela. To this sensitive subject we shall return while recounting the rapid demise of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem only two decades later (see Chapter 7). The First Crusade itself seemed to have little or no veneration for Santiago Matamoros, a surprising attitude given the military success of this cult in Iberia. Instead, this group of mostly Frankish and Norman conquerors apparently preferred paying homage to Saint George, which included several recorded visions of the warrior saint during their own battles.11 Local Armenians, on the other hand, felt a need to venerate Saint James the Greater with a new edifice and shrine. Whatever the precise motives, suffice it to say that by the mid–12th century, Christian pilgrims seeking out the relics of Saint James the Greater had at least two choices, each with respective backing from major religious institutions and located on far opposite sides of Christendom (Santiago and Jerusalem) as it then stood in world geography.
While the Armenians of Jerusalem were busy reinventing their monastery and cathedral as a pilgrim destination, the Galicians of Santiago de Compostela were doing them one better. In addition to constructing a new edifice, Santiago was developing a written tradition, one that would find wide circulation throughout Europe and beyond. Around the year 1075, during the early reign of King Alfonso VI El Bravo (“The Brave”), construction began on the world-famed Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, centered around the Galician shrine of Saint James the Greater, whose pilgrimage traffic by that era was more robust than ever. The monumental project would be ongoing for the next half century. By the time the exterior edifice was completed circa 1122, the political and military situation in Iberia for the Reconquista was considerably more challenging; Santiago’s symbolic importance to effort was needed more than ever. Shortly after the last interior stone was laid, perhaps as early as 1140, an even more remarkable thing happened: the illuminated manuscript titled Codex Calixtinus or Liber Santi Jacobi (“Book of Saint James”) emerged from France and was presented to the new Santiago cathedral, which today still houses the oldest surviving copy of the work. In its own way, the Codex was more audacious than the cathedral itself. If the Armenians had successfully created an alliance with Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem to promote pilgrimage tourism in the Holy Land, then the Spanish, and particularly the Galicians, had joined forces with their traditional allies the French to manufacture something even more astonishing—a thriving pilgrimage tourism industry centered around the most remote region of western Europe, one continuing strong into the present day.
Construction of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, like other similar large-scale projects throughout Western Europe, helped to usher in the High Middle Ages, announcing to the rest of the world that this was not the same Europe of the Dark Ages in which Carolingian Franks had once defended so tenaciously against outside invasion (see Chapter 3). Western Europe of the 11th century had an expansionist mentality, not a defensive one. Crusading and Reconquista were watchwords of the day. Moreover, although the first phase of the Santiago development physically resembled any number of Romanesque religious monuments springing up across the continent, the great shrine arising in Compostela had something noticeably different to offer.12 Besides boasting the relics of a Christian Apostle (like Rome), Santiago was now firmly established as the western terminus of European pilgrimage traffic, hence the focal point of a major commercial corridor extending across Iberia, France, and beyond. In many respects it symbolized an economically prosperous Europe, as opposed to the impoverished wreckage of the former Roman Empire. Less obvious, but nonetheless real, was Compostela’s unique architectural style, a regionally distinctive take on the Romanesque tradition with subtle Moorish and Islamic details. It seems that Iberian Christian shrines could not help but to acknowledge a certain admiration for their Islamic adversaries, even if unconsciously.13 Last (and most importantly) the Santiago project and all along the Camino Frances (“French Road”) openly displayed its close alliance with French interests on the other side of the Pyrenees, most notably with the Benedictine monastics of Cluny in eastern France. Clues of this ecclesiastic and economic cooperation begin with the French names of the architects, Bernard the Elder and his assistant Robertus Galperinus. It can be easily inferred that much of the specialized labor required for such a sophisticated undertaking were imported from France as well.
