Pilgrimage Pragmatics: Travel Infrastructure, Movement, and Connectivity in Late Roman and Early Byzantine Cilicia by Sarah Craft A Dissertation Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World Brown University May 2015 © 2015 by Sarah Craft This dissertation by Sarah Craft is accepted in its present form by the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology & the Ancient World as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Date________________ __________________________________ Susan E. Alcock, Advisor Recommended to the Graduate School Date________________ __________________________________ Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Reader Date________________ __________________________________ Stratis Papaioannou, Reader Date________________ __________________________________ Felipe Rojas, Reader Approved by the Graduate Council Date________________ __________________________________ Peter M. Weber, Dean of the Graduate School SARAH CRAFT Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University 60 George Street — Box 1837 — Providence, Rhode Island 02912 E-Mail: sarah_craft@brown.edu Website: www.sarahecraft.com EDUCATION 2008 – 2015 Ph.D., Joukowsky Institute of Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Dissertation Title: “Pilgrimage Pragmatics: Travel Infrastructure Movement and Connectivity in Late Roman and Early Byzantine Cilicia” Advisor: Professor Susan E. Alcock 2003 – 2007 Bachelor of Arts (summa cum laude) in Latin and Ancient Greek, with a minor in Classical Archaeology. DePauw University Classics Department, Greencastle, Indiana. RESEARCH INTERESTS • Late Antiquity • Landscape Archaeology • Early Christianity • Pilgrimage • Hagiography • Urban-Rural Dynamics • Travel Infrastructure • Archaeology of Movement • History of Archaeological Thought and Practice • Archaeology and Religion • GIS Applications HONORS, AWARDS, AND FELLOWSHIPS 2012 – 2013 Junior Fellowship at the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations (RCAC) at Koç University, Istanbul, Turkey Project Title: “Dynamic Landscapes in Late Roman and Early Byzantine Anatolia: Travel Infrastructure and Early Christian Pilgrimage” 2011 Brown University International Affairs Traveling Fund 2011 Summer Fellowship in Byzantine Studies at the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, Washington, D.C. Project Title: “Dynamic Landscapes in Late Roman and Byzantine Anatolia: Pilgrimage, Travel Infrastructure, and Landscape Archaeology” 2011 Brown University Graduate School Research Travel Grant 2008 – 2009 Brown University Graduate Fellowship 2007 Council of American and Overseas Research Centers’ (CAORC) Critical Language Scholarship (CLS) to Ankara, Turkey iv 2003 – 2007 DePauw University Merit Scholarship 2003 – 2007 National Merit Scholarship 2006 – Phi Beta Kappa 2005 DePauw University Faculty/Student Summer Research Grant 2004 Collaboratory for GIS and Mediterranean Archaeology’s (CGMA) Summer Research Grant PUBLICATIONS In prep. Chapter 8, “Travel and Communication,” in Euchaïta: A Late Roman and Byzantine City, ed. J. Haldon, H. Elton, and J. Newhard. 2013 Newhard, James M.L., Norman S. Levine, Angelina D. Phebus, Sarah Craft and John Littlefield. 2013. “A geoinformatic approach to the collection of archaeological survey data,” Cartography and Geographic Information Science 40.1: 3-17. 2012 Review of An Environmental History of Ancient Greece and Rome. Lukas Thommen. 2009. The Classical Review 63.2: 483-485. CONFERENCES AND PAPERS Abstracts of conference papers can be found on my website at www.sarahecraft.com 2015 Submitted: “Scales and Impacts of Christian Devotional Movement in Early Byzantine Cilicia,” to Archaeology of Ritual and Religion, Annual Meeting of the American Schools of Oriental Research (ASOR), Atlanta, Georgia. “Going where the job takes you: Moving producers in the eastern Roman empire,” in The Imperial Craft: Comparative Perspectives on Production and Society in Empires, Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeologists (SAA), San Francisco, California. 2013 “A Smattering of Saints: Early Christian Cult at Seleukeia,” Brown Bag Series, Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. 2013 “’Hastening from one of her homes to another’: Regional Connections and v the Infrastructure of Distributed Cult to St. Thekla at Meryemlik (near Silifke, Turkey).” Connectivity: Strategies and Impacts, a symposium at the Koç University Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations, Istanbul, Turkey. 2011 “Dynamic Landscapes: Movement, Pilgrimage, and Travel Infrastructure in the Landscape,” Brown Bag Series, Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. 2011 “Intertwining Roads and Settlements in Late Antique Northern Anatolia,” in the session Late Antiquity of the 112th Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America (AIA), San Antonio, Texas. 2010 “Being on the Road: Paths as Places,” in the session Archaeological Ambulations of the Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG) conference at Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. CONFERENCES ORGANIZED Conference descriptions, schedules and lists of participants can be found on my website at www.sarahecraft.com. 2012 Lead Organizer, State of the Field: Archaeology of Turkey Co-organized, with Professor Susan E. Alcock. Held at the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, March 2-3, 2012. 2011 Co-Organizer, BIG: Monumentality and Meaning in the Ancient World With Dr. James Doyle. Held at the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, February 25-26, 2011. PROFESSIONAL SERVICE 2012 State of the Field: Archaeology of Turkey (co-organizer), held at the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, March 2-3, 2012. 2011 – 2012 Graduate student liaison (GSL) for the Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning for the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World. 2010 – 2012 Secretary, Archaeological Institute of America Narragansett Society. 2011 BIG: Monumentality and Meaning in the Ancient World (co-organizer), held at Brown University, February 25-26, 2011. vi TEACHING EXPERIENCE Spring 2014 Teaching Assistant for Byzantium - Constantinople - Istanbul under the instruction of Prof. Felipe Rojas, Joukowsky Institute, Brown University. Fall 2013 Teaching Assistant for ARCH 0770 Food and Drink in Classical Antiquity, under the instruction of Prof. Susan E. Alcock. Fall 2013 Guest lecture: “Archaeology of Roads,” for Prof. Elizabeth Murphy’s ARCH 0535 Technology and Labor in the Roman World, Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Spring 2012 Teaching Assistant for ARCH 0680 Water, Culture, & Power, under the instruction of Prof. Ömür Harmanşah. Spring 2011 Guest lecture: “Byzantine Art and Archaeology,” for Prof. Amanda Lahikainen’s ART 231 Prehistoric to Renaissance Art at Rhode Island College, Providence, Rhode Island. Spring 2011 Guest lecture: “Archaeology of Pilgrimage in Byzantium,” for Prof. John Marston’s ARCH 0360 East Meets West: Archaeology of Anatolia at the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Fall 2010 Teaching Assistant for ARCH 1880 Geofizz!: Archaeo-Geophysical Data Visualization, under the instruction of Prof. Margaret Watters. Fall 2009 Teaching Assistant for ARCH 0770 Food and Drink in Classical Antiquity, under the instruction of Prof. Susan E. Alcock. TEACHING INTERESTS In addition to my qualifications to teach foundational survey courses on the art, archaeology and literature of the Greco-Roman world, I am keen to teach and further develop topical courses that have stemmed from my research and previous teaching experience. Several of the courses can be adapted to thematic approaches to primary texts in Greek or Latin. Detailed syllabuses for proposed classes can be found in my Teaching Portfolio on my website at www.sarahecraft.com. Undergraduate Level Courses • Travel in the Ancient World • Food and Drink in Antiquity vii Undergraduate/Graduate Level Courses • GIS and Remote Sensing in Archaeology and History • Constantinople: Queen of Cities • Pilgrimage Throughout the Ages Graduate Level Courses • Saints and Sacred Spaces • History of Archaeological Thought and Practice • Archaeology of the Balkans RESEARCH EXPERIENCE Fall 2011 Haffenreffer Museum of Anthropology intern Spring 2011 Geographic Information Systems (GIS) intern for the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University Spring 2010 Community and educational outreach proctor for the Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Brown University. 2007 – 2008 DePauw University Geographic Information Systems (GIS) Center intern PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT 2011 – 2014 Certificate IV: Teaching Consultant Program, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning 2011 – 2012 Certificate III: Professional Development Seminar, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning 2010 – 2011 Certificate II: Tools for the Classroom, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning 2009 - 2010 Certificate I: The Sheridan Teaching Seminar, Sheridan Center for Teaching and Learning FIELD EXPERIENCE 2015 Felix Romuliana/Gamzigrad, Serbia (excavation and reconnaissance) 2015 Mazi Archaeological Project, Greece (Intensive Survey) 2013-2015 Bryn Mawr Excavations in the UAE at Tell Abraq (excavation) viii 2012 Brown University Petra Archaeological Project, Jordan (intensive survey) 2008-2010 Avkat Archaeological Project, Mecitözü, Çorum, Turkey (Geographic Information Systems (GIS) Specialist) 2010 Central Lydia Archaeological Project, Tekelioğlu, Manisa, Turkey (intensive survey) 2006 Monte Polizzo Archaeological Project, Salemi, Sicily (excavation) 2006 Göksu Archaeological Project, Alahan, Mersin, Turkey (intensive survey) 2005 Hacımusalar Archaeological Project, in Elmalı, Antalya, Turkey (survey and GIS intern) LANGUAGE PROFICIENCIES Ancient Greek (advanced reading) • Medieval Greek (advanced reading) • Latin (advanced reading) • Italian (conversational and intermediate reading) • French (intermediate reading) • German (intermediate reading) • Turkish (conversational) • PROFESSIONAL MEMBERSHIPS Member of the Byzantine Studies Association of North America (BSANA), Archaeological Institute of America (AIA), Society for American Archaeologists (SAA), and the American Schools of Oriental Research (ASOR) REFERENCES Susan E. Alcock (Director, Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World, Joukowsky Family Professor in Archaeology and Professor of Classics, Brown University; Box 1837 / 60 George Street, Providence, RI 02912; Phone: 401 863 3710; Susan_Alcock@brown.edu) Stratis Papaioannou (Associate Professor of Classics, Director, Modern Greek Studies Program, Brown University; Box 1856 / 48 College Street, Providence, RI 02912; Eustratios_Papaioannou@brown.edu) Hugh Elton (Dean of Arts and Science: Humanities; Professor of Classics, Trent University; 1600 Westbank Drive, Peterborough, ON, K9J 7B8, CANADA; hughelton@trentu.ca) Felipe Rojas (Assistant Professor of Archaeology and Assyriology, Brown University; Box 1837 / 60 George Street, Providence, RI 02912; Felipe_Rojas@brown.edu) ix ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The last seven years have been a grand adventure. I didn’t know real life could be so good. First, I would like to thank my committee members, Susan Alcock, Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Stratis Papaioannou and Felipe Rojas, for their support and for their seemingly inexhaustible supply of patience, advice, and good cheer. You inspired me, pushed me, encouraged me, scolded me, consoled me, corrected me, and most of all taught me. I am so much the better for it. Thank you for sticking with me. I’d also like to thank John Cherry, who kept me on track as long as he could and has been both a mentor and an unending source of interesting stories since. If I ever get a tattoo, I’ll get your approval first. Sarah Sharpe: there is no end to the gratitude for all the help you’ve given me over the years! To the Classics faculty at DePauw University, who opened up this world to me: Pedar Foss and Rebecca Schindler, who taught me what GIS was, took me to Turkey, and started a ball rolling that has yet to stop. Carl Huffman, Dave Guinee, Jinyu Liu, Anne Harris, and Mac Mackenzie: I doubt you realize your legacy of inspiration when it comes to me. To Sean Bey, the better half of Team Canada. Hugh Elton, Jim Newhard, John Haldon, Fotini Kondyli, Ben Anderson and Jordan Pickett: your advice, your company, and your support in the Göksu and at the Avkat Archaeological Project and since have gotten me so much farther than I ever could have on my own. My thanks to Christopher Roosevelt, Christina Luke and CLAS; Sue Alcock, Chris Tuttle and BUPAP; Sabine Ladstätter and the Ephesos Archaeological Project; Peter Magee, Marc Händel and the   xi   Bryn Mawr Excavations at Tell Abraq; and to Anne Chen, who after only one short year has proved an invaluable friend and colleague: I can’t wait to explore Serbia with you! I am so grateful to Margaret Mullett, Scott Johnson, Deb Brown Stewart and Jonathan Shea and the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections, for the wonderful environment and support you provided while I wrote my dissertation prospectus there during a much appreciated Summer Fellowship in 2011. Scott Johnson was incredibly generous in sharing his passion for Thekla in the form of advice and his work in progress. I also owe a great deal to Scott Redford and the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations (RCAC) at Koç University for the amazing opportunities the Junior Fellowship gave me for research, travel, and the development of friendships and professional relationships. That year was one of the most formative of my career, and I owe special thanks to Divna Manolova, Nikos Tsvikis, Cathie Draycott, Federico Manuelli, Michele Massa, Candace Rice, Tyler Franconi, Günder Varınlıoğlu and Alessandra Ricci. To all the faculty, postdocs, and graduate students who make up the ancient world community at Brown: when it came to me, you really were the best kind of village. You got me through the highs, the lows, the fieldwork and the fellowships. Getting to know such an amazing group of people and having such invigorating conversations in the classroom, the grad studio, the field and the bar was an incredible opportunity and I will always feel honored to have been a part of it, and to be your friend. I wish I had the time and space to tell you all how much you mean to me. A few special mentions. To Elizabeth Murphy and Jessica Nowlin: I could not have asked for a better cohort, and we’ve all known it since we were the last ones   xii   standing at prospectives weekend. Elizabeth, I do not know how you managed to pull off being simultaneously my enabler and my taskmaster, but I wouldn’t have been able to get through this without you, Wingman. Tom Leppard, thanks for the Sunday roasts, red wine, and constant checks on my ego. Alex Knodell, between the professional support, the personal goading, and the generally good times, I always forget that you are too young to be my big brother. Brad Sekedat, your calm and unwavering support in paper topic-, field exam-, and prelim exam-induced panic attacks – you probably deserve a medal. Claudia Moser, my first friend at Brown, I will always cherish our long walks for ice cream and chatting. Alex Smith, your irrepressible joy and fascinating take on the world has long made you one of my favorite people to be around. Ian Randall, you might be the other ‘late’ person, but you know that I adore you for so much more than that. Müge Durusu: I had no idea that real people could be so good until I met you. To the many Mellon workshops I have been fortunate enough to be a part of: thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you again. Katherine Harrington and Linda Gosner’s Daily Deeds Mellon group, especially, who read my dissertation almost in its entirety: from confidence in my own arguments to a lifelong delight in the existence of the interrobang, I owe you all big time. Also, a big thanks to Lynn Carlson at the Earth Lab, who was patient and kind enough to help me with GIS. And beyond. To the ‘prex. To Elesha and Joe and Wyatt, Mike and Mallory and Jude. To Byron, Kelli, Emily and Eric, who rolled their eyes when I went off on another harebrained adventure but always smile when I came back chattering of new places and armed with interminably long slideshows. To Lauren, Devon, Nathan, Ethan, and Reid,   xiii   who fill my heart to bursting. I can’t wait til you are old enough to go with me to “all those cool places.” To Mallory. You taught me how to walk in heels and how to stand up for myself. You will never know how much awe I hold for your strength, your snappy remarks, and your unflappable style. With you, I learned to love being on the road. To Steve. You’ve been there through thick and thin, across the world, from our first field project to all those thrilling journeys yet to come. Thank you for being my companion – through all the excitement and petulance that that role involves – as we continue down the road of this grand adventure. I’ll go anywhere with you. Most of all, to my parents. You set me off down this road with a character- building course in independence and an indomitable sense of cheerful curiosity. You taught me not to take myself too seriously, and I owe you everything. I hope that I have made your lives as interesting as you have made mine sparkle. To any I have forgotten to mention, my sincerest apologies. Any errors of fact or interpretation in this work are solely my own.   xiv   TABLE OF CONTENTS SIGNATURE PAGE iii CURRICULUM VITAE iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS x TABLE OF CONTENTS xv LIST OF TABLES xviii LIST OF FIGURES xiv LIST OF MAPS xxiii I. INTRODUCTION: Pilgrimage and Travel in the Christian Mediterranean 1 Defining Cilicia 6 Defining Pilgrimage and Identifying its Patterns 14 Christian Pilgrims and their Precedents 17 Pilgrimage and Place-Based Sacrality 21 Connectivity and Movement 24 Configuration of the Landscape 30 Outline of Chapters 34 Statement of Goals and Contribution(s) to the Field 39 Conclusion 43 II. SAINTS IN TEXT AND IN THE LANDSCAPE 45 Setting the Scene: The Texts 51 Caves and Peaks as Landscape Devices 64 The Urban and the Rural in Cilician Hagiography 70 Crowds 75 Connections 80 Conclusions: Configuration of the Landscape 90 III. PATTERNS OF CULT AND DEVOTION Introduction 92 Study of Churches in Cilicia 95 Typical Cilician Churches 95 Types of Christian Devotional Space in Cilicia 101 Archaeological and Historiographical Context of 105 Church Spaces in Cilicia General Distribution of Churches in 5th and 6th Century Cilicia 112 Nature of the Evidence 112 Distribution of Cult and Devotion 115 Urban and Rural Churches 120 xv Distribution of Cult and Devotion: Literary and Epigraphic 125 Conclusion 137 IV. MARTYRIA AND ROCKY PLACES Introduction 140 Pilgrimage Places: Martyria 141 Defining Martyria 141 Identifying Martyria in Cilicia 145 Conversion of Temples into Martyria 152 ‘Rocky Geographies’: Martyria and Caves 156 Korykion Antron and Kanytellis: Caves, Churches, and Geology 161 Kadirli and Mazılık: Building Churches on Top of Caves 166 Alahan: Caves and Monasteries 169 Conclusion 172 V. TRAVEL INFRASTRUCTURE IN CILICIA Introduction: The Shape of the Travel Infrastructure 176 The Road Network and Its ‘Indicator Phenomena’ 178 Reconstruction of Routes and Historical Geography in Cilicia 180 Milestones: Orienting Cilicia to the Empire 190 Monumental Arches 197 Bridges 199 Inns and Way-Stations: Punctuated Movement 202 Tombs and Nekropoleis: Passing by the Dead 207 Harbors and Sea Travel 210 Travel Infrastructure in Cilicia 212 Identifying Early Christian Devotional Travel in the Infrastructure 213 Churches and Processions 214 Bishops and Baptism 220 Eulogia: Tokens and Ampullae 225 Feasts and Festivals 230 Monasteries and Xenodochia 236 Conclusions: Moving Through Cilicia at Different Scales 240 VI. CONCLUSIONS: CONFIGURATION OF THE EARLY CHRISTIAN LANDSCAPE 246 Breaking Down the Urban Priority for Pilgrimage 249 Authority, Local Pride and Universal Appeal in the Christian Landscape 257 Nature and Scale of Devotional Movement in Cilicia 263 Directions for the Future 268 Conclusion 274 xvi TABLES CHAPTER 2 TABLES 277 CHAPTER 3 TABLES 279 CHAPTER 4 TABLES 294 FIGURES CHAPTER 1 FIGURES 296 CHAPTER 2 FIGURES 302 CHAPTER 3 FIGURES 305 CHAPTER 4 FIGURES 321 CHAPTER 5 FIGURES 354 MAPS CHAPTER 1 MAPS 383 CHAPTER 2 MAPS 386 CHAPTER 3 MAPS 389 CHAPTER 4 MAPS 403 CHAPTER 5 MAPS 408 BIBLIOGRAPHY 418 xvii LIST OF TABLES 2.1. Thekla’s journeys as described in the Miracles of Thekla. 