(1270–1300)
So it is with everything: it is difficulty which makes us prize things. The people of the Marches of Ancona more readily go to Saint James of Compostela to make their vows: those of Galicia, to Our Lady of Loreto.—Montaigne1
As Crusader pretensions in the Holy Land began to forever unravel during the late 13th century, a remarkable contrast in cultural coexistence briefly appeared at the far opposite end of Christendom on the Iberian Peninsula. Not long after the last standing Crusader kingdom at the city-fortress of Acre had been erased from the map by Egyptian Mamluks in 1290, the Iberian coastal citadel of Tarifa near Cádiz held firm against a Marinid assault from nearby Morocco in 1296. The Tarifa garrison was commanded by a Christianized Muslim (Guzmán “the Good”), while the besieging Marinid force included the Christian rebel John of Castile, alienated brother to King Sancho IV. Local defenders against the Marinids no doubt included Muslims, since Tarifa had belonged to the Islamic Kingdom of Granada only five years before. Meanwhile, adjacent Granada offered no help whatsoever to the invading Marinids, who were eventually forced to withdraw by a surprising show of unified resistance. The close collaboration between Christians and Muslims on both sides of the Reconquista at Tarifa represented nothing unusual by Iberian standards. By this point, the two cultures had been living geographically side by side, or in some cases intermingled, for nearly five centuries. Ever since the time of the Cid (see Chapter 6), it was standard practice for Christians and Muslims to forge temporary military alliances. Nevertheless, by the late 1200s, an even bolder spirit of cooperation between the two camps seemed to briefly assert itself (and then to recede) under the creative leadership of an extraordinary Spanish monarch.
Alfonso X El Sabio (“the Wise”) of Castile (1221–1284) ascended the Castilian throne in 1252, following the death of his father, the (later) canonized Saint Ferdinand III. Whereas the rule of Ferdinand was characterized by irresistible expansion of Iberian Christian rule, that of his son would be marked by policies nearly unprecedented in medieval Europe, namely, legal and cultural coexistence between Christians, Muslims, and Jews. Thus Alfonso played King Solomon to his father Ferdinand’s King David. Whereas Ferdinand had been a conqueror, his son Alfonso was a consolidator and bridge builder. Although the new policy of peaceful coexistence would not last long and ultimately fail, it was not forgotten by any means, and during modern times has found considerable resonance for those who pay any attention to history. Today, flattering effigies of Alfonso the Wise grace both the entrance to the National Library of Spain (see Chapter 2), as well as the interior of the U.S. Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., although it is likely that most of the American legislators who work there have no actual clue who the historical Alfonso was, quite unlike modern Spaniards who admirably view him as a nearly iconic secular monarch.2
Concurrent with this experiment in tolerance was a burst of royally patronized literary activity that more or less finalized Castilian as the dominant Spanish dialect of Iberia, a dialect eventually spreading across the globe over the course of the next three centuries. Arguably the cornerstone of this intellectual foment was Alfonso’s Siete Partidas (“Code in Seven Parts”) of 1265, extensive medieval legislation that codified the egalitarian principles of social justice, so ahead of its time and not widely accepted at first (especially by the privileged of that society), but then having a lasting influence throughout Iberia and well beyond into the New World. In tandem with his activities as a lawgiver, Alfonso systematized academic activities in Toledo that had been revolutionizing European learning for over the last century.3 Assembling an elite team of Christian, Muslim, and Jewish translators in Toledo, these experts proceeded to make accessible for the rest of Europe previously lost literary works from the ancient Greek and Roman worlds at an even faster pace than before. These would help lay the groundwork for an intellectual Renaissance that would begin to take shape in the following century, even as Europe itself reeled under various unforeseen disasters (see Chapter 9). In addition, Alfonso was actively involved with compilation of the Estoria de España, the first Castilian language chronicle of the Iberian Peninsula.4 Whether promoting new laws or historical memory, the literary legacy of Iberia represented a novel, unified, and multicultural vision of society which the Wise King saw as the only feasible and desirable way of moving forward for his country. To do otherwise would involve bloodshed, acrimony, and lack of credibility over the long term, as subsequent Spanish history over the next three centuries would prove all too well. In most respects, this unfulfilled vision of Alfonso X proved to be more influential and appealing to the popular imagination than those of Saint James the Greater appearing on horseback to lead victorious Spanish military ventures.