Another clue was that a very similar project was developing almost simultaneously on the opposite site of the Pyrenees in the old French Visigoth capital of Toulouse. There taking shape was another magnificent Romanesque structure, the Basilica of Saint-Sernin (or Saturninus), named after the third century Christian martyr and first Bishop of Toulouse whose venerated relics may very well be interred at that location.14 Conveniently, the Toulouse Basilica became a popular launching pad for religious pilgrims headed west over the mountains towards Santiago de Compostela. Like the Santiago Cathedral, the Toulouse Basilica is today a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site. The prestige of the Toulouse location as a depository for saintly relics had been established long before construction of the Basilica itself; according to tradition, Charlemagne himself had donated a number of items during the late eight century, in addition to those already possessed by the then-extant church, probably providing incentive for its later expansion. As for the ever-increasing pilgrimage traffic along the Iberian Camino routes, particularly along Camino Frances (into which Toulouse directly fed, south of Pamplona), French Cluniac connections with Spain had existed since at least the time of Ferdinand the Great, and usage now appeared to be reaching unprecedented volume. Concurrent developments of monumental religious shrines in Santiago and Toulouse not only sought to take advantage of this trend, but also helped to bolster it even further.
This latest phase of extraordinary expansion unfolding around Santiago de Compostela was given a tremendous boost by the tireless efforts of Bishop Diego (“James”) Gelmírez (1069?–1040) the most influential Spanish churchman since Beatus of Liébana (see Chapter 3). Though a man of the cloth, Gelmírez probably did more than anyone at the time to help forge a new Spanish national identity. Coming of age in the ambitious court of Alfonso El Bravo and during the celebrated military exploits of the Cid, the Galician-born Gelmírez learned early in life to make no little plans. By 1095, the Bishopric seat of Galicia had been transferred from Iria Flavia to Santiago de Compostela. By 1100, Compostela was transformed into an episcopal see by none other than Pope Urban II, the same pontiff who five years earlier incited and sanctioned the First Crusade. In 1120, as the new cathedral edifice reached for the sky, Gelmírez was personally appointed by Pope Callixtus II as first Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela, essentially making him the top religious leader in Spain. All during this time, Gelmírez continued to relentlessly promote the cult of Saint James the Greater. In 1122, the topped-out but still uncompleted Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela officially opened for worship, as well as for long distance pilgrimage devotion. It represented the crowning achievement of the Galician Archbishop’s ambitious career. Then in 1140, sometime shortly after the death of Gelmírez, compilation of the anonymous Historia Compostelana was completed, recounting in laudatory, but at best semi-reliable manner, his notable tenure.
The aggressive and highly promotional style of Gelmírez won him many enemies and jealous rivals, but there can be no denying the numerous literary works commissioned by his long regime provided much of the primary documentation, however untrustworthy, of the Santiago tradition as remembered today. Most prominent among these are the five illuminated books collectively known as the Codex Calixtinus (i.e. Liber Sancti Jacobi), probably first compiled near the end of Gelmírez’s life and career during the late 1130s. Multiple prefaces in the grand work are fictitiously attributed to Pope Callixtus II, who had earlier elevated Gelmírez to the status of papal legate but whose death in 1124 seems to rule him out as the true author. The manuscript states that it was presented to the Santiago Cathedral sometime before 1143 by Pope Innocent II, although this date has been questioned as well. Modern scholars generally agree that the Codex was in large part written by the French Cluniac monk Aymeric Picaud as part of a coordinated Franco-Spanish effort to promote tourism along the Camino Frances. A significant portion of the Codex is devoted to liturgy, miracles, and music. In addition to the first preserved reference to Santiago de Compostela as the final resting place of Saint James the Greater, the Codex includes a detailed tourist guide for pilgrims, the latter the very first of its kind in western literature.