2.2. Outline of the various journeys described in the Miracles Thekla. 3.1. Typical elements of Cilician churches. 3.2. All churches included in the general distribution, with references. 3.3. Locations of churches converted from pagan temples in Cilicia. 3.4. Distribution of saints’ names attested in the epigraphic record of Cilicia, sorted by modern place name. 4.1. Potential martyria in Cilicia. xviii LIST OF FIGURES Unless otherwise noted, all photographs are the author’s. 1.1. The Tauros Mountains. 1.2. Tauros Mountains. South approach to the Cilician Gates. 1.3. Tauros Mountains. Modern highway near the Cilician Gates. 1.4. Plan of Hagia Thekla (adapted from Davis 2001: Fig. 4; Hill 1996 Fig. 45; and Guyer and Herzfeld 1930: Abb. 2). 1.5. Hagia Thekla. Cistern just north of the basilica built into the interior of the temenos wall. 1.6. Hagia Thekla. Remnants of the temenos wall north of the basilica and east of the cistern seen in Fig. 1.5. 2.1. Hagia Thekla. Installations cut into the rock northwest of the temenos. 2.2. Hagia Thekla. Structures built onto the hillside northwest of the open-air reservoirs. 2.3. Hagia Thekla. Piece of mosaic seen on the surface at the structures seen in Fig. 2.2. 3.1. Anazarbos. Plan of the Church of the Apostles, a typical three-aisled basilica with an apse at the east (Hill 1996: Figure 5). 3.2. Kadirli (ancient Flaviopolis). Reconstruction of the first phase of the Alacami, showing the three aisles, galleries over the wings, side chambers enveloping the apse, and a narthex (Bayliss 2004: Plate XVI). 3.3. Hierapolis-Kastabala. Plan of the South Church (Hill 1996: Figure 13). 3.4. Alahan. Plan of the East Church (Gough 1985: Figure 44). 3.5. Cambazlı. Plan of the basilica. (Hill 1996: Figure 14). 3.6. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the northwest, looking into the narthex and the second story of galleries preserved above the south aisle. 3.7. Cambazlı. Square east façade of the basilica, where the broken apse window now serves as an entrance from the modern road. 3.8. Cambazlı. View inside the basilica towards the apse in the east. 3.9. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the northeast, showing the blind north wall. 3.10. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the south. 3.11. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Limestone quarry northwest of the modern town. Photo: Candace Rice. 3.12. Tabula Imperii Byzantini Map 2 (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990). 3.13. Karakabaklı. Cross carved in lintel in doorway to south basilica . 3.14. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane). Church 4 from the southwest. 3.15. Anazarbos. The citadel on the ridge above surrounding agricultural fields (at the far left, a anthropogenic cut in the saddle of the ridge still provides a roadway). 3.16. Sketch of the reliquary found at Çırga (Gough 1958: Plate 2). xix 4.1. Ephesos. The so-called church of St. Luke converted from a monopteros fountain (Pülz 2012: Fig. 12). 4.2. Hagia Thekla. Plan of the basilica, showing the eastern passage around the apse and the relationship to the crypt entrance. The darker shade indicates the plan of the original cave church (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 43). 4.3. Hagia Thekla. Part of the apse of the basilica, seen here from the exterior. 4.4. Hagia Thekla. Entrance to the cave church under the basilica on the southeast side of the church. 4.5. Yanıkhan. Lintel of the South Church, dedicating the martyrion to Sts George, Christopher and Konon (Hill 1985: Plate XII) and its transcription (Hill 1985: 96). 4.6. Yanıkhan. Plan of the South Church, measuring 30 x 15 meters (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 59). 4.7. Anazarbos. Plan of the Church of the Holy Apostles over the geophysical prospection results indicating the wide and rounded eastern passage (Posamentir and Sayar 2006: Abb. 18). 4.8. Diokasareia (modern Uzuncaburç). Cemetery Church. The light grey indicates where the structure was cut into the living rock (adapted from Mietke 2009c: Fig. 4). 4.9. Comparative size of potential martyria in Cilicia (see table 4.1). 4.10. Çatıören. In the foreground is the west façade of the basilica. Behind it can be seen what remains of the Temple of Hermes across the ravine, with the remains of houses to the left. 4.11. Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç). Temple dedicated to Olbian Zeus, later converted into a Byzantine church. 4.12. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Satellite imagery showing the relationship between the two sinkholes. 4.13. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). 4.14. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Plan of the site (Bayliss 2004: Fig. 108) 4.15. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Staircase descending from the Chapel of St Mary, at the far southern end of the depression ‘Heaven’ (Cennet) into the cave. 4.16. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View into the inaccessible eastern sinkhole, known as ‘Hell’ (Cehennem). 4.17. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Exterior of the apse of the temple-basilica at the western edge of the depression of Cennet/Heaven, from the east. 4.18. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Exterior of northern wall of the temple-basilica. 4.19. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Interior of apse of the temple-basilica. 4.20. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Plan of the Temple-Church (Adapted from Bayliss 1996: Fig. 110). 4.21. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Part of the steps leading down into the depression Cennet/Heaven can be seen in the foreground. xx 4.22. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem).View of steps to the top of Cennet/Heaven from the Chapel of Mary. 4.23. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Approach to the Chapel of Saint Mary, which stands at the opening to the cave itself (view from the stairs as seen in Figure 4.21). 4.24. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View of the Chapel of Saint Mary at the opening of the cave. 4.25. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View of Chapel of Saint Mary from the interior of the cave at the bottom of the south end of Cennet (Heaven). 4.26. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View towards the small settlement of late Roman houses, from the basilica at the edge of the depression Cennet/Heaven. 4.27. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane). Church 4, from across the depression. 4.28. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane), Church 4. The dedicatory inscription of Papylos is now difficult to discern, but runs across the lintel of the door leading from the narthex into the central nave. (Transcribed in Dagron and Feissel 1987: Planche XI, no. 21) 4.29. Kadirli. Plan of the Alacami in its iteration as a Christian church (adapted from Bayliss 1997: Fig. 2). 4.30. Mazılık. Plan of the basilica (adapted from Edwards 1982: Fig. 2). Precise location and exact dimensions of the entrance to the underground network of caves are uncertain. 4.31. Alahan. View along the terrace from the west. 4.32. Alahan. Site plan (Hill 1996: Fig 1). 4.33. Alahan. Ceremonial walkway at edge of terrace on which the monastic complex is situated; view from the East Church. 5.1. South of Karakabaklı. The dirt track from the modern paved road has shifted over time from the course of the paved Roman road. 5.2. Near Karadedeli. An ancient road in southeastern Isauria which runs parallel to the modern road. 5.3. West of Taşucu (ancient Holmoi). The old coast road has been blocked by the construction of the new highway (above). 5.4. Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç). The monumental gate. 5.5 The paved Roman road north of Tarsos on the via Tauri, at the monumental arch (near modern Sağlıklı), with visible paving stones and kerbs. 5.6 Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Remnants of the tetrapylon on the via Sacra north of the city. 5.7. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). The relationship between the tetrapylon (left) and the first (easternmost) basilica along the via Sacra (right). 5.8. Karakabaklı. Remains of the north tetrapylon. 5.9. Karakabaklı. The southern tetrapylon was converted into the monumental entrance of the basilica complex while also being transformed into a chapel through the addition of a small apse to the west (adapted from Aydınoğlu and Çakmak 2011: Fig. 11a). xxi 5.10. Karakabaklı. The north tetrapylon, converted into a chapel when an apse was added to the east side (adapted from Aydınoğlu and Çakmak 2011: Fig. 9b). 5.11. The bridge at Tarsos (cf. Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: Abb. 378, which shows the visible part of the bridge before the alluvium was cleared). 5.12. The bridge at Misis (“MisisBrücke,” photo by Klaus-Peter Simon, reproduced here under Creative Commons License 3.0). 5.13. Misis (Mopsuestia) in the late 19th century, the Ottoman caranvasaray visible on the right bank (Davis 1879: 109). 5.14. Cave complex adapted as an inn near Urfa (adapted from Mango 1986: Fig. 2). 5.15. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Plan of via Sacra, showing the abundance of sarcophagi lining the road (adapted from Herzfeld and Guyer 1930; Hill 1996: Figs. 18-21; and Miekte 2009c: Fig. 7). 5.16. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Plan of the martyrial ‘Cemetery Church’ church north of the via Sacra (Mietke 2009c: Fig. 7). 5.17. Cambazlı. A truck is visible passing on the modern road east of the broken window in the apse of the basilica. 5.18. The bridge at Tarsos (cf. Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: Abb. 378). 5.18. Cambazlı. Remains of tombs and ancient structures lining the road west of the basilica entrance. 5.19. Cambazlı. The western (main) gate in the church precinct. 5.20. Cambazlı. The narthex of the church from the west. 5.21. Soli-Pompeiopolis, western mole of the ancient harbor. 5.22. Anazarbos. The rock-cut road. 5.23. Yanıkhan, ancient paved road through the village to the north church (the cemetery church), visible in background. 5.24. Comparative footprints of the basilica at Hagia Thekla and the South Church at Yanıkhan (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 43, Fig. 59). 5.25. Hagia Thekla. The rock-cut road to the north of the complex. 5.26. Hagia Thekla. Installations cut into the rock-cut road north of the complex. 5.27. Hagia Thekla. Remains of small stone structures on the east side of the rock- cut road north of Hagia Thekla. 5.28. Hagia Thekla. Additional blocks used to shore up the continuing walls of the rock-cut road north of the complex towards Seleukeia. 5.29. Hagia Thekla. Channels and basins cut into the hillside south of the complex, indicating productive activity associated with the site. xxii LIST OF MAPS 1.1. Cilicia in the context of Asia Minor and the eastern Mediterranean. 1.2. Cilicia. 5th-century provincial boundaries and capitals and topographical designations. 1.3. Cilicia. 5th-century episcopal seats and divisions according to the metropolitan capitals at Seleukeia (Isauria), Tarsos (Cilicia I), and Anazarbos (Cilicia II), all of whom answered to the patriarchate at Antiocheia. 2.1. Thekla’s journeys as described in the Miracles of Thekla. 2.2. Outline of the various journeys described in the Miracles of Thekla. 3.1. General distribution of churches in Cilicia, weighted by number attributed to each site (see Table 3.1). 3.2. Distribution of churches around Seleukeia. 3.3. Distribution of churches around Anazarbos. 3.4. Distribution of temple conversions. 3.5. Distribution of temple conversions within overall church distribution. 3.6. Weighted distribution of churches between the Kalykadnos and Lamos rivers. 3.7. Distribution of churches with status designations (see Table 3.2). 3.8. Distribution of churches with isolated status. 3.9. Distribution of churches with rural status. 3.10. Detail of distribution of churches with rural status. 3.11. Distribution of churches with urban status. 3.12. Location of churches within the wider settlement context. 3.13. Detail of Map 3.12. 3.14. Distribution of saints’ names attested in the epigraphic record of Cilicia (refer to Table 3.4). 4.1. Distribution of potential martyria in Cilicia. 4.2. Distribution of potential martyria within the wider church distribution. 4.3. Intersection of temple conversions with potential martyria. 4.4. Detail of Map 4.3. 4.5. Sites discussed as ‘Rocky Geographies.’ 5.1. The Roman road network as outlined by the Barrington Atlas. 5.2. Schematic of major routes through Cilicia. 5.3. Distribution of milestones aligned with the Roman roads. 5.4. The harbors of western Cilicia (adapted from Vann 1997: Fig. 1). 5.5. Distribution of churches against the major routes of the travel infrastructure provided by the Barrington Atlas. 5.6. Detail of Map 5.4. 5.7. Detail of the distribution of Roman milestones within the road network between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers. 5.8. Least-cost path analysis run between Korykos and Çaltı. 5.9. Least-cost path analysis between Korykos and Çaltı in the context of church distribution. 5.10. Least-cost path analysis between Korykos and Çaltı in the context of church distribution, modified to circumvent the river valley xxiii CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION Pilgrimage and Travel in the Christian Mediterranean Christian pilgrimage in the eastern Mediterranean, at the end of antiquity and the early centuries of what is now known as the Byzantine period, was a booming phenomenon. Pilgrims traveled far and wide to venerate the physical relics of Christian martyrs and saints or to experience the presence of a place where an event inspired by the divine had occurred. They came to the shrine of St John at Ephesos, for example, where the body of the saint was thought to exhale a holy dust annually on his feast day, or to the cave in Palestine where it was thought that Jesus had been entombed for three days before rising again. Some came to seek advice from a living holy man such as Symeon Stylites, atop his column on the Wondrous Mountain in northern Syria; others, to incubate in the sanctuary of a church or its complex in order to receive the healing touch of the saint. Regardless of intention or destination, what is common to all these pilgrims is their journey to a sacred destination. Archaeological and textual sources do not always allow us to reach them directly, but it is possible to outline the infrastructure of the physical world through which they journeyed: I will recount myself a tale which it is still today possible to hear related by Cypriots. A man of a noble and believing family embarked once on a merchant vessel and hastened to come to the martyr [Thekla] in order to pray to her and with the desire to witness her festival, which is organized each year by the citizens and co- inhabitants with the martyr and which everyone holds in honor. Once the man landed at our Isaurian shore and disembarked, immediately he took the road leading to the martyr’s shrine, together with those who accompanied him: his wife, children, and servants. Most of the 1 sailors, if not all of them, also followed out of a longing for the holy festival...1 This passage provides just one instance of the kind of travel that took place in the first few centuries following the legalization of Christianity in the fourth century CE and the subsequently booming phenomenon that was early Christian pilgrimage in the eastern Mediterranean. The fifth-century text, the Life and Miracles of Thekla,2 is packed with a number of allusions to many of the topics that form the backbone of this dissertation, all of them related to the pragmatic issues involved in the pilgrimage journey. The first is the undertaking of the journey itself, which, in the case of this passage, required crossing the northeastern Mediterranean from Cyprus to arrive on the southern coast of Turkey at one of Cilicia’s many harbors. Though pilgrimage by definition revolved around the pilgrim’s movement towards a sacred destination where they would venerate a saint, group of saints, or sacred event, this journey also had to occur through the material infrastructure in place. The materiality of that movement leads to the second issue: that this particular group of pilgrims specifically used a merchant vessel to take that trip. The reference to this method of travelling is an almost casual aside that emphasizes that pilgrimage travel was not a separate undertaking from the more mundane activities of the ancient world like trade. This is a point made even more significant by the author’s assertion that not just the pilgrims, but the sailors, as well, decided to take advantage of the opportunity to attend the saint’s annual festival, the panegyris, once they had reached Isaurian shores.                                                                                                                 