In spite of these achievements, after a brilliant reign of over three decades, Alfonso’s long rule ended in rebellion, exile, and apparent mental derangement.5 Problems began when his vassal, the Caliph of Granada, cut off paying tribute, possibly feeling his authority undercut by Alfonso’s growing popularity among Muslim subjects living on both sides of the divide. The difficult situation with Granada was exacerbated by Alfonso’s repeatedly thwarted ambition to become Holy Roman Emperor, which also proved an unwelcome distraction. On top of this, there were marital estrangements with his wife Queen Violante, daughter of the formidable King James El Conquistador of Aragón. The hardest blow came in 1275 when Crown Prince and heir apparent Ferdinand de la Cerda of Castile was killed in the Battle of Écija near Granada. This cleared the way for the ambitions of Alfonso’s second son, the future King Sancho IV, who openly rebelled against his father in 1282 when Alfonso formed an alliance with the Islamic Marinids of Morocco against the continually defiant rulers of Granada and dissident Castilian nobility.6 The Christian-Islamic alliance was particularly startling to conservative Castilian nobility who had not long previously been defeated by the Marinid navy near Gibraltar, thereby forcing the Castilians to abandon their siege of Algeciras in 1278–1279. Despite these serious blows, however, Alfonso’s legal and moral authority continued to exert itself until his natural death in 1284, repeatedly supported by the devotion of his diverse common subjects and a handful of similar-minded and progressive-thinking aristocratic followers. Even as his life came to an unhappy close, there seems to have been a general realization that he represented something quite out of the ordinary in the course of human affairs.
Interestingly enough, Alfonso’s domestic opponents included the military Order of Santiago, who were among those taking sides with Prince Sancho during his rebellion.7 They may have felt long slighted because Alfonso never bothered traveling to Santiago de Compostela and never showed much personal interest in the jingoistic cult of Santiago Matamoros, although Alfonso had once sent his elder son Prince Ferdinand there in 1270, before the Infante died fighting at Écija five years later.8 As noted by Jan van Herwaarden, “It would seem most probable that Alfonso the Wise tried to play down the significance of the shrine in Compostela.”9 Instead, Alfonso proved himself a lifelong devotee of the Virgin Mary. This was not unusual for the times, for as also observed by Herwaarden, the Marian cult tended to overshadow that of Santiago from the 12th century onwards, and even more so after the watershed Reconquista victory at Las Navas de Tolosas in 1212, which involved a very broad Christian coalition (see Chapter 7).10 Alfonso, for his part, associated some of the greatest literary and musical works of his reign with devotion to the Virgin, including the Cantigas de Santa María (“Songs of Holy Mary”), excerpts of which were buried alongside of Alfonso at his final resting place, per directions from his own last will and testament.11 Although Alfonso’s will also makes an obligatory appeal to Saint James (“our lord, defender, and father”), this same appeal is made in conjunction with that of other saints (SS. Clement and Alfonso) to intercede on his behalf with the Virgin Mary and divine son.12
While the cult of Santiago would continue to play an important role in the development and worldwide spread of Spanish-speaking culture, after the time of Alfonso the Wise it would become far more nuanced and subdued, with more of an emphasis on individual pilgrimage (over territorial conquest) and subservience to the unifying power of the Marian cult. There were a number of good reasons for this. Worship of the Virgin Mary was, by geographic definition, far more multicultural and diverse than that of Saint James the Greater.13 Add to this the Marian cult being far less gender specific than Santiago Matamoros and, for that matter, less brutally militant. By the time of Alfonso, the Reconquista had spread itself across a wide geographic area no longer united by language or custom. There were even some converts (with varying degrees of sincerity) coming into Christianity from Islam and Judaism, for whom the traditions of Saint James meant little or nothing or at least nothing positive. Something extra was therefore needed in terms of popular iconography and worship. Alfonso was born in Toledo, the traditional rival of Santiago de Compostela both in theology and politics, while his mother, Elisabeth (Yolanda) of Swabia, was a Hohenstaufen princess descended from a German international dynasty of Holy Roman emperors. Accordingly, his cultural outlook and frame of reference extended far beyond Iberia, often to own his political and military disadvantage.14 One aspect of this internationalist viewpoint was Alfonso’s veneration of the Marian cult. For example, in the influential Cantigas, which he either sponsored or wrote himself, the superiority of the Virgin Mary as a healer and miracle worker over Saint James is repeatedly asserted.15
By the late 1200s, this closely related but strictly hierarchal relationship between SS. James and Mary was further reinforced by the initial appearance and enormous success of The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine, Italian Bishop of Genoa. Voragine was by training a member of the Dominican order that attached special devotion to the Marian cult, and this priority is clearly evident both in The Golden Legend and his other surviving literary works. Drawing upon biblical text, upon the Codex Calixtinus (see Chapter 6), and expressly upon respected authorities such as the Venerable Bede and John Beleth, Voragine compactly summarizes in Chapter 99 of the Legend the Jamesian tradition as it is best remembered today, thanks in no small part to the first English version being later printed by William Caxton in 1483. Voragine also conveniently provides his readers with a chronology, specifying that Saint James the Greater was martyred on March 25, his body brought to the environs of Santiago de Compostela on July 25 (the saint’s official feast day), and buried there on December 30, the date on which his tomb was completed. March 25, the date of James’ martyrdom, is of special interest, being also the Feast of the Annunciation, one of the most important holy days of the Lenten season and obviously of central importance to the Marian cult as well. Lastly, it should be noted that March 25 is also a date traditionally (though not universally) assigned to the crucifixion, thereby forever intertwining the martyrdom of Saint James the Greater with both the Virgin Mary and the Passion of Christ.16
