blankly ‘objective’ report on the field, nor as a polemical call to arms, but as an engaged survey which seeks to both explain and comment upon the wider discipline. In what follows, I assume some knowledge of, and interest in, history on the reader’s part, but little prior sense of the medieval period (roughly the years 500–1500). Rather than always listing particular centuries, I have sometimes made use of the loose division of the medieval period into ‘early’, ‘high’ and ‘late’. All that is meant by this is c.500–c.1050, c.1050–c.1300 and c.1300–c.1500. My coverage tends towards western Europe, but I have tried to indicate the greater breadth of medievalism that exists beyond; to do more would take a much bigger book.
I am indebted to various people in my attempt to chart, in so few pages, so large an area. Rob Bartlett, Mark Ormrod and Richard Kieckhefer all kindly answered particular queries at key moments. Rob Liddiard and Caroline Goodson helped me understand aspects of archaeology, Sophie Page did similarly with regard to magic and David Wells assisted my grasp of Wolfram von Eschenbach. Major thanks are due to those who very generously read and commented on individual chapters or indeed the whole book: two anonymous readers for Polity, Cordelia Beattie, Caroline Goodson, Victoria Howell, Matt Innes, Geoff Koziol and Christian Liddy; Matt and Geoff also kindly shared unpublished material with me. Any errors are entirely my own fault. Thanks are owed also to Andrea Drugan at Polity, for prompting me to write the book and for being an understanding editor during the process. As ever, I am grateful to Victoria and Zoë for giving me the support and the space in which to write.
Lastly, this book is dedicated to all those who have taught me how to teach, from my parents, Henry and Hazel Arnold, to my students past and present.
Map of Europe, c.900
Map of Europe, c.1360
1 Framing the Middle Ages
A Medieval Tale
The first time Bartolomeo the priest talked to them was on 9 February 1320, in the papal palace at Avignon, and his interrogation probably took up most of one day. A notary, Gerard, wrote down his words; thus they survive for us today. Three very powerful men – a cardinal, an abbot from Toulouse and the pope’s legate for northern Italy – questioned, listened and re-questioned.
Matters had begun, Bartolomeo explained, the previous year, in October. A letter had arrived from Matteo Visconti, duke of Milan, summoning the priest to his presence. And so Bartolomeo had obeyed.
He met with the Visconti conspirators (he explained to his interrogators) in a room in Matteo’s palace. Scoto de San Gemignano, a judge, was there, as was a physician, Antonio Pelacane. Initially, Matteo drew him to one side. He told the priest that ‘he wished to do Bartolomeo a great service, benefit and honour, and that he wished that Bartolomeo would do Matteo a great service, indeed the greatest, namely the greatest that anyone living could do for him; and Matteo added that he knew for certain that Bartolomeo knew well how to do the aforesaid service of which Matteo was thinking.’ He would do whatever he could, Bartolomeo protested.
Immediately Matteo called to Scoto, the judge, telling him to show Bartolomeo what he had with him. ‘Then the said lord Scoto drew out from his robe and held out and showed to Bartholomeo and Matteo a certain silver image, longer than the palm of a hand, in the figure of a man: members, head, face, arms, hands, belly, thighs, legs, feet and natural organs.’ Written on the front of the statue were these words: Jacobus papa Johannes, ‘Jacques pope John’. The present pope, John XXII, had been called Jacques d’Euze before taking the pontifical title.
This was not the only thing written on the image. There was a sign, like a reversed ‘N’, and a name: Amaymo. The name of a demon.
‘Bartolomeo, behold this image,’ said Matteo, ‘which I have made to bring destruction to the pope who persecutes me.’ What Matteo wanted of Bartolomeo was for the priest to help finish the magical object, by suffusing the image with incense from zuccum de mapello (‘What is zuccum de mapello?’ asked Bartolomeo’s interrogators in Avignon, some months later. A kind of poison, he explained. But, he emphasized, he did not want to go along with Matteo’s plan).1
Bartolomeo told Matteo that he had no zuccum de mapello, and was unable to help. He then left, threatened by the duke to keep silent. But some time later Scoto came to see him, to ask his advice on the details of some books of sorcery. Prompted by Bartolomeo, Scoto again showed him the statue. It had been finished by a different sorceror from Verona, and was inscribed with a new word, Meruyn. All that now need happen, Scoto explained, was to hang the statue up for seventy-two nights, placing it night after night in a fire. As, little by little, the fire consumed the image, so would its target, little by little, be destroyed.
And that was all he knew, Bartolomeo explained to the cardinal, the abbot, the legate and the scribe. He had come to Avignon to warn Pope John XXII that his life was in danger.
But that was not the end of it, because some months later, on 11 September 1320, Bartolomeo was once again before this gathering of interrogators, explaining what had happened to him in the intervening period. When he had returned to Milan the previous March, he said, he had immediately been arrested and brought before Scoto. The Milanese knew that he had been to Avignon, and suspected that he had revealed the plot concerning the statue. He was imprisoned, in chains, for weeks. Scoto came to interrogate him many times. Bartolomeo told him that he’d gone to Avignon to treat a sick man, a knight who was under a magical curse. Scoto did not believe him. Matteo was very angry with him, Scoto explained; it would be better to confess now. ‘Come, Bartolomeo, tell the truth, why you went to the Curia’, Scoto said at one time. ‘Because you know absolutely that in the end it will happen that you tell the truth; and if you will not speak courteously, you will end up speaking under torture. Although I want you to know that I do not want to place you in torment, however in the end it will have to be, that you are tortured, unless you spontaneously wish to say the truth.’ Bartolomeo stuck with his story.
And he was tortured. Stripped, his hands tied behind him to a stick, a heavy stone was placed on his legs, while Scoto’s assistants yanked his arms back. They pulled him up, then released him, pulled him up, then released him. He was then untied, and led back to his cell. Look, said Scoto, we can do this to you every night. Every night until you die. Just confess.
But Bartolomeo did not confess. What saved him eventually was the intervention of another powerful northern duke, Galeazzo Visconti, Matteo’s son. Galeazzo had him freed, apologized for what had happened, hoped that he was all right. But Galeazzo was also in on the plot, and inveigled Bartolomeo into helping once again: the statue must be freshly suffused, and Bartolomeo was the man to do it – by implication, a proof of Bartolomeo’s loyalties. And by implication, prison, torture and death the alternative. Let me think about it, Bartolomeo pleaded. Very well, said Galeazzo; but ‘you should know that I have had Master Dante Alighieri come to me regarding this matter that I’m asking of you.’ Good, said Bartolomeo: I would be very pleased if he did what you are asking. But no: Galeazzo really doesn’t want to ask Dante to do it – because he knows that Bartolomeo can do it, will do it.
Two days later Bartolomeo agreed, set about finding more zuccum de mapello, and retrieved the statue from Galeazzo. He returned with it to his home town – and then he fled to Avignon once more.
And