1 Life and Miracles of Thekla Chapter 15, tr. Johnson 2012: 67. 2 The text dates from the second half of the fifth century of the Common Era, ca. 470 AD (Johnson 2006: 5). 2 Third, the mention of the “road that leads directly to the martyr’s shrine” highlights the relationship between the bustling circumstances surrounding a major pilgrimage destination and the existence, maintenance or construction of travel infrastructure in the region. This site, its context within the travel network, and the various scales at which devotional movement to it was undertaken are all major themes addressed throughout the chapters that follow. A fourth issue to take into account is the author’s description of the numbers involved: the pilgrim is said to have brought along his wife, children and servants, a party which was later joined by an unknown number of sailors. Pilgrimage to the shrine was clearly not limited to the individual pious devotee or penitent, and thus impacted the landscape outside the community of Christians who visited the site for religious purposes. The reference to the saint’s festival, an annual occurrence that highlights the association of the pilgrimage destination with regional and inter-regional patterns of trade, agriculture, and religion, also highlights the fact that people came to these events from all walks of life, and from all over the Mediterranean world, to participate in a variety of ways in the celebration of the saint. A major topic referred to only briefly in this passage, but which is a fundamental part of this dissertation’s analysis, is the centrality of the saint’s physical shrine, within its larger complex, to the entire undertaking of pilgrimage. The development of the basilical church form, which eventually came to be associated with a saint whose physical presence in the form relics heightened their efficacy as intercessor with the divine, was a process that took several centuries. Only gradually did it crystallize, by the fifth and sixth centuries CE, into the structures and complexes that functioned as sacred spaces for the 3 performance of both the institutional – as in, the panegyris celebrated on a saint’s feast day – as well as the individual pilgrim’s spontaneous veneration of early Christian saints. These churches form the main body of data in this dissertation because of their role as markers of the sacred places within the configuration of the devotional landscape, issues I discuss at length below. The geographical configuration of churches can give us one potential point of access to the relationship of a wider region to its sacred places. Yasin has shown how “saints’ influence was not strictly limited to the locus of their remains. Rather, in their multiple manifestations within late antique churches, saints performed a range of interrelated social and spatial functions.”3 This understanding of saints’ multiple emplacements is taken up and expanded upon here, beyond the walls of the church and its associated complex, to their frequencies across the landscape and resulting relationships with each other.4 That the sacred spaces enclosed within churches had extramural impacts on the daily lives of late Roman Cilicians, beyond the boundaries of ecclesiastical space, is clear from the various pieces of evidence – literary, epigraphic, archaeological – that I have compiled in the chapters that follow. Finally, a topic of immediate relevance within this passage to the following dissertation is the passage’s description of a pilgrimage to, in particular, the shrine of Hagia Thekla in Cilicia on the event of the saint’s annual festival. Cilicia is a particularly fruitful case study for the examination of the material correlates of pilgrimage. It is a region with a rich archaeological record of churches and a strong scholarly tradition of recording these monuments of early Christianity. There are in addition a number of                                                                                                                 3 Yasin 2009: 284-285. 4 Yasin has noted how “communities came to rely on saints to articulate local identity and mark spatial boundaries not only in their church buildings but also on their civic defenses” (2009: 289). 4 textual sources that describe not only the region itself but also the array of saints and pilgrims who inhabited and passed through it. It was the pilgrimage shrine of St Thekla, a disciple of the Apostle Paul, that put Cilicia on the Christian pilgrimage map in the 4th-6th centuries CE. It is rare to find a study of early Christian pilgrimage that does not at least mention St Thekla and her shrine, near the provincial capital Seleukeia on the southeastern coast of Asia Minor (now Silifke in modern Turkey) (Map 1.1). This was a major destination of pilgrimage in the eastern Mediterranean, particularly as a stop for those with Jerusalem and other sacred sites in the Holy Land and beyond as their final destinations. Its fame is recorded in numerous textual accounts and still visible in the extensive remains of the complex. The focus of this dissertation is less upon why pilgrims undertook their journeys than in how and where they did it. This kind of analysis holds potential for highlighting how notional connections – social, physical, religious, political – became real in the landscape.5 My aim in this study is to identify the material implications of those connections and travellers’ punctuated movement along and through them. The archaeological record presents pilgrimage as a nexus of practices, where “social practices such as religious veneration, travel, and commerce gave rise to concrete organizational forms, such as shrines, roads, hostels and artisans’ shops.”6 It was the roads, especially, that facilitated and linked the development of those practices across a much wider Cilician landscape than that contained within the walls of the pilgrimage church or even its complex. It is within this context of an anchored and linked Christian devotional travel that an approach to early Christian pilgrimage that takes into account the infrastructure                                                                                                                 5 Graham and Steiner 2008. 6 Davis 2001: 136. 5 beyond the shrine itself is poised to make a contribution to our knowledge of not just the practice of pilgrimage itself but also the world through which it took place. The compilation of many categories of evidence has resulted in the generation of a spatialized synthesis of the early Christian landscape, one that allows for the discussion of many more facets than solely the religious ones. Defining Cilicia In the early 20th century, a group of scholars noted that “it is extraordinary what historical interest attaches to this corner of Asia Minor.”7 This statement is a function of the wide-held belief that, as Mustafa Sayar has stated, “Die eigenartige geographische Lage Kilikiens prägte seine Geschichte / The peculiar geography of Cilicia shaped its history.”8 Though its physical borders seem at first glance to be straightforward – bounded by the Mediterranean to the south, the Tauros Mountains to the north, and the Amanos Mountains to the southeast – the region known in antiquity as Cilicia was throughout antiquity, as it still is now, a fluidly defined one (Map 1.2). As Mitchell has noted, “the regional term Cilicia was notoriously elastic, and a Constantinopolitan inscription might use the term Cilician to denote a wide category of shipowners from southern Asia Minor.”9 Most commonly, however, Cilicia was divided into two approximate halves. There was western or Rough Cilicia (Cilicia Tracheia), comprised of the foothills and mountainous highlands of the coast west of the Lamos River, whose urban center was to be found at Seleukeia ad Kalykadnos, Seleukeia on the Kalykadnos                                                                                                                 7 Wilson et al. 1903: 412. 8 Sayar 2002: 452. 9 Mitchell 2005: 103. See also Mutafian: “Le caractère ‘élastique’ de la Cilicie a déjà été signale” (1988: 114, n. 6). 6 (modern Göksu) River. Its counterpart was eastern or Smooth Cilicia (Cilicia Pedias), whose provincial capital was first at Tarsos and then divided between Tarsos and Anazarbos farther east. This was the “great hot green Cilician plain”10 known in modern Turkish as Çukurova, which is still a rich agricultural corner situated at the southeast of the Anatolian peninsula. The geographical designations of Rough and Smooth Cilicia roughly correspond to the Roman provincial boundaries of Cilicia, which reached west to Pamphylia and Pisidia and east to Syria and the Amanos Mountains, though these borders shifted over time. Under Diocletian, the creation of the province Isauria with its capital at Seleukeia comprised the western half of what had been Cilicia, roughly equivalent to the coastal foothills and highlands of Rough Cilicia. Cilicia was retained as the name of the eastern half, whose capital was at Tarsos.11 Most scholars when referring to archaeological remains from ‘Isauria’ focus solely on southeastern Isauria, between the Kalykadnos and Lamos rivers (the modern Göksu Nehri and Lamas/Limonlu Çayı). Others extend it as far west as modern Alanya (ancient Korakesion). Bean and Mitford locate the far western administrative boundary between Syedra and Iotape.12 For the purposes of this dissertation, the first key moment for discerning the administrative boundaries came with the Diocletianic reforms, though it was not until the early 5th century that Cilicia was divided into two halves: Cilicia II, with its capital at Anazarbos, east of Cilicia I, which retained Tarsos as its provincial capital albeit with a smaller geographical administrative scope (see Map 1.2).13                                                                                                                 10 Kinross 1956: 6. 11 Balzat et al. 2013: xviii. 12 Bean and Mitford 1962: 196; see also Blanton 2000: 20. 13 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 39. 7 Though the administrative boundaries and titles of the region have changed over time, I refer to it almost without exception in this dissertation as ‘Cilicia,’ qualifying it geographically in terms of cardinal direction rather than by topographical or administrative designation. That is, I distinguish when necessary between distribution patterns that tend towards western or eastern Cilicia, rather than Rough or Smooth Cilicia, or by province according to the Roman imperial administrative boundaries. The archaeological remains support the picture that has come down to us through historical sources of a Cilicia comprised of distinct but related subregions. These distinctions come across in the distribution of non-Greek names across eastern and western Cilicia, respectively, though architecturally there is much greater cohesion in the forms that the fifth and sixth century churches took.14 It is generally the case across Cilicia, including the plain to the east and the mountainous foothills to the west, that the highly visible late antique archaeological remains outnumber those of the earlier periods on the ground as well as in scholarly publication.15 In many cases this is due to spoliation of earlier Roman and Hellenistic monuments at the expense of those massive Christian basilicas of the fifth and sixth century under investigation in this dissertation. This practice is known into the modern day and in turn at the churches which themselves relied on spoliated material. In the early 20th century, Gertrude Bell noted at Kars Bazaar that all the houses in the modern village                                                                                                                 14 See Balzat et al. 2013: xxxiii-xxxiv for statistics on Cilician onomastics. 15 A promising development in the archaeology of pre-Christian building periods of Cilicia is the increasing availability of geophysical techniques; see, e.g., Posamentir and Sayar 2006: 355. Extensive work has also focused on the Bronze Age sites of the Cilician plain and the Hellenistic cities and monumental tombs of southeastern Isauria (see Hoff and Townsend 2013, with references). 8 were built from ancient stones: the village head told her, “When we want cut stones, we have only to dig in the ground.”16 Though western Cilicia can boast of some degree of connection with the plateau via the Göksu (ancient Kalykadnos) valley, and with the wider Mediterranean world through its many ports, it has long been conceived as a region “outside the true Greek world” – isolated from the main corridor of eastern Cilicia, along which the major movements of conflict, commerce and culture influenced western Asia Minor and Greece on the one hand, and Syria and Mesopotamia on the other. The Tauros Mountains were thought to cut off the highlands of western Cilicia from the more prosperous plain, and – by default – to maintain lower populations there. A British naval handbook of the early 20th century remarked that “it is obvious that the bleak mountain areas must always be less developed and of lower economic importance than the plains.”17 More recent archaeological work has demonstrated that western Cilicia, including southeastern Isauria, was an active economic region in the fifth and sixth centuries, particularly in the production of wine, oil, cedar, and ceramics, especially amphorae.18 While western Cilicia has at times been considered isolated, the eastern plain has long been regarded as a major crossroads of the ancient world. One of the best-known locations in the region, that monument to the long-distance movement of people throughout history, the Cilician Gates (Kylikiai Pylai/Κιλικίαι Πύλαι), was by definition a point of passage between the central plateau and the Cilician plain. The ‘Gates’ were a naturally occurring but anthropogenically modified passage through the Tauros Mountains located approximately 60 kilometers north of Tarsos (see Map 5.2).                                                                                                                 16 Bell 1906: 10. 17 Naval Handbook of Asia Minor Vol. III part 3: 10. 18 See Chapter 6, pp. 255-56. 9 Throughout history this has been considered ‘l’entrée d’honneur’ to Cilicia, and more ink has been spilled on the role, function and history of the Cilician Gates than the rest of the Cilician road network combined. The Cilician Gates were indeed an integral part of the wider travel network as the major connection between the central Anatolian plateau to northern Syria and beyond to Mesopotamia. It was a funnel of sorts, and as such, a magnet for all kinds of movement, from that of armies to traders to pilgrims. The Tauros Mountains, bounding Cilicia to the north, were indeed a formidable obstacle (Fig. 1.1). The centrality of the Cilician Gates to that passage led to the continued conceptualization of its importance as corridor: As the ancient writers mention, the fact that the trade route goes from Mesopotamia to Sardes passes [sic] through Cilician Gates (Pylai Kilikiai) is important because it shows the geographical importance of Cilicia.19 That route still provides a major thoroughfare from the central Anatolian plateau down to the Cilician plain via the Tauros Mountains (Figs. 1.2, 1.3). After the heyday of late antiquity and the arrival of the Arabs in Cilicia, methods of tackling the issue of access to the plateau through the Tauros moved west: Rough Cilicia therefore, was not a barrier, but an important source of access to the Anatolian plateau. The true function of the coastal cities, which they played beyond the end of our period was to act as entrepôts for products from Cilicia itself and beyond. When Ala ‘ud-Din Keykubad fortified Alanya [ancient Korakesion, at the far western boundary of Cilicia] and provided hans along the road into the interior to Konya, he was simply moving to the west an established series of routes which had ensured the communication of goods and ideas between the Mediterranean and the Anatolian Plateau.20 Though the many harbors that line its coast have long facilitated Cilicia’s communication and trade with the wider Mediterranean and Near Eastern worlds, it is its land routes that                                                                                                                 19 Aydınoğlu and Alkaç 2008: 283. 20 Hopwood 1991: 309. 