The Marian cult focus of prominent personages such as Bishop Voragine and Alfonso the Wise was well within in the spirit of the times. Pinpointing when, where, and how this trend began is difficult; however, a good case can be made that it received its first big boost from the life and work of Saint Dominic of Caleruega (1170–1221). Santo Domingo, as he is known is Spanish, was a Castilian-born and educated churchman first achieving prominence at the court of Alfonso VIII, the future Reconquista hero of Las Navas de Tolosa (see Chapter 7). Dominic was a rough contemporary of Saint Francis, and like Francis, traveled extensively, spending his final years in France and Italy. Unlike Francis, Dominic was an establishment insider throughout his career, and often worked on behalf of powerful political interests. He was canonized by Rome in 1234, only 13 years after his death. Rightly or wrongly, his name is often associated with early prototypes of the Spanish Inquisition, usually in connection with his unsuccessful attempts at dealing with the Catharism heresy then prevalent in southwestern France. Dominic learned early that a good way to bring Christians together was through devotion to the Virgin Mary, and this became a hallmark of his preaching. Some credit him with beginning or promoting use of the Marian Rosary. Whether by coincidence or by design, after the time of Dominic a totally different image of Saint James the Greater seems to predominate, one almost the opposite of Santiago Matamoros, the latter possibly derived from Beatus’ White Rider of the Apocalypse or the famed à la jinete light cavalryman dominating the Iberian Peninsula for centuries (see Chapter 3). From then on the new Santiago would, with a few notable exceptions, instead typically be represented as a peaceful pilgrim, one strictly subservient to the Virgin and Christ child.
The Dominican de-emphasis upon the Galician-centered Santiago cult in favor of a more widespread Marian devotion had political consequences for the likes of King Alfonso the Wise, as well as finding frequent visual expression in medieval and Renaissance art. No better example of this can be demonstrated than in the somewhat underrated and comparatively unknown work of Venetian-born painter Lorenzo Lotto (1480?–1556), whose distinctive oeuvre included a unique depiction of Saint James the Greater, completed at the very height of Spanish triumphalism during the early 16th century (see Chapter 11). Lotto was a journeyman artist who struggled to earn a living over a long and prolific career. He was a contemporary of Titian, and there is some visual evidence that they influenced each other’s output. Today his surviving canvases may be viewed in the world’s best known museums. Early on, Lotto produced notable masterworks as he traveled through the region known as the Marches of Ancona, located along the Adriatic coast of northeastern Italy, and anchored by the famous Marian shrine within the Basilica della Santa Casa of Loreto. The site had been a popular pilgrimage destination since at least the 13th century and the time of Alfonso the Wise. By the late 16th century, the French humanist Montaigne was making dry remarks about religious pilgrims choosing far-flung destinations based on difficult distances from home (see header quote). Tellingly, Loreto from its very beginnings was a major bastion of the Dominican order, and Lotto himself became a Dominican lay brother at Loreto late in life, having understandably grown weary of his precarious existence as a freelance painter for hire, though he appears to have continued painting until the very end. Upon his death, Lotto requested that he be buried in a Dominican habit, in keeping with his lifelong devotion to the church and gratitude towards the religious order which employed and allowed him to have some dignity in his final years.
During his initial wandering period through the Marches of Ancona, circa 1512 (when he was probably in his early 30s), Lotto did a standard rendition of San Giacomo Maggiore as a religious pilgrim on the road, not unlike the journeyman artist himself, one would suspect. Some three and a half decades later, still before Lotto would take his vows as a Dominican lay brother, came his Madonna and Four Saints (1546), in which Saint James the Greater figures among those paying appropriate homage to the Virgin, standing opposite fellow apostolic martyr Saint Andrew. Perhaps the most telling, however, is Lotto’s haunting self-portrait from the 1540s, today on public view in Madrid’s Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum. Here we come face to face a 60-something year old painter who was obviously a deeply driven artist, and one whose personal intensity causes him to appear as a kind of Renaissance-era Vincent Van Gogh. By the end of the decade, Lotto had found sanctuary at the shrine of Loredo among the Dominicans, who in turn used Lotto’s tremendous talent to adorn their sanctuaries. The shrine itself, according to legend, had been wondrously brought back to Italy after final collapse of the last Crusader states along coastal Palestine during the late 1200s. These Holy Land artifacts are said to have been the house of the Virgin Mary herself, a small enclosure simply constructed of stone and Lebanon cedar. Its traditions and attributed miracles, like those of Santiago de Compostela, are too vast to enumerate within these pages.