Interestingly, Book IV (purportedly written by Archbishop Turpin of Reims) recounts the eighth century adventures of Charlemagne and Roland while campaigning in northern Iberia (see Chapter 3). The effect is not only to glorify France within the context of the Santiago cult, but also (perhaps unwittingly), to underscore the international importance being then achieved by the Santiago tradition during the early and mid–12th century (see header quote). Also traced to this same period are several other documents of interest, including the notoriously forged and so-called Diploma of King Ramiro I, purportedly giving thanks for Spanish victory at the Battle of Clavijo (which never occurred) and, more to the point, reserving a perpetual right of the Spanish monarchy to tax the whole of Spain for the exclusive benefit of the Santiago shrine at Compostela. The Diploma of Ramiro I is in fact the earliest surviving account for the Battle of Clavijo, nearly four centuries after the supposed event, and written in truth not by Ramiro I but by one Pedro Marcio of Santiago de Compostela, or a perhaps a group of authors working under Pedro’s direction.15 In either event, it can be safely said that this was a prolific era of robust literary activity. To repeat, over the long term these multiple works would do more to enshrine the traditions of Santiago than any physical monument constructed for the same purpose, although the edifice is indeed magnificent.
Expansion of the Santiago shrine and corresponding production of its companion literature was undeniably being driven at the time by a sense of urgency and anxiety. After Alfonso the Brave had conquered the cities of Madrid and Toledo in 1085 and appointed Toledo’s first Christian governor, the Mozarab Sisnando Davides, panicked Iberian Muslims took drastic measures by appealing to the fanatical Berber Almoravids of North Africa.16 This eventually proved to be more than they had bargained for. The fundamentalist Almoravids had not long before established their capital city at Marrakesh in modern day Morocco, after having conquered most of the Magreb with a combination of fierce military prowess and uncompromising religiosity. In 1086, only one year after Toledo had fallen, an Almoravid invasion force under Yusuf ibn Tashfin utterly defeated a Castilian host led by Alfonso at the Battle of Sagrajas near Badajoz along the Portuguese frontier. Although Alfonso and most of his knights managed to survive the day, overall losses were heavy, while the king retired seriously wounded and lame for life. More significantly, the hitherto relentless Christian advance into southern Iberia had finally been halted and would remain stymied for years to come.17 It was in this general atmosphere of setback and adversity that Santiago Compostela made its big push to completion under the direction of Bishop (and later Archbishop) Gelmírez.
While the Castilians suffered reversals in the field, however, other parts of Christian Iberia were faring better in the face of this new menace. To the east, the Christian Kingdom of Aragón, until then (at best) a secondary rival to the Castilians, saw a considerable rise in their fortunes under King Alfonso I (1074?–1134) El Batallator (“the Battler”), not to be confused with the much earlier Alfonso I El Católico (“the Catholic”) of Asturias from the eighth century. The highlight of Alfonso the Battler’s reign was his decisive conquest of Zaragoza and surrounding environs in 1118. Although Alfonso died shortly after fighting the last of his many engagements in 1134, the Battler was succeeded by his protégé García Ramírez of Navarre (1112?–1150), called El Restaurador (“the Restorer”), whose subsequent reign witnessed the long contested County of Barcelona voluntarily merge itself with Aragón for protection against the emerging Almoravid threat. One agreeable byproduct of this Reconquista extension into southeastern Iberia appears to have been the earliest preserved written source, circa 1150, for the beloved Marian Pillar tradition of Zaragoza (see Chapter 2), by Pedro de Librana. Although the miraculous vision had occurred over a thousand years before this document materialized, the tradition had obviously existed long before that time as well; moreover, it did not assert or contradict that Saint James the Greater was buried in Iberia, only that the apostle once had preached there long ago.