10 have largely shaped the notion of its role as a crossroads, a ‘carrefour des empires’.21 Beginning with the Romans, the long distance connections between urban centers were often paved, so that the major thoroughfares long famous for their use by the campaigns of Cyrus and Alexander underwent an extraordinary amount of infrastructural overhaul, a feat that required unknown but surely significant amount of manpower.22 The necessity, not to mention the means, of undertaking such a task in a pre-mechanized world underscores the significance of the links that run to, and through Cilicia, both the eastern and the western halves. The provincial civil and ecclesiastical centers of Cilicia could boast of economic, social and political connections throughout the Mediterranean. These connections were maintained along the many harbors lining the coast of Cilicia, as well as the variety of land routes that led to the interior Anatolian plateau and beyond: north, to the Black Sea Coast; northeast, to the Caucasus; and northwest, across the Anatolian plateau to the imperial capital at Constantinople. Within the ecclesiastical administration, however, the bishops of Cilicia looked southeast along the route known as the via Tauri, answering to the Antiochene patriarchate, based in the eponymous city on the other side of the Amanos Mountains and the Gulf of Issos (modern Iskenderun) (Map 1.3). The bishoprics of Cilicia correspond to the imperial administrative centers at the time: the Metropolitan of Isauria was seated at Seleukeia, the Metropolitan of Cilicia I at Tarsos, and of Cilicia II at Anazarbos.23                                                                                                                 21 Mutafian 1988. 22 The Cilician Gates route from the eastern plain to the Central Plateau was the one favored by all conquerors after Alexander (Devreesse 1945: 142). 23 Devreesse 1945: 151. 11 The existence of numerous connections between Cilicia and the wider Mediterranean world was, as noted above, a major factor in its pilgrimage places on the map. The pilgrimage shrine of St Thekla (also known as Ayatekla, Meryemlik or Meriamlık in modern Turkish, but referred to as Hagia Thekla throughout this dissertation) is located on a hilltop site that was once the city’s nekropolis (Fig. 1.4). As a Christian foundation it dates from at least the fourth century. It lies just 1.5 kilometers south of modern Silifke (Seleukeia-on-the-Kalykadnos, the modern Göksu River), and seven kilometers from the nearest Mediterranean port, at Holmoi (modern Taşucu). The site complex boasts of at least four churches, a rock-cut road, several cisterns, and the partial remains of a temenos or fortification wall (see Figs. 5.25, 1.5-1.6). Structures and other productive installations can be found on the surrounding hillsides, both freestanding as well as cut into the living rock (see Figs. 2.1-2.13, 5.26-5.27, 5.29). Cilicia is well known amongst late Roman and Byzantine architectural historians for its several large and regionally distinctive churches. Of these, the basilica above the cave church at Hagia Thekla is the largest, measuring 81 by 43 meters, though the Cupola Church located in the same complex is only incrementally smaller, at 78 by 35 meters. The first, and really only, intensive investigation and mapping of the structures of the site took place at the turn of the 20th century by Herzfeld and Guyer (1930).24 Because of the time it took to ink the drawings, apparently, the investigators did not publish their findings until 25 years after the excavations had taken place.25 The site was made popular by the brief passage in the pilgrimage account of Egeria, who referred to the site’s                                                                                                                 24 For a new examination of the architectural decoration of the basilica at Hagia Thekla, see Mietke 2009a; for the site’s several cisterns, see Peschlow 2009. 25 Mietke 2005. 12 bustling activity and the presence of a monastic community there during her visit in May of 384 CE: Then, leaving Antioch, we went on by several staging-posts and reached the province called Cilicia: Tarsus is its capital city, and I had already been there on my way to Jerusalem. But in Isauria, only three staging-posts on from Tarsus, is the martyrium of holy Thecla, and since it was so close, we were very glad to be able to make the extra journey there. Leaving Tarsus, but still in Cilicia, I reached Pompeiopolis, a city by the sea, and from there I crossed into Isauria, and spent the night in a city called Corycus. On the third day I arrived at a city called Seleucia of Isauria, and, when I got there, I called on the bishop, a very godly man who had been a monk, and saw a very beautiful church in the city. Holy Thecla’s is on a small hill about a mile and a half from the city, so, as I had to stay somewhere, it was best to go straight on and spend the night there. Round the holy church there is a tremendous number of cells for men and women. And that was where I found one of my dearest friends, a holy deaconess called Marthana. I had come to know her in Jerusalem when she was up there on pilgrimage. She was the superior of some cells of apotactites or virgins, and I simply cannot tell you how pleased we were to see each other again. But I must get back to the point. There are a great many cells on that hill, and in the middle a great wall round the martyrium itself, which is very beautiful. The wall was built to protect the church against the Isaurians, who are hostile, and always committing robberies, to prevent them trying to damage the monastery which has been established there. In God’s name I arrived at the martyrium, and we had a prayer there, and read the whole Acts of holy Thecla; and I gave heartfelt thanks to God for his mercy in letting me fulfill my desires so completely, despite all my unworthiness. For two days I stayed there, visiting all the holy monks and apotactites, the men as well as the women; then, after praying and receiving Communion, I went back to Tarsus to rejoin my route.26 In addition to giving some idea of Hagia Thekla’s place along larger tours and itineraries to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, Egeria’s description indicated precious details about the complex’s elements (e.g., the fortification wall) and the idea that it supported a great many dependents. Still today, the rock-cut installations and abundant facilities for water storage attest to the importance of this site, which likely extended beyond its role as a pilgrimage complex to economic and social activities as well. Hagia Thekla was not just a destination for participants seeking healing or sanctity or spiritual renewal through                                                                                                                 26 Egeria’s Travels 9.22.2-23.6, trans. John Wilkinson 1999: 140-141. 13 proximity to Thekla’s final resting place, but also a place full of activity: economic, social, and otherwise. This intersection of activity is itself indicative that pilgrims in the ancient world negotiated more than just the spiritual realm: they participated in the contemporary world of Cilicia, which in turn developed around their presence. Defining Pilgrimage and Identifying its Patterns Pilgrimage in the ancient (and modern) world has seen several characteristic approaches in the scholarly literature of the last half-century or so. One of the definitive works on pilgrimage, upon which almost all later scholarship has depended or at least has referenced, is the so-called “Turnerian paradigm” put forward by Victor and Edith Turner in their Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture in the late 1970s.27 This paradigm revolves around the notion of anti-structure and pilgrimage’s capacity to facilitate communitas – that is, a sense of community, and of equality within it – with the conclusion that it exists as a ‘liminoid’ phenomenon outside the realm of daily, authoritarian institutions.28 While many authors since, particularly in the anthropological literature, have criticized the idealism of this model, it still remains the most commonly used departure point for examining pilgrimage in the ancient world.29 Other literature that focuses on pilgrimage in the ancient world (Christian or not) has involved a place-centered approach, so that pilgrimage destinations (like oracular                                                                                                                 27 Turner and Turner 1978. 28 “Since it is voluntary, not an obligatory social mechanism to mark the transition of an individual or group from one state or status to another within the mundane sphere, [Christian] pilgrimage is perhaps best thought of as “liminoid” or “quasi-liminal,” rather than “liminal” in Van Gennep’s full sense” (Turner 1978: 34-35). Van Gennep posited that rites of passage or transition consist of three phases – separation, limen, and aggregation – and the Turners identified pilgrimage as a lay form of liminality, the second phase or stage. 29 Coleman 2002; Preston 1992; Eade and Sallnow 1991. See, however, Elsner 1992: 12-15. 14 shrines, as at Delphi or Didyma; healing shrines, like the Asklepeion at Ephesus or Epidauros; or martyria, like St. John’s in Ephesus), rather than the journeys themselves, are the focus of investigation. They are explored as sites of contestation,30 as phenomenological experiences,31 and as sites of memory in their appropriation of the pre- Christian past.32 These are certainly important aspects of pilgrimage, but Coleman and Eade have criticized such approaches on the grounds that examining remains only at the destination runs the risk of presenting only what appears to be a static moment, dismissing the active, fluid, and time- and distance-dependent nature of pilgrimage.33 A research agenda focused solely on the pilgrimage destination disregards many potentially fruitful questions, including those issues “concerning informants’ views and constructions of locality, landscape, mobility, space, place, the national and the transnational.”34 To the critiques of Coleman and Eade, I would also add that a place-centered approach tends to focus on the spiritual motivations for pilgrimage, and the subsequent ramifications for the development and nature of early Christianity, particularly as it applies to the ‘lay’ population. This method neglects the daily lives of the local communities impacted not only at the destination of the pilgrimage but also on the places encountered en route. Motivations are certainly an important part of understanding why and how people in the ancient world went on pilgrimages, but they are only part of the process. Perhaps most significantly, this results in pilgrimage being abstracted solely to the spiritual realm, ignoring the pragmatics of daily life in which any journey, not just                                                                                                                 30 Eade and Sallnow 1991; Coleman 2002; Elsner and Rutherford 2005. 31 Coleman and Elsner 1994. 32 Papalexandrou 2003. 33 Coleman and Eade 2004: 2. 34 Coleman and Eade 2004: 6. 15 pilgrimage, was firmly grounded, and the social and political institutions which more often than not played a major role in influencing who made the journeys, where they made them, and how they made them. Moreover, the desire to understand the motivation of the pilgrim has led to an emphasis on the written evidence illustrated by a selective study of the archaeology. But pilgrimage required an immense practical infrastructure: roads, bridges, food, lodging, transportation, protection, and clothes. No matter how lofty the inspiration behind pilgrimage, these were all necessary elements for successful journey, whether it was a long-distance pilgrimage from Constantinople to the shrine of St Thekla near Seleukeia (a distance of over 1,000 kilometers) or a local pilgrimage to the annual panegyris of St Theodore at Euchaïta from places as close as Amaseia (65 kilometers away). This dissertation proposes to round out the in-depth studies of pilgrimage based on literature with a deeper understanding of the details of the physical and practical realm in which pilgrimage took place. The archaeology of pilgrimage is not a particularly widespread undertaking, but those studies that have taken place have produced exciting results.35 Again, these investigations tend to focus on the architectural complexes of the shrines themselves, but more and more such projects have come to include excavations of buildings outside the pilgrimage church itself. Numbered among these are the excavations at the mountain of Aaron (Jabal Harun) in Jordan, Bir Ftouha in Tunisia, and Abu Mina in Egypt.36 Not coincidentally, these sites are often monastic complexes, pointing to a growing interest in                                                                                                                 35 See Bangert 2010 for references to some current projects on the archaeology of pilgrimage in the Mediterranean; and select chapters from Frankfurter 1998, particularly Grossman’s on Abu Mina. 36 Fiema and Frösén 2008; Stevens et al 2005; Grossman 1998. 16 monastic archaeology in the eastern Mediterranean, though still not on a scale to match the field of monastic archaeology in the west.37 Monasteries, like pilgrimage destinations – or, sometimes, as pilgrimage destinations – are important focal points for the intersection of different spheres and trajectories in the early Christian world, including the movement of travelers. As late antique phenomena that developed into mainstays of Byzantine culture and society,38 they demonstrate well the notions of intersections and connectivity, movement, and physical accommodation that lay at the heart of this dissertation. Christian Pilgrims and their Precedents Pilgrimage in the ancient world was not altogether an innovation of Christianity. Recent volumes have addressed the long history of the act of pilgrimage across the Mediterranean world geographically and chronologically.39 The second century CE, a period often known as the Second Sophistic, produced writers such as Pausanias and Aristides, whose works describe their journeys throughout Greece and Asia Minor, including their visits to pagan sanctuaries.40 In these accounts, the act of traveling itself and its impacts upon the pilgrimage experience feature prominently: “Aristides’ Sacred Tales [tell] of his many pilgrimages to sanctuaries and spas in Asia Minor. We hear of adversities such as bad weather and uncomfortable accommodation in a landscape that is imbued with personal religious meaning.”41 The same formulas can be seen in later                                                                                                                 37 Bonde and Maines 1999; Talbot 2008. 38 Talbot details “the many ways in which fully developed Byzantine monasticism was inextricably involved with society” (2008: 258). 39 See the contributions to Elsner and Rutherford 2005, and especially their introduction. 40 Pretzler 2004; Elsner 1992, 1997. 41 Pretzler 2004: 214-15. 17 Christian pilgrimage accounts such as that of Theodore of Sykeon, whose pilgrimage to the Holy Land encountered many obstacles, including illness.42 Some of the earliest Christian pilgrimages have been argued as an itinerant form of devotion, initially performed as a peculiar form of monasticism that was appropriated by the ecclesiastical authorities into institutionalized routes, crystallizing by the medieval period into long-distance routes such the Camino de Santiago route through southern France and across northern Spain.43 In the west in particular, medieval pilgrimage often had a penitential flavor, and was sometimes even ordered as a punishment for criminals.44 But in the east, pilgrimage from its earliest days took on an ascetical connotation, particularly long-distance pilgrimage.45 In that sense, the physical trials and tribulations of the journey to reach the saint’s shrine were just as much a part of the pilgrimage as veneration at the site itself. Others have discussed pilgrims as ‘hagio-tourists,’ playing down the ascetic side of the journey.46 Problematic for an archaeological study of travelers in general is the inability to distinguish between ‘types’ of traveler through the remains that can be found either on the ground or in it, except through very particular, and unfortunately rarely found, types of evidence such as pilgrimage ampulla.47 This acknowledgment, however, raises the important point that it was a rare ancient traveler,                                                                                                                 42 Festugière 1970. 43 Dietz 2004. 44 Webb 2002. 45 Bowes has described pilgrimage as “itself a form of ascetic devotion” (2008b: 602). For ascetic pilgrimage, see especially Dietz 2004, 2005. 46 For a discussion of the origins and development of Christian pilgrimage in the eastern Mediterranean, see Maraval 2002. ‘Hagio-tourists’: Mayer 2012: 4. 47 It has been cautioned that even pilgrimage ampulla should not be correlated with the journeys of individual pilgrims but rather considered more indicative of contacts between the object’s point of origin and its find spot, or even of modern collecting habits (Anderson 2007). For recent work on situating pilgrimage within a landscape perspective in the medieval West, see Candy 2004; 2009. 18 Christian or otherwise, who could be considered of a certain ‘type’ – for instance, there was not always, or even usually, a marked difference between a pilgrim or a merchant or an ambassador or a sailor or a soldier in terms of where and how they traveled, and what they took with them or brought back.48 On the level of more local travel, this ambiguity of purpose would have been even more pronounced. The process of how places became destinations of Christian pilgrimage in the first place varied over time and space. In the first several centuries CE, there was no formalized mechanism for sacralizing either the places that became holy or the bodily relics of those saints and martyrs that came to mark those places as such.49 In other words, the negotiation of sacred topographies was a flexible and creative process over time. While the initial spate of sacralizing Christian sacred spaces is usually traced back to Jerusalem and those sites having to do with the life of Christ, there were regional variations on the establishment of sacred spaces that arose out of the particularities of that place. 