Returning to an earlier stage in the long career of Lorenzo Lotto, surely his most striking depiction of Saint James the Greater occurred around 1529, during one of several brief returns to his home town of Venice, but several years after having first visited the Marches of Ancona. His beautiful canvas, Madonna and St. Catherine of Alexandria, St. James the Greater, and an Angel, today on view at the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna, must rank as one of the more personalized interpretations of the Santiago tradition in Renaissance art. In this sense, the work is a forerunner of numerous other semi-autobiographical images of Saint James that would dominate the 17th century (see Chapter 14). In Lotto’s masterpiece, viewers encounter the Christ child at the center of the painting, being presented like an offering by a youthful Mary to a kneeling James. A hovering blond angel holds a laurel wreath over the head of the Virgin, who is seated at the base of what appears to be a Lebanon cedar, perhaps symbolic of the Loreto shrine. The most unusual feature of the work (though not unprecedented) is the presence of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, kneeling between James and the Christ child, the latter turning the pages of the bible she holds as Catherine dispassionately observes James, as if assessing his devotional sincerity. She wears a rosary, a device nearly synonymous with the Dominican order. The fact that Catherine’s own legend as virgin Christian martyr has almost always been viewed as ahistorical, raises implied questions about the perceived historical status of the Santiago tradition, at least to a modern viewer.17 As for James, his pilgrim’s staff is the only accessory identifying him. His complexion is dark and ruddy, perhaps denoting Spain or perhaps the artist himself, a solitary Venetian traveler.
This type of devotional depiction is quite different than, say the one of Saint James shown by Nicolas Poussin a century later in connection with the Marian Pillar of Zaragoza (see Chapter 2). In Lotto, or at least in this specific painting, the figure of James is relegated to the far right side of the canvas, only about three quarters delineated, literally a peripheral figure. The center of attention is the Madonna and Christ child. Saint Catherine of Alexandria receives precedence over Santiago in every respect as well. There is none of the family intimacy between James and the Virgin (possibly as a nephew-aunt relationship) suggested by Poussin, nor is there any hint of the ancient pagan world that Poussin was so attracted to. The iconic Pillar of Zaragoza, Spain, is prominently replaced by a cedar of Lebanon. No longer is James carrying a bible, as he did in Lotto’s own earlier version, or in many other archetypal depictions of James. In effect, the pilgrim Saint James here travels to the Marian shrine at Loreto, Italy, and not to his namesake, Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. As Lotto painted, the Reconquista was a thing of the past and the conquest of the New World was proceeding apace (see Chapter 11). Never had the role of Saint James the Greater been reduced to a more humble status—now he was just another religious pilgrim paying simple homage to the Holy Family at a decent and respectfully removed distance, standing in line behind other semi-legendary saints, it should be added.
The 13th century closed in Iberia with the 1297 Treaty of Alcanizes between Castile and Portugal, in which territorial borders between the two neighboring and long feuding states were peaceably established, more or less in permanent fashion. This acknowledged separatism was quite a contrast from a few decades earlier when Alfonso the Wise aspired to a tolerant form of Christian European unity in his thwarted ambition to become Holy Roman Emperor. By the year 1300 there was instead a renewed mood of Reconquista aspirations, especially since the Crusades had officially ended in abysmal failure. Everything seemed poised for the imminent, final fall of Iberian Islam; yet, as often happens in human affairs, conventional wisdom in Europe was about to be blindsided by a series of unforeseen catastrophes. These terrible setbacks, as if sent by Heaven itself in rebuking disapproval, including worldwide pandemic and a fractured pontificate, would delay completion of the Reconquista for yet another two centuries. Meanwhile, the Italian city-state of Venice, which one day would produce a bumper crop of artistic geniuses such as Lorenzo Lotto, was about to once again forcefully enter the stage of world affairs. Around the turn of the 14th century, a popular Venetian manuscript later known as The Travels of Marco Polo began to widely circulate throughout Europe. Interest in Eurasian trade routes began to intensify more than ever, along with the staggering potential profits to be made through these routes. Further fueling this interest was the inconvenient fact that, in the aftermath of Crusades, Ottoman Turkish resistance to European traders had understandably intensified as well. With motives of financial fortune dressed up in the guise of Christian evangelization, Europeans now began, perhaps for truly the first time since the fall of Rome, to think outside of the box in terms of geography and trading routes.