At the other far end of the peninsula, the Portuguese were also impressively effective in defense of their homeland, although this success also came at the expense of their would-be Castilian overlords. In 1139, rather dramatically on the Feast Day of Saint James (July 25), the Almoravids suffered their first big defeat at the hands of an outnumbered Portuguese force at the Battle of Ourique in southern Portugal. The Portuguese were led by the Franco-Portuguese Infante, Prince Dom Afonso Henriques, later becoming King Afonso I (1109–1185) nicknamed O Fundador (“the Founder”) of Portugal. Notably, as in their earlier 10th century victory at Simancas (see Chapter 4), Christian forces were later said to be inspired at Ourique by Santiago Matamoros, on whose feast day they fought. Closer inspection of these subsequent traditions, however, reveal that the vision of Prince Afonso was of Jesus Christ on the Cross, rather than of Santiago. Just as the Christians of southeastern Iberia still venerated the Virgin Mary above any of the apostles (see Chapter 5), the Portuguese, obviously for their own political reasons, were not willing to fully embrace Saint James the Greater as their exclusive benefactor.18 More indisputable is that Portuguese independence was formally recognized soon afterwards in 1143 by the Castilians under the Treaty of Zamora, although relations between Portugal and Spain would always remain difficult. Then in 1147, Lisbon fell to Afonso’s energized Portuguese nationalists, with an assist from English allies, who have remained friends of the Portuguese more or less ever since. Meanwhile, with Almoravid defeat and decline came yet another Islamic power from Moroccan North Africa, the Berber Almohads, who after the fall of Lisbon became the latest formidable adversaries of the Reconquista.
As Christian Iberia reeled from successive waves of new Islamic invasions during the late 11th century, a great military hero arose among them, one still celebrated across the Spanish-speaking world and well beyond. While the Almoravids were rolling back Christian gains in the south, the aforementioned Castilian warlord Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar metamorphosed into his Arabic moniker El Cid, while establishing an indomitable reputation as a military adventurer and troubleshooter, sometimes employed by the Muslims of Zaragoza to defend against both Christian and Islamic external threats. Then in 1094, to the surprise of almost everyone it would appear, the Cid suddenly pushed all the way to the southern coastline and the city of Valencia, which he seized and held against all challengers for the four remaining years of his life.19 More remarkably, especially for a man who spent his entire adult life on the battlefield, the Cid proved himself a popular and tolerant local ruler among both Muslims and Christians, a template for rule that certainly went against the grain of those intolerant times. Like Almanzor before him, the Cid did not come from the high nobility, was considered by the common people to be one of their own, and excelled in forming unlikely alliances; moreover, he tended to respect his adversaries, even while beating them in the field.20 His fighting career also predated the First Crusade, and seemed consistently unencumbered by any perceived restraints of pious convention or religious dogma.21 The Cid’s heroic exploits would later be immortalized anonymously in the 12th century by the Castilian epic poem El Cantar de Mio Cid, and in the English speaking world primarily through the benchmark 1961 film El Cid, directed by Anthony Mann. The narrative of the poem (unlike the film) includes obligatory Christian appeals to Saint James for assistance, although in real life the Cid looks to have been far more intrigued by the advanced Moorish culture of southern Iberia, rather than the Galician cult of Santiago de Compostela.
The Age of El Cid, however, did influence modern perceptions of Saint James indirectly. Much if not most of the artwork which later appeared on this same theme portrayed Santiago Matamoros as a light cavalryman with little or no armor, carrying only a simple lance as weaponry. This image of course tied in with surviving literary accounts that began to appear during the early 12th century. Its supernatural aspects were in all likelihood related to the apocalyptic symbolism of mounted warriors prevailing in Iberia since at least the time of Beatus (see Chapter 3). One might attribute this minimalism in armament to a religious faith in the power of Matamoros, but by the time of the Reconquista wars with the Almoravids and Almohades there was some basis in fact as well. Artistic portrayals of Santiago Matamoros as unarmored light cavalry often bore striking resemblance to the Christian à la jinete (“hit and run”) light cavalry of the era, originally based on ancient North African tactics, first developed in Granada, then adopted by their Christian opponents soon afterwards.22 Both sides in the conflict well understood the power of the image; moreover, by the era of Bishop Gelmírez, the idea of a total Iberian Reconquista was itself beginning to gain wide currency.23 It has also been observed that raiding armies living off the land and outright cattle rustling now became regular features for this style of warfare.24 Thus in a very real sense, central Iberia became a kind of Wild West long before there was an American Wild West. The idea of associating Saint James the Greater with foraging and cattle rustling may at first seem incongruous, but further reflection suggests that visually presenting Santiago Matamoros as a mounted warrior of lightning speed and infinite versatility was really a stroke of genius on the part of Christian propagandists.