50 This is especially the case in the realm of regional and local pilgrimage, which was much more common than long-distance journeys such as Egeria’s from Spain to Palestine. Because those who undertook regional and local pilgrimage were less likely to leave behind textual evidence or any material details that can be traced to an individual, the pilgrim of regional devotional travel is much more often a generic type than a known person. This is why the presence of the often-unnamed, individuals traveling to and from                                                                                                                 48 Foss, for example, suggests that pilgrimage was sometimes “only an incidental motive” (2002: 146) to other purposes for travel, such as for sailors, mercenaries, merchants, etc. Rutherford 2009 discusses Greek theoric networks in which envoys can be envisioned as pilgrims; Elsner and Rutherford 2005 give examples of travelers who did more than just business. Constable 2003 and McCormick 2002 provide later examples, though with a heavily western bias. 49 Ando 2008: 187. 50 Maraval 2002: 63. 19 specific origins within Cilicia in the Miracles of Thekla provides one very useful lens into the common, frequent and practicable nature of these journeys. Finally, I would like to make a note on the terminology I use regarding the relationships between the Christian communities and their non-Christian predecessors and contemporaries. Because of the particular issues of chronology and continuity surrounding the transformation of temples into churches, I have often used the terms ‘pagan’ and ‘Christian.’ It should be emphasized that the various communities of religious adherents in late antiquity were not clearly defined groups mutually engaged in a struggle to control Cilicia and its physical and social space. To understand them in their multi-faceted characters, there must be an allowance for interaction between religious groups, and a resistance to assuming that they were ever “evolving in isolation from – or in opposition to – one another.”51 Any Cilician’s religious commitments may have overlapped the straightforward and binary oppositions implied by the use of terms like ‘pagan’ or ‘Christian.’ Because ‘pagan’ was a Christian creation, some scholars have argued that simply using the term implies a “theological assent to the Christian view of the division in society.”52 Others have argued that for the very reason that “it is a creation of the dialectical opposition of two groups… it is nonetheless socially real, and any account of the period must consider it.”53 In other words, it can and should be employed effectively as a social category. Many scholars have continued to use the term pagan with a wide and careful definition as ‘upholders of the ancient or traditional religions’ of the Mediterranean, which is still rather broad and generalizing given the probable diversity of                                                                                                                 51 Humphries 2008: 95. 52 O’Donnell 2002: 3. 53 Salzman 2008: 189. 20 the non-Christian, non-Jewish religious practitioners of Cilicia.54 However, the definition of paganism as a native religious tradition, one of “the homeland in its narrowest sense: the city and its outlying countryside, characterized by diversity of practices and beliefs,”55 lends itself to a locally specific examination of the religious communities in Cilicia. A critical analysis of these terms has shown that it is highly problematic to use a “single category to serve a variety of different purposes.”56 A term like ‘Christian’ can seemingly gloss over the many varieties of ‘Christian’ with which one might be dealing. Hence, throughout this dissertation, any use of the word ‘pagan,’ ‘Christian,’ or ‘Jew’ carries with it the knowledge of the potential diversity of that individual, group or the religious practice to which they subscribed to one degree or another, as outlined above. It stands instead as a ‘placeholder’ for the multi-faceted identities of the people involved in each group, which may often have overlapped and intersected in various and unexpected ways. Pilgrimage and Place-Based Sacrality Studies of the buildings and rituals that facilitated veneration of saints’ relics and events from their lives, and the ‘sacred placeness’57 that developed around them, often begin with a discussion of the early writings of Christian theologians and the contradictions that sprang up alongside the establishment of those holy sites. The argument put forward in the earliest centuries of Christianity was that because God had                                                                                                                 54 Salzman 2008: 188. 55 Chuvin 1990: 9; emphasis added. 56 King 2008: 79. 57 Yasin 2009: 15. 21 no physical limits, ultimately, no one delimited spot could be more or less holy than another.58 Yet churches and other infrastructure developed around these places, and in the fourth century pilgrimage became a widespread practice in the ancient Mediterranean world. This included long-distance pilgrimage, of the sort undertaken by Egeria or the elder described by Moschos, who traveled widely, from Jerusalem to Seleukeia to Ephesos to Euchaïta.59 The notion of sacred place as increasingly adopted by the Christians throughout the fourth century is a fundamentally material one. As discussed in the previous section, it is also not a proprietary innovation of the early Christians. The sacred places, or loca sancta, of early Christianity demonstrate the “adoption of a Greco-Roman belief in the sacrality of place.”60 This adoption occurred not just in the abstract realm, but also on the earthly plane, as seen in the transformation of pagan temples into Christian churches across the Mediterranean.61 Ando has argued that both the Christian and pagan notions of loca sancta presuppose the materiality of the bond between the earthly and the divine.62 The immanence of the divine within a contoured space was not an intrinsic characteristic of that place but based on either an event that occurred there (for example, the appearance of God to Moses on Mt Sinai), or the holiness associated with the body of a martyr or a saint (for example, St Babylas in Antioch).63 In other words, the sacrality of a place like a church was derivative.64                                                                                                                 58 MacCormack 1990; Bitton-Ashkelony 2005; see also Yasin 2009 Chapter 1, with references. 59 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale 180; trans. Wortley 1992: 149-150. 60 Bowes 2008b: 579. 61 Ward-Perkins 2003. 62 Ando 2008: 151. 63 For Sinai, see Coleman and Elsner 1994; for Babylas in Antioch, see Mayer and Allen 2011; Shepardson 2014. 64 Markus 1994: 264. 22 While a comprehensive discussion of the development, maintenance, and particulars of the cult of saints in the fourth through sixth centuries and contemporary attitudes towards it are outside the scope of this project, the salient point is this: the spaces in which early Christians gathered together to worship the divine were special places. Ann Marie Yasin has argued that this seeming contradiction between the universality of the divine against the creation of discrete sacred spaces like churches can be understood in the sense that “the churches were important not as geographical points or loci of divinity, but because they were the spaces in which the Christian people gathered.”65 But in order to gather, and most importantly for the purposes of this dissertation, they had to move along established routes to reach those loca sancta themselves. As a way to approach physically contoured sacred space in the Byzantine world, Alexei Lidov coined the term ‘hierotopies,’ a neologism based on the Greek words εἱρός (sacred, holy) and τόπος (place).66 This notion stems from the ‘hierophany’ initially introduced by Mircea Eliade, that is, the notion that the heightened presence of the sacred makes a space qualitatively different from the surrounding territory.67 Though the hierotopical approach includes several avenues of research – including fragrance and dramaturgy – its relevance for this dissertation lies in the sense of intentionality behind the construction of a church as a sacred space, as well as the physical sense that the hierotopic project carries. In other words, the hierotope is not just a human creation; there is a fundamentally material component to its experience by those devotees who visited it. Where this project moves beyond ‘hierotopy,’ conceived as a singular and bounded place,                                                                                                                 65 Yasin 2009: 44. 66 Lidov 2006: n. 2. 67 Eliade 1959: 26; Lidov 2006: 33. 23 is to consider the connections between individual material hierotopes and the impact that those connections had on the wider landscape of late antiquity. The understanding of churches as sacred spaces outlined above can, I argue in this dissertation, be expanded upon within a regional context – not in the sense of a comparative exercise or catalogue of similarities, but as an inclusive and flexible framework. Each church was part of an even larger, and more complex, topography. Because the communities that utilized these churches also participated in a larger geographical, political, and religious landscape, so too were those churches implicated in a wider world, both secular and divine. Since the publication of Eliade’s foundational Sacred and Profane (1959), scholars have argued over the applicability of his definitions of rigidly delimited sacred space to early Christian evidence. This project pushes one more step beyond that dichotomy to examine not what went on within churches, but between them. Connectivity and Movement For more than a decade, much archaeological research on the ancient Mediterranean world has recognized the importance of mobility in the ancient world.68 Such movement understood not just as the act of travel but also as the capacity for it: the organization and material means by which travel is undertaken. This trend has sometimes focused on the physical infrastructure itself, while many scholars have turned instead towards the powerful software packages known generically as Geographic Information Systems (GIS) and their modeling capabilities to predict and analyze spatial                                                                                                                 68 See especially Horden and Purcell 2000. 24 relationships.69 Roads and pilgrimage are inextricably related, but, until very recently, few scholars have undertaken to study that relationship from the perspective of landscape archaeology, placing both pilgrimage and the infrastructure that pilgrims utilized in their wider, contemporary material realities. 70 Indeed, when these elements are discussed separately, pilgrimage emerges as a religious abstraction, with the literature focused on motivation and destination; when material is engaged, it usually has to do with the iconography of the souvenirs they carried home with them,71 or the flow of pilgrims through a particular and bounded architectural space.72 Roads, on the other hand, are often discussed as ideological entities, particularly with regard to the spread of the power of imperial Rome beyond peninsular Italy.73 The juxtaposition of roads and pilgrimage practices in Cilicia, therefore, has the potential to shed light upon the integration of material practice of pilgrimage in a provincial context. By definition, pilgrimage as a process was bound up in bodily movement,74 necessarily involving the infrastructure required to travel through the ancient world: roads, certainly, but also bridges, boats, lodging, and water supplies for both people and                                                                                                                 69 See Gibson 2007 on “The Archaeology of Movement”; for GIS and the reconstruction of travel see, for example, Bell et al. 2002; Newhard et al. 2008; Bevan forthcoming; Bevan 2011; Llobera et al. 2011; Bikoulis 2012. 70 Exceptions include, for Christian pilgrimage, French’s (1981) RRMAM: The Pilgrim’s Road, and more recently, Candy 2004, 2009; Bangert 2010; Schachner 2010. For the archaeology of the pilgrim route Hajj to Mecca, see Tate 2007; al-Resseeni et al. 1998. The contributions to Elsner and Rutherford (2005) are text-heavy approaches but do touch upon some material aspects of early Christian pilgrimage. They contribute more to understanding the political, theological, and cultural realities in which early Christian pilgrimage developed have seen much more attention. See also Frankfurter 1998; Frank 2000; Dietz 2004; Bitton-Ashkelony 2005; Johnson 2008. 71 Vikan 1991, 2010; for a critique of this approach, see Anderson 2004 and 2007. 72 For example, Coleman and Elsner (1994) at Sinai; Stevens (2005) at Bir Ftouha. 73 See, for example, Casson 1974; Chevallier 1976; Laurence 1999; Belke 2008; Quilici 2008. 74 “Early Christian pilgrimage involved a journey to a place in order to gain access to sacred power, whether manifested in living persons, demarcated spaces, or specific objects. Movement toward the sacred site, as well as ritualized movements once at the destination (such as processions, ascents, descents, and circumambulations) shaped pilgrimage” (Frank 2008: 826). 25 animals. Leary has noted that “some pilgrimages were undertaken voluntarily; and for some being a pilgrim was a way of life – people that were constantly on the move and ‘indistinguishable from vagabonds.’”75 It is not possible to propose an institutionally expected or required frequency of attendance at a dedicated church structure for devotional purposes within Cilicia, whether for martyrial worship or not, but it is possible to say at the very least that it did happen, and to suggest that it happened rather often. In nearby Antioch, for example, Chrysostom preached that “people would benefit from their attendance at the martyrs’ tombs ‘not only today, but also every day’; and he encourages their regular attendance at these powerful Christian places.”76 The idea of regular attendance at places of pilgrimage also holds implications for the necessary proximity of those places and the material infrastructure to facilitate such regular connections, a point to which I will return in the conclusion to this dissertation. There is room for what some scholars have described as ‘personal’ religion that may have precluded Christians’ need to travel often.77 However, reconstructions of processions on special occasions within the Church’s liturgical calendar, based on a combination of textual and archaeological evidence, make it clear that Christian worshippers traveled for those events, whether or not their primary purpose was devotion, commerce, or even pleasure. Thus, pilgrimage can be understood as extraordinary travel in the literal sense of the term, without placing any limits on distance of travel. This means that although the travel may have taken place along the paths used every day for                                                                                                                 75 Leary 2014: 13, quoting Webb 2000: xvi. For Dietz’s longer argumentation of the notion that the ecclesiastical administration appropriated early religious wandering by monks and marketed it as institutionalized pilgrimage, see Dietz 2004; 2005. See also Harland 2011: 13-14; Scott 2011. 76 Shepardson 2014: 179. 77 Bitton-Ashkelony and Perrone employ this term as an heuristic tool, without putting it in opposition to a notional ‘institutional’ religion (2013: 1). 26 the enactment of any given Cilician’s “crucial daily regimes,”78 it was deliberately undertaken for devotional purposes. This definition still manages to capture events like the ritual processions that took place on saints’ feast days. Though these do not fit into traditional categorizations of pilgrimage,79 the broad definition of pilgrimage as extraordinary travel captures the essence of the movement that this project attempts to investigate: movement to and from a sacred place, no matter from where, with a presence and therefore an impact on what lies between. A heartening development in the investigation of roads is the increasing archaeological attention to the features located alongside them; these affect the configuration, as defined below, as much as the major sanctuaries that the road ostensibly connects. Exploring movement in late antique Cilicia intersects with a current trend in scholarship exploring the archaeology of the senses.80 Apprehension of the world, both ancient and modern, through the senses has recently relied heavily on the haptic senses and notions of the moving, learning, and knowing kinaesthetic body,81 and a growing appreciation for the physiological fact that “all sensorial experiences are not only synaesthetic but also kinaesthetic” – that is, all the senses require movement of one sort                                                                                                                 78 Bevan and Conolly 2013: 161. 79 Pikoulas, for example, defined travel, including pilgrimage, as requiring overnight displacement from home (2007), though Maraval supported the notion that the majority of pilgrimage travel would have been local (2002: 63). 80 Hamilakis 2011; 2014. 