Leaving aside for now the more militant persona imposed onto Santiago by the Reconquista, it behooves us to return to the more peaceful Santiago who lived and died a martyr in Jerusalem over a thousand years before the time of the Crusades. Many of the extra-biblical written details of the saint’s life in fact derive from the 12th century Codex Calixtinus, as neatly condensed within the popular 13th century hagiography, The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine, along with its important edition in the English language printed much later by William Caxton in 1483.25 One of the most enduring of these stories, perhaps partially or wholly apocryphal, is the incident purportedly setting off a rapid sequence of events which led to James’ martyrdom shortly after his return to Jerusalem from Spain (see Chapter 1). This elaborate tale involved the magician Hermogenes and his disciple Philetus being directed by malicious Pharisees to falsely accuse and entrap James, but instead being themselves ultimately freed by James from their evil bondage and happily converted to Christianity. The very moment of Hermogenes’ conversion was beautifully depicted during the late 1420s by the Florentine master Fra Angelico (1400?–1455), aka Fra Giovanni da Fiesola, a Dominican monk and painter whose civilian name was Guido di Piero. This vivid and poignant work is today possessed by the distinguished Kimbell Museum of Fort Worth, Texas.
The Apostle Saint James the Greater Freeing the Magician Hermogenes is one of five panels including the Virgin Mary and other saints originally commissioned for an altarpiece, not unlike the ensemble created by Pere Serra in Tortosa a few decades earlier (see Chapter 5). Set in ancient Jerusalem (the site of James’ martyrdom) as reimagined by the early Renaissance mind and where the Armenians had by then their own well established shrine drawing pilgrimage traffic, Fra Angelico’s snapshot storytelling is a tour de force of exotic variety, bright colors and vivid contrasts. The thematic focus is on the miraculous powers of Saint James the Greater, something not appearing in the bible but achieving central importance in the 12th century Codex Calixtinus. A chained Hermogenes is miraculously set free by his recently Christianized disciple Philetus, as a haloed James looks on while touching the headdress of Philetus with his staff, as if it were a magic wand. No fewer than six grotesque demons huddle together on the left side of the grouping, daring not to interfere with the holy proceedings. Behind James stand two figures, possibly a Pharisee and his scribe, skeptically beholding the scene and conversing amongst themselves as to how they will soon bring the saint to execution, even after having instigated and witnessed the miracle they now refuse to acknowledge. The message is straightforward: the miraculous powers of Santiago touch all of us, but we all react in different ways to these events, for better or for worse.
Reconquista historian David Nicolle perceptively wrote that “After 1148 the Iberian kingdoms got virtually no help from the rest of Europe, Crusading energies being channeled to the East. The Spaniards were left alone to cope with the problems of their own success.”26 Problems of their own success indeed. After centuries of close military, religious, and economic collaboration between Spanish and French, the latter found themselves preoccupied with recent setbacks in the Middle East, along with formidable European competitors such as the English, the Germans, and the Papacy. Pilgrimage infrastructure had been established between Toulouse and Santiago de Compostela (as well as in Armenian Jerusalem), extending throughout France and Spain. The financial and spiritual benefits of this foundation would benefit both countries, to varying degrees, for the next nine centuries. Military cooperation between Spain and the rest of Europe, however, was by the mid–12th century a thing of the past. Most of Christian Europe focused exclusively on the Holy Land. What seemed to have been won in 1099 now threatened to be lost, and would in fact be irretrievably lost by 1187. As for the Iberian Reconquista, over three more centuries of bitter fighting lay ahead. In between the ongoing bloodshed, destruction and waste, however, a minority of Iberians would begin asking questions about tolerance and coexistence. Such questions had also no doubt occurred to the Cid during the late 11th century as he forced his way south deep into lands previously occupied and held by advanced Islamic culture since the year 711.