81 See especially Hamilakis et al. 2002. Outside archaeology, early discussions on the topic occur mostly in ethnography and human geography, usually within a modern framework: see Ingold 2004; Ingold and Vergunst (eds.) 2008. Harvey 2006 examines the role of the senses in ancient Christianity; a recent symposium at Dumbarton Oaks focused on sensory modes of awareness in the Byzantine world: “Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium,” April 25-27, 2014. Cf. also Borić and Robb 2008; and most recently, Rojas 2014 on a propriocentric approach to Korykion Antron, a cave site in Cilicia. 27 or another, whether the blink of an eye or lifting something to the mouth in order to taste it.82 This realization is particularly important in the discussion of organized movement towards a church or a saint’s shrine: the sight of a highly populated procession, the crowded sense of bodies participating in semi-synchronized movement, the sounds of singing, chanting, praying, or even gossiping along the way; and the smells that inevitably arise at a large gathering of people, or, more pleasantly, from the burning of incense or the temporary stalls set up to sell food to participants once they had reached their destination.83 The usefulness of this approach expands beyond the circumscribed space of the ‘procession’ to include an awareness of the environment through which it proceeds: the natural and built topography, which comes with its own associations. Continuous and changing interaction thus characterizes the experience: through its movement, the body can be conceived as “constantly in the process of becoming, through sensorial flows involving things, environments, and other beings.”84 In the context of local and regional pilgrimage as extraordinary movement along known routes, it is possible to think of purposeful bodies in a subconsciously familiar territory. How does that affect an experience of pilgrimage in reference to the more traditional understanding of it as a long-distance journey through unknown lands? In traditional treatments of road systems, destinations tend to be the major nodes of large-scale communication systems, such as Rome, Capua, Benevento and Brindisi along the Via Appia, a phenomenon that dates back at least to the angular lines of the                                                                                                                 82 Hamilakis 2014: 114. 83 The most extensive study on the particulars of processions in the ancient world can be found in Baldovin 1987. For entrepreneurs at saints’ festivals, see Bitton-Ashkelony 2005, esp. 37-39. 84 Hamilakis 2014: 116. 28 Peutinger Table.85 Thus travel and communication systems begin to look like a system of nodes and connecting lines, and they come to look like abstract renderings rather than as real, experiential places embedded in, not draped across, the landscape.86 Yet it is because routes connect these sites that it is no great leap to see that much of human interaction with the landscape actually took place in traveling along and through it, rather than just between and within these sites, whether they were plowing it, conquering it, carrying merchandise or messages, or heading towards pilgrimage sanctuaries. As Tilley has noted, “in the process of movement a landscape unfolds or unravels before an observer… The importance and significance of a place can only be appreciated as part of movement from and to it in relation to others, and the act of moving may be as important as that of arriving.”87 For some, this realization has resulted in a more phenomenological approach to movement along roads in a landscape, in which paths are rendered as structuring experience,88 to a degree, but leaving room for mutual constitution as well.89 A road used for the daily back-and-forth between home and field is changed by religious processions along it, not just for those processing, but for those who see it happen as they simultaneously live and work along it. It would be quite the task to parse these elements across the whole of the Cilician landscape, but at the level of individual locations across Cilicia, it is helpful to look at each within its own context in space and time, in what has often been termed a microecology.                                                                                                                 85 See Talbert 2010. 86 See Ingold 2007 for an in-depth discussion of the relationship between lines and the surfaces with which they are associated. 87 Tilley 1994: 31. 88 Tilley follows Parmentier (1987): “Paths structure experiences of the places they link, they help us to establish a sense of linear order” (1994: 30). 89 See Ingold 2007; 2004. 29 Horden and Purcell define a microecology as an interaction of opportunities.90 This is the crux upon which notions of landscape and movement are integrated. It could be considered a variation on what Tilley has termed locales: the “presencing of potentialities.”91 It provides the link between landscape and movement, and the infrastructure that it facilitates: the principal element in a microecology’s character drive as much from its changing configuration within the web of interactions around it, across aggregates of ‘short distances,’ as from any long-lasting physical particularities.92 Roads, then, can be conceived of as “transects of ecological opportunities,” by which they become routes. As such, they are the gateways of the microecologies as “fuzzy sets:”93 unity and continuity are not assumed between the places themselves, but often the routes between them remain physically in the same place. It is this changing nature of the connections, brought about by the construction and transformation of the places themselves, that is explored in the notional ‘configuration’ of the landscape described below. Configuration of the Landscape Some archaeological discussions of the ‘spatial aspect’ of the devotional landscape take the form of an itinerary, in the sense that they consist of descriptions of the monumental landscape encountered while moving away from the urban center. This approach is effective for developing a sense of the layout and features of the landscape                                                                                                                 90 Horden and Purcell 2000: 80. 91 Tilley 1994: 19. 92 Horden and Purcell 2000: 54. 93 Horden and Purcell use it as an ‘evocative’ term borrowed from mathematics (2000: 45). 30 along which any given route may have proceeded.94 In practice, it creates a form of narrative mapping, by which the reader can attempt to access – to some degree – the experience of those moments along a given route when a traveler noticed a new feature. Generally, these moments took place on a journey that was directed towards a particular place; the noticing (or not) of features was a byproduct, a side effect, of the ‘real’ motivation for movement in the first place. Yet, I have attempted to show in the preceding pages that movement cannot be separated out from the physical infrastructure and the features that accompany it. As has been noted by others, “while belief and worldview do differentiate the tourist from the pilgrim, they nevertheless must share the same infrastructure.”95 Thus they share the same configuration in the sense of a spatialized relationship between places and the physical infrastructure that connects them.96 This notion of configuration is an attempt to account for movement, because lives are lived throughout the landscape.97 It is not lived out in discrete locations all at a remove from one another, and the connections make up the landscape just as much as the destinations.98 It is in some ways a more anchored version of Ingold’s ‘meshwork’, one populated with more particulars. In this sense it can also be likened to Bhardwaj’s (1973) description of the ‘integrative network’, in which                                                                                                                 94 Lolos 2011 literally took this route, reconstructing Pausanias’ route and the monuments he described while including others the periegete did not. 95 Leyerle 1996: 121. 96 Mrozowski 2006: 14, with references. 97 Ingold 2011: 148. 98 Ingold has argued against the notion of paths as connectors (2011: 151), but I think that for my purposes the concept is a good one. The purposefulness of devotional travel does create a sense of continuity between the various destinations that is well captured by the concept of ‘connection’, which does not preclude the realities of both coming and going. 31 the act of pilgrimage to sacred places functions as a cultural force with social and spatial dimensions as well as performing a more traditionally understood religious role.99 I use the notion of configuration as a framework to study a broad phenomenon – the nature of devotional travel – as it developed in a particular time and place, late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicia. Movement and connectedness are thus the features that continuously constitute the configuration, and so it is at this intersection of broad phenomenon and particular place that this dissertation takes as its jumping off point. ‘Configuration’ is a particularly salient term for the processes under investigation here, in that it has to do both with the disposition as well as the arrangement of disparate, but related, parts. Implicit in this word is the notion that each element of the devotional landscape is part of some larger whole: for the purposes of this project, that larger whole can be thought of as the landscape, generally, of which the various constituent parts operate, whether in cooperation or not. For example, at Çatıören100 in central Cilicia, a temple dedicated to Hermes still straddles the outcrop that formed the focus of the settlement, opposite an equally imposing Christian basilica that dominated the village’s cemetery on the other side of a small valley (see Fig. 4.10). Each can be considered a part of the devotional landscape, whose disposition affected its configuration. By disposition, I mean the nature of the respective structures’ intention and use. The Temple of Hermes was no longer in use by the time the basilica was constructed in the late fifth or early sixth century, but it was still highly visible from the basilica. Like the basilica, it was a monumentalized and material dedication to the religious system it represented, and the fact that it was not transformed into a Christian building indicates                                                                                                                 99 Bhardwaj 1973: 6-8. Bhardwaj discussed the phenomenon exclusively within the context of Hindu pilgrimage, based on historical sources and ethnographic study. 100 Encountered in the literature variably as Çatıören, Çatıkören, and Çatı Ören. 32 that it held a certain pride of place in the memory of the settlement’s inhabitants, which would be apparent to any visitors who may have passed through, whether or not for the purpose of visiting the Christian basilica across the way. But the disposition did not involve only the church structure itself. At Nuruköy, for example, the disposition of the Roman cemetery as it became the site of a Christian monument was also refashioned by the Christian crosses covering the many scattered sarcophagi and gravestones surrounding it. One sarcophagus even featured an Alpha and an Omega.101 These were all strategies of appropriation utilized by the variously inclined communities to materialize their Christian commitment and to claim authority for the expression of that commitment. But the disposition of the points in a Christian configuration of the devotional landscape need not only be churches and their immediate surroundings. In a landscape that saw devotional movement on a local and regional scale, the destinations were not the only Christianizing elements. In settlements throughout Cilicia, domestic structures featured crosses carved into exterior lintels of the courtyard doors. At Haus A in Öküzlü the presence of crosses over the doors is particularly notable because the structure directly abuts the ancient road on its eastern side, less than 200 meters from the entrance to the settlement’s church.102 Though the east façade of the house is only preserved in the jambs on one side, the number of crosses on interior doors indicates that, like Haus A at nearby Şamlıgöl, a cross at one time featured prominently over the exterior door.103 In fact, at least three of the early Byzantine houses at Şamlıgöl displayed crosses on the lintels of their exterior doors, a repeated feature all the more remarkable for its frequency in a cluster of houses with no clear center of settlement or even an associated Christian                                                                                                                 101 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 368. 102 Eichner 2011: 98 and Abb. 77. 103 Eichner 2011: Abb. 52-53, 55-56. 33 church.104 The example at Şamlıgöl is compelling in its indication that Christian inhabitants must have traveled somewhere else to worship at a church, and thus provides a rare example of an origin for devotional travel, rather than solely the destination.105 As discussed in Chapter 5, the occasionally mobile nature of Christian devotion realized in the existence of portable objects also constantly changed the arrangement of the devotional landscape. These configurations can be nested as well as overlapping: the configuration of stories told in a vita or saint’s life, for example, can indicate one picture of reality, while the configuration of the stories in relation to the location of inscriptions mentioning those saints may tell quite another altogether. These pictures are not necessarily mutually exclusive, but instead demonstrate the multifaceted and multidirectional perspectives, actions and experiences of early Christians and their audience(s). Therefore any identifiable configuration in a text is not a single, monolithic reality, but based on the perspective and agenda of the particular author. The possibility and even likelihood of their being reconfigurations must certainly be taken into account, as the patterns of earlier landscapes of religious movement may have influenced the shape that later configurations took. Outline of Chapters The chapters in this dissertation progress from characters (Chapter 2) to places (Chapter 3 and 4) and finally the connections between them (Chapter 5). I call upon both textual and material evidence to substantiate interpretations regarding the configuration                                                                                                                 104 Eichner 2011: 74. 105 Eichner (2011: 74) suggested that the Christian population must have traveled to Öküzlü because of its three churches. 34 and various scales of movement within the Christian devotional landscape, focusing on the 5th and 6th centuries CE.106 Chapter 2 addresses the landscape from the perspective of the hagiographical texts that describe the places anchoring the conceptual configuration of Christian places and events within the physical Cilician landscape. I do this by spatializing the connections, and the movements along them, that shaped it. Thus, this chapter draws upon textual evidence as a means of reconstructing the configuration of the Christian landscape of Cilicia, in which the hagiographies of two local saints, the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla participated. As informative as an archaeology of pilgrimage on a local or regional level may be on its own terms, it is even more productive when put into conversation with the literary and epigraphic sources. Itineraries, hagiographies, inscriptions, and descriptions are rich sources for early Christian pilgrimage, and this study will draw on textual sources referring to pilgrimage, roads, accommodations, and the destinations themselves. As the intention of this dissertation is to study the potentially diverse forms and material implications of early Christian pilgrimage, caution is necessary in order to avoid the potential danger of extrapolating what may have been an exceptional experience into a paradigm for pilgrimage.107 Just as texts provide glimpses of pilgrimage at a particular time and in a particular place, the archaeological record provides glimpses of various pilgrimage activities, repeated at particular places                                                                                                                 106 The title of Linda Ann Honey’s (2013) article, “Topography in the Miracles of Thecla: Reconfiguring Rough Cilicia,” was the inspiration for the use of ‘configuration’ for thinking about the layout of the Cilician landscape at this time, both in the texts and on the ground. Honey does not dwell on the term. 107 As has been noted, “The literary choices [in the Life and Miracles of Thekla]… do, in fact, offer a window on the plain of Seleukeia in late antiquity, but this window is the one through which the author has decided we should look” (Johnson 2006: 171). 35 and times. Examining the two in conjunction makes it possible to weave together a larger picture of early Christian pilgrimage in all its diverse forms. The focus of devotional travel in Cilicia was its churches, and so Chapter 3 explores patterns of cult and devotion in the landscape, as indicated by the spatial distribution of the architectural evidence for ecclesiastical structures and their locations relative to the overall settlement pattern. In order to contextualize the literary traditions explored in Chapter 2 into the material fabric of the landscape, I also draw upon the distribution patterns identifiable in the regional corpus of inscriptions. This allows for an examination of the allocation of saintly portfolios – that is, the multiple locations in which each saint is attested – within Cilicia. In this way, Chapter 3 maps the churches and references to saints as anchors in the configuration of the devotional landscape of early Cilicia relative to the region’s cities and settlements. I conclude that the distribution patterns of the churches, the literary references and epigraphic evidence of saints in the Cilician landscape all point to the creation of new Christian configurations through new sacred places. Key to this interpretation is the concept of the duplication of certain saints’ cults within a region, such that within the overall configuration of the devotional landscape, the repeated appearances of individual saints at multiple locations created devotional connections between different settlements, particularly between a city and smaller settlements. While some patterns are discernible in the general distribution of churches in Cilicia, there is no clear-cut solution to the particularities of each church’s location. It was a reality in Cilicia that there were variables beyond the simply geographical that influenced the placement of its churches throughout the landscape. 36 Chapter 4 delves into the particularities of the churches within their individual topographical settings, to explore whether those churches that are attributed a martyrial function can illuminate our understanding of the patterning of the early Christian devotional landscape, extending from the coast up into the far reaches of the Cilician highlands. I outline the formal characteristics of proposed martyria in Cilicia in order to plot and subsequently examine their patterning within the overall distribution of churches, and to establish them as destinations of devotional travel. Then, I take a step back to look at their immediate context within the landscape, namely, next to topographically striking features of Cilicia: caves and sinkholes. I conclude that what in fact seems to define the relationship between martyrial churches and the caves and sinkholes with which they were associated, is a certain contrast between high places and caves and, in particular, ways of accessing them through formal infrastructure. This discussion sets the stage for the final chapter, which addresses the infrastructure that linked churches to each other and to the settlements to which they belonged. Christians came together at churches in Cilicia from any number of directions. This movement toward, from, and between churches was facilitated and structured by the travel infrastructure that had been, in its basic network, in place for centuries since the major efforts of the Romans to build roads in Cilicia. In Chapter 5, I follow the thread of movement and connectedness to the shrines by examining the wider travel infrastructure of Cilicia and the distribution of churches within it. I demonstrate that there are material indicators of the travel network that have long been recognized as anchoring it in the physical landscape – tetrapyla, milestones, and of course the actual paved remnants of the roads themselves. But I also argue that outside the cities, which were themselves 37 transport hubs, the churches can also be thought of as anchors in the road network: their location in the landscape is a place to which Cilician Christians necessarily would have come and gone. The scale of this devotional movement need not have been large – the movement between churches and farmsteads, for example – but it would have been a reality of fifth and sixth century life for the region’s Christians and those non-Christians who inhabited the landscape with them. I argue that the various scales of the pilgrimage monuments themselves, as well as scale of journeys to and from the various pilgrimage destinations, calls for a re-examination of the definition of what forms of movement pilgrimage entailed. I rely in particular upon the questions of pilgrimage accommodations and the nature of processions and saints’ feast days to question what kinds of movement constituted pilgrimage in the early Christian eastern Mediterranean. By returning to questions raised in Chapter 3 about the pattern of duplicated cults throughout the Cilician distribution of saints, I discuss the nature of punctuated movement in the possible creation of a pilgrimage circuit in the region through a process not unlike the urban stational liturgies, that is, a mobile form of worship that took place at different churches, the choice of which depended on the particular saint’s annual feast being celebrated at any given time.108 The material presence of a Christianity anchored in the travel network influenced not just the way people moved around the Cilician landscape but also the realities of their daily lives. I return to this topic in the concluding Chapter 6, where I synthesize discussions from across the dissertation to summarily address three overarching themes that arise from a close examination of the evidence and that reappear across all the                                                                                                                 108 For the specifically urban-centered nature of stational liturgy, see Baldovin 1987: 36-37. 38 chapters. The relationship between churches located in various settlement and topographical contexts; the localizing and universalizing influences of both text and travel infrastructure; and ultimately, the nature and scale of devotional movement, including pilgrimage, in the early Christian Mediterranean are all topics that I have attempted to engage with throughout this dissertation. Statement of Goals and Contributions to the Field With this dissertation I am attempting to answer, in my own way, the call that Kim Bowes made explicitly in 2008: “More holistic studies are needed that contextualize Christian remains within their local topographic, social, ecclesiastical, and, above all, economic circumstances.”109 It is not my goal to provide a comprehensive picture of each set of circumstances in turn, and in fact I touch upon some of them only briefly. The topographic circumstances make up a large component of what follows in my aim to situate the configuration of Christianity within the Cilician landscape. I dwell only briefly on the ecclesiastical history of the region, for reasons of scope as well as intent: much of what is known from ecclesiastical history of these centuries is known from texts and from places outside of Cilicia. It is only tangentially a study of the social and economic circumstances of the region, though I do touch upon them as they affect the study of the construction of churches (for example, regarding who the patrons were, or the economic impetus to quarry new stone or spoliate older buildings), the larger trends of movement in the region (administrative boundaries and the production of olive oil or the transportation of ceramics), or the various peoples and activities associated with pilgrimage shrines,                                                                                                                 109 Bowes 2008a: 575. 39 especially on the saints’ feast days (local and foreign merchants’ presence and products at annual markets, for example). This dissertation is to a great extent an interrogation of the overlapping scales of the sort of travel pilgrimage destinations inspired, as well as the scale of the shrines themselves, in an explicitly local and regional context, instead of focusing solely upon the great regional cults of the eastern Mediterranean. I am using issues of scale and movement to press the definition of what a pilgrimage is. In order to include all of those as pilgrims, I investigate pilgrimage in Cilicia as extraordinary travel undertaken for devotional purposes, whether it be for routine worship, individual journeys in order to seek miracles of healing, or social or economic participation in a saint’s festival or panegyris (that is, an annual event that fell upon the day of the martyr’s death or the deposition of the saint’s relics into their resting place within their church).110 By calling upon multiple strands of evidence to compile views of Christian life in the fifth and sixth centuries CE from several different perspectives, I explore remains of Christianity across the Cilician landscape. One perspective is that from the churches themselves, those special places where Christians gathered as a community. Another is from the domestic perspective whence those Christians emerged to gather. From the textual perspective, hagiography is employed as a way to access the generic but perhaps typical devotional travel patterns of the early Christian Cilician. The perspective of regional travel infrastructure is explored as a way to link those places and potential pilgrims together. Ultimately, then, this project is a compilation and synthesis of multiple sources and categories of evidence, from literary references in saints’ lives, to the 250 church structures or the milestones that marked the routes that connected them. These                                                                                                                 110 Leemans et al. 2003: 15 40 were visualized spatially as a synthesis, and so the resulting set of maps have become a secondary source in and of themselves, and have provided me with an opportunity to talk about the scope of the early Christian landscape from multiple angles. It should be noted that while there is a remarkable abundance of extant churches in Cilicia, particularly concentrated in the region of southeastern Isauria between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers, it was not a radically different landscape from other dioceses of southern Turkey. It was an area geographically and topographically comparable to the diocese of Lycia to the west, which was, at approximately 25,000 square kilometers, home to both an extensive and rocky coastline with mountainous hinterland. The highlands of Lycia, like those of Isauria, saw the same quality of stonework and sculpture in its churches, monasteries and villages for which the Isaurian churches were so lauded.111 Lycia still boasts the remains of almost 200 early Byzantine churches compared to Isauria’s 190/25,000 square kilometers, as well as a greater number of suffragans.112 Therefore one compelling result of this study is not the recognition that it stands out from the crowd, as it were, but rather that it is potentially indicative of patterns found across the southern Anatolian coast. Archaeology explicitly dedicated to early Christian remains tends towards a focus on the ecclesiastical structures themselves, or early Christian ‘art’ – either in the churches themselves, or in and on tombs. Recent work on elucidating the impression of local communities in the churches has successfully contributed to a growing scholarship on the local and regional differences between Christian communities and the ways in which                                                                                                                 111 Harrison 2000: 2. 112 As in the catalogue developed for this study (see Table 3.2), this number was reached by counting all references to early Byzantine churches in the Tabula Imperii Byzantini for Lycia, which was compiled by the same authors as for Cilicia (Hellenkemper and Hild 2004). For the list and description of the metropolitan and suffragans of Lycia: Hellenkemper and Hild 2004: 143. 41 their Christian as well as local identities were manifested.113 A parallel trend in archaeology towards the domestic and the mundane have brought to light signs of devotion in the landscape.114 The search for material Christianity outside the physical bounds of the ‘Church’ has revealed a world replete with Christian devotion, manifested in small ways across the stuff of daily life – a cross on a doorway, an eulogia in a production site. Thus, this is an attempt to expand beyond the “realm of historians and literary scholars,” that is, beyond the architectural study, the catalogue, and the sculptural collection.115 Pilgrimage was a thoroughly grounded undertaking, and it was an act that appealed to people from all walks of life. It is perhaps telling that in the recent Religious Diversity in Late Antiquity volume, the two chapters under the section ‘Popular Piety’ were both explicitly archaeological approaches, Susanne Bangert’s “Archaeology of Pilgrimage” and Lukas Schachner’s “Archaeology of the Stylite.”116 But a growing academic interest in the material facets of Christian pilgrimage outside of the church walls has been a trend on the rise since the early 1990s. The second half of The Blessings of Pilgrimage (1990) is dedicated to the art and architecture that grew up around the earliest pilgrimage practices in the Mediterranean.117 One of the first explicit calls to account for physical infrastructure outside the sacred space of the church in the study of early Christian pilgrimage came from Jenny Stopford in the 1994 special issue of World                                                                                                                 113 Yasin 2009. 114 The work of Ina Eichner (2011) on early Byzantine houses in Cilicia has been particularly useful for this project. The work of Kim Bowes on early Christian domestic spaces in Italy has done much to progress the field and its discussions of material Christianity (Bowes 2008a). Cf. also the work of David Frankfurter in Egypt on the intersections of early Christianity and pre- existing pagan religious practices (e.g., 2010). 115 Yasin 2009: 11. 116 Bangert 2010; Schachner 2010. 117 Ousterhout (ed.) 1990. 42 Archaeology dedicated to pilgrimage. In it, she argued that the organizational aspect of medieval Christian pilgrimage, particularly with regard to the service industry, must have been massive, and thus that its material impacts must be considered on par with the ideological ramifications of such a wide-ranging and popular undertaking.118 Thus, this study is focused on the general phenomenon of pilgrimage, rather than being an attempt to trace out the specific journeys of individual pilgrims, about whom so much has already been written. Situating the infrastructure of pilgrimage within the framework of the wider workings of a regional landscape can do much to fill in gaps of knowledge about early Christian pilgrimage in particular, as well as the wider eastern Mediterranean world in general, at a time of often radical changes: changes that can be seen in all accounts, from archaeological to textual to epigraphic.119 But there were many aspects of life that were similar to the centuries and millennia of habitation and movement that had come before. Local economies, changes in settlement pattern as well as in the infrastructure required to move between settlements, and religious practice all affected how early Christian pilgrimage was undertaken. In turn, the practice of pilgrimage contributed to the forms that those economies, settlement patterns, and religious practices developed and changed – or not – over time. Conclusion This dissertation is an attempt to do new things with old data. This is a history of churches as spatially and materially connected structures rather than of the church as an institution, in the sense that it is through the church buildings that we can anchor a study                                                                                                                 118 Stopford 1994. 119 See especially Haldon 1997. 43 of the material traces that were made, and left, on the emergent Christian landscape outside the urban sphere.120 Whether the early Christian Cilicians of the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries CE felt a form of fellowship that characterized a particularly Christian overtone is not the point. The point is, rather, that they lived their lives moving around and between each other, and so even if their Christian religion was not a major or self- defining facet of their own identity, it was visible every day: above doors in the form of crosses; on the gravestones of deceased loved ones; in the processions of feast-goers and the merchants attending the accompanying markets; and of course, in the church structures that anchored the particularly ‘Christian’ part of their lives in the familiar landscape of Cilicia.                                                                                                                 120 Burrus and Lyman 2005: 1. 44 CHAPTER 2 SAINTS IN TEXT AND IN THE LANDSCAPE In the introduction to this dissertation, I argued that synthesizing extant archaeological, architectural, textual and epigraphic remains lends itself to a fuller, albeit more complicated, understanding of the Cilician landscape through which fifth and sixth century Christian pilgrims moved and worshipped. In this chapter, my investigation revolves around the question of how hagiographical texts, particularly the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla, can expose a contemporary Cilician landscape in the process of becoming Christian. That ‘becoming,’ I argue, is to a great extent shaped by the nature of those contemporary movements through the landscape, which occurred in the name of Christianity. Such movement was, in turn, shaped by what I described in the Introduction as the configuration of the landscape, a fluidly conceived and contingently ordered arrangement of places, stories and memories, which is defined as much by the disposition of the parts – that is, the various places – as it is by the nature of the connections between them.1 In later chapters I will survey the nature of the material connections that facilitated that movement, but in order to contextualize the archaeological evidence, I begin in this chapter by foregrounding the hagiographical texts that describe the places that anchored the conceptual configuration of Christian places and events into the Cilician landscape, and the connections, and movements along them, that shaped it. Just as various categories of material can be employed as complementary bodies of evidence for movement through the landscape, so too can certain episodes from the texts discussed                                                                                                                 1 See Introduction, pp. 30-34. 45 here illuminate not just the fact of connectivity between different places, but also the nature of those connections. This connectedness can be illustrated in the texts by the descriptions of different places that are already or are becoming Christian, stories of movements between those places, and the narratives of landscape along the way. The resultant image is one of a landscape arranged in such a way as to present a Christian vision of the Cilician landscape. Earlier, I described this arrangement as the configuration of the landscape, which developed over time and space. The arrangement is not conceived as something static and whole, but as socially created: that is, configuration is contingent upon the particularities of the region at any given time, and particularly, with regard to texts, upon the agenda and geographical imagination of the author.2 It is within the spatial configuration that the author’s ideological agenda, hidden or not, operates even while shaping it.3 But because of that agenda, the configuration may take a different shape in different texts: one author’s description of the topography may not look like that of another author claiming to describe the same topography. These pictures are not mutually exclusive, but instead demonstrate the multifaceted and multidirectional perspectives, actions and experiences of early Christians and their audiences. The comparison of various pictures provides access to a variety of early Christian topographies, whether they were generated simultaneously or in quick succession. The first question to ask, in an endeavor like this, is “What good are saints’ lives for a reconstruction of a past landscape?” The answer is that the use of texts is key for this project for two reasons: on the one hand, texts prescribe the particularities of the                                                                                                                 2 For the social creation of the spatial order: Cummins and Rappaport 1998: 174. 3 Goehring 2003: 437. 46 physical landscape that they describe, and the countless potential motivations people felt for moving through the landscape, whether out of piety, in search of healing, or for the sake of trade. That is, through reference to a local geography the hagiographical author laid down the setting for the saint’s life as he (or she) wanted it to appear to the reader: a landscape that needed the saint, and therefore benefited immeasurably from his or her presence and activity.4 On the other hand, looking to the extant remains of that landscape gives a deeper understanding to the text, in the sense that the details the authors choose to include are informed by contemporary social dynamics and the on-the-ground makeup of travel networks in which they operate. By mapping the spatial relationships of the locations given in the text, where the saints were said to be active and their notional movements between those places, as well as the paths undertaken by pilgrims who were described as traveling to them, it is possible to visualize texts that have been described as ‘archives’ of sorts.5 A text can be an archive in the sense that the narrative map that results from the author’s collection of geographical and topographical details orients the miracles, the saint’s cult practices, and the reader/listener, to the landscape. At the same time, the text fills that landscape with the miracle events themselves as well as with the formal and informal practices and institutions that grew up around the saints’ shrines. These can be both materially enduring (such as monuments) as well as ephemerally enduring (such as festivals), and can include ritual processions to celebrate saints’ feast days, the building of martyria, and the                                                                                                                 4 Frankfurter 2006: 18-19 discussed the saint’s life as both an etiology and as an institutional charter relying on local resonance to establish the saint’s authority. 5 Text as archive: S. Johnson 2010: 6; Clayton and Woodyard 1981: 161. For a discussion of the techniques and intentions of narrative mapping in late antique Antioch, see Shepardson 2014, especially Chapter 5, “Mapping a Textured Landscape” (163-203). 47 spontaneous and individualized journeys undertaken for other purposes such as healing.6 The spatial knowledge of these events and places is dependent upon a subjective “autobiography of experiences that happen to take place in space,” and is therefore only one version of the Christian configuration of the landscape.7 This should not be taken as discouraging, but rather as an opportunity: the juxtaposition of descriptions of places, the monuments within them, the stories about them, and the people who frequented them, create a rich tapestry of fifth and sixth century Christian life in Cilicia, one that would be impossible to achieve with the material evidence alone.8 At the same time that the author is creating an archive of monuments, places, and stories that configure the devotional landscape, he (or she) is drawing upon the tradition of a literary archive, which is in turn a subjective compilation, while constituting a place for his (or her) text within it.9 The mutually constitutive relationship between the author, the text and the landscape as configuration is conveyed in the sense that the term indicates both disposition as well as arrangement. In that way, a change in the nature of a certain place – for example, the recorded conversion of a ‘pagan’ shrine to a Christian one – marks a change in the configuration of the Christian landscape as it is now possible to reconstruct it.                                                                                                                 6 S. Johnson (2006) has argued that Thekla’s designation as a healing saint does not take into account a careful consideration of the structure of the Life and Miracles as a whole; contra Honey 2006, who, in a review of S. Johnson (2006), The Life and Miracles of Thekla: A Literary Study, argued that the saint’s purpose was predominantly a healing one. 7 Clayton and Woodyard 1981: 161. See also Leyerle 1996, esp. p. 120. 8 I take as my inspiration here Maria Pretzler’s discussion of the author Pausanias’ second century Greece (2004: 216). 9 I am grateful to Scott DiGiulio for pointing out this role – and goal – of the text. For a discussion of the creation and constitution of archives in ancient texts, see Whitmarsh 2004, esp. chapters 7-9. 48 This chapter draws upon textual evidence as a means of reconstructing the configuration of the Christian landscape of Cilicia, in which the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla participated, while at the same time providing a lens into its constituent parts.10 These two miracle collections were written within the span of a century, the Miracles of Thekla around 470 CE and the Life of Konon probably during the reign of Justinian.11 The earlier of the two traditions supported the cult of an internationally famous female saint, sometimes designated as a ‘protomartyr’ (though she did not in fact die a martyr’s death) who was appointed to evangelize the region by the Apostle Paul himself.12 The other saint, Konon, was a local holy man explicitly inspired to do his work in the highlands of Isauria, and supported in that endeavor by the Archangel Michael himself. He became a martyr to the Christian faith when flayed to death at the order of the provincial governor. The written testimony in these texts provides two perspectives from which to explore how contemporary and local veneration of saints impacted the various configurations of the region.13 The fact that the Miracles of Thekla and Life of Konon focus on Cilicia in the topographically descriptive way that they do is informative of chronologically cumulative, local dynamics of landscape use. By chronologically cumulative, I mean that                                                                                                                 10 Honey 2013 has recently focused on the Miracles of Thekla and the way it ‘reconfigures’ the Rough Cilician landscape. Ward-Perkins 2003 also uses the word configuration in the title of his chapter “Reconfiguring Sacred Space” to describe the adaptation of pagan shrines to Christian churches. 11 For the date of the work, see Johnson 2006: 5 (n. 18), and Dagron 1978: 17-19. 12 The full title of the fifth-century miracle collection starring Thekla, for example, is “Miracles of the Holy (Proto)martyr Thekla” (Θαύµατα τῆς ἁγίας καὶ [πρωτο]µάρτυρος Θέκλας). 13 The explicit spatialization of Thekla’s Miracles is a recent approach but it is not an innovation of this project. My contribution to the recent and very rich scholarship on these hagiographical texts is the detailed contextualization of topographical details within other bodies of evidence, such as ecclesiastical architecture, travel infrastructure, and epigraphy. This, in turn, is dependent upon spatial visualization of these topographical details. 49 certain traditions, such as the cultic use of peaks and caves in the region, date back, through several different iterations, at least as far as the Hittite period, and probably even earlier.14 This appropriation and adaptation was not wholesale, but carefully selective. In the rest of this chapter, I first address how continuous use anchored certain places as important sites in Cilicia over time, specifically in the fifth and sixth centuries CE (a notion that is discussed at more length in Chapter 4 regarding the association of certain caves with churches). Following that, I discuss how the dichotomies that arose in the literature between the urban and rural spheres indicate how movement undertaken for purposes of veneration at specific early Christian sites participated in the configuration of the devotional landscape. This is particularly evident in the described movement of Christians between explicitly defined urban and rural spheres.15 I then discuss what agenda the fifth and sixth century authors may have had in portraying huge crowds moving in and out of cities in order to witness the saints’ various miracles. When it comes to explicitly drawing connections between named places in the landscape, both within Cilicia and without, these events almost always occur in connection to the pilgrimage complex on the hill at Hagia Thekla and its neighboring city, Seleukeia. Thus, I next describe some of the journeys that travelers made to Cilicia in order to highlight the various connections that can be made between the region and the origins of the pilgrims who visited it. These were the kinds of journeys that organized the landscape within the material infrastructure, not only in the region, but also in relation to                                                                                                                 14 Della Dora (2011), “Anti-landscapes: Caves and Apophasis in the Christian East,” discusses the conception of caves as ‘anti-landscapes’ in the Christian East; see also Taylor (1993), Christians and the Holy Places: The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins for the role of caves and tombs in the pre-Christian shaping the sacred topography of the Holy Land. For the Hittite origins of the myth of Typhon at the Korykian Cave in Cilicia, see Watkins 1995; Houwink ten Cate: 1961: 207-214. 15 Analysis of the “transformative transgressions” between rural and urban spheres in late Roman Antioch has recently been explored in Shepardson (2014), Chapter 4. 50 its extraregional connections. Many of these journeys record movement between Cilicia and late Roman and early Byzantine Syria, from which most of the accounts come, because it was a major connection with Cilicia at the time (as indeed it was before the fifth century, and has continued to be since).16 I conclude this chapter by explicitly returning to the notion of configuration raised in the introduction and synthesizing within it the various elements that make Christianity visible in the landscape as discussed in this chapter: the nature of the cave and peak sites, the movement between urban/rural and mountain/plain, the crowdedness that characterized much of that movement, and the connections that both shaped and were shaped by the spatial arrangement of those elements. By returning to the notion that configuration could take multiple forms, I argue that the intention for the two texts primarily under discussion here was overlapping but distinct: on the one hand, celebrating the local, while on the other participating in a larger, cosmopolitan, Christian and Roman world. I finish by suggesting that the co-occurrence of those elements in these early hagiographical texts can inform the way we understand Christianity to have been made manifest at various scales in this particular landscape.17 Setting the Scene: The texts The two texts that form the backbone for this chapter are both examples of fifth and sixth century hagiography, that is, literally, writing about people who were                                                                                                                 16 See Chapter 1, pp. 9-10 on the idea of Cilicia as crossroads and Syria as its most immediate neighbor to the southeast along the major land routes through the area. 17 Christine Shepardson phrased what has in recent decades been debated as “Christianization” in terms of being visible, in order to avoid the many sins that the various “-izations” bring to a discussion, and I follow her example here. For the various ‘-izations,’ see for example Mattingly 2002; Morris 2003. 51 considered holy by their communities and eventually the Church, either because they had died a martyr’s death for Christianity or because their asceticism defined them as holy, hagia/os.18 In these early centuries of Christianity there was no formal or official canonization or beatification of saints, and their consideration as such depended upon their recognition and popularity within the Christian community, whether locally circumscribed or Mediterranean-wide.19 Hagiography, then, told the story of the saints’ lives and miracles, and the texts that result are thus often titled as such, as seen in the two texts examined here. Both are miracle collections, but the Life of Konon is so called because it described the miracles that legend held he performed while he was alive. There is a Life of Thekla, written at the same time and by the same author as the Miracles of Thekla. The Life, however, for the most part narrated events that took place in Ikonion and Antioch before she came to Hagia Thekla. Therefore in this chapter I rely upon the Miracles text, which describes the miraculous acts that she was thought to have performed after her dormition in Cilicia. There is some variation across the genre as to when the authors wrote about their holy protagonists. For example, there was the monk George who wrote about Theodore of Sykeon. George claimed to have been the disciple of St Theodore and to have witnessed his miracles himself, which gave him the authority to write down his story of                                                                                                                 18 For an overview of the development of hagiography in the early centuries of Christianity, see Harvey 2008 and Talbot 2008, both with further reading. For a more extended analysis of hagiography as creator of martyrs, see Grig 2004. 19 Indeed, even the authorship of hagiographies must be considered to some extent, collective: “recent scholarship has highlighted this long neglected aspect of hagiographical literature, arguing that the saint must be recognized as such by the Church as a larger community, even in the most informal terms, or hagiography fails. Hence hagiography is always the product of the community, both in its literary construction by the author and in its enacted reception by the audience” (Harvey 2008: 617). 52 his Life.20 Similarly, Theodoret of Cyrrhus wrote the Life of Simeon Stylites and the miracles that he performed therein while Simeon was still alive.21 Both of the texts examined here, however, were written centuries after the physical lives of the saints they claimed to be describing. They thus illustrate a well-known characteristic of hagiography, and indeed of ancient literature in general, in that Lives and Miracles are often written as aetiologies: they provide “foundation stories for religion as it is lived not in the narrated past but in” the present of the author.22 This view towards the past in order to illuminate the author’s present has prompted scholars to assert that “when hagiographers reflect on their role, they usually explain that they were prompted to take up their pen because of their desire to preserve the precious memory of the saint for posterity.”23 In the case of the authors of Thekla’s Miracles and Konon’s Life, the same premise stands: yet the project is aimed at the authors’ contemporaries, those who came after the saint, and who need to be reminded of their precious inheritance of the specific, local world of such an accomplished and beloved saint. In the sense that the texts reflect the present of the author, hagiography is also a lens into the contemporary landscape. Indeed, hagiography has been described as a “literature of place,” in that it relies upon the details of particular landscapes to describe and order the features and sites of the events chronicled in the text.24 As such, the landscape portrayed in the texts is not just an “inert backdrop.”25 It was instead a device employed by authors to lend credence to the hagiographical work and the eponymous                                                                                                                 20 Mitchell 1993: 123. 21 Doran 1992: 36. 22 Frankfurter 2006: 18. 23 Rapp 1998: 432. 24 Frankfurter 2006: 23. 25 Shepardson 2014: 1. 53 saint they were trying to promote. It should not, however, be taken as a straightforward empirical tool for the details of the landscape or the actions described therein.26 Allusions to the ‘real’ landscape familiar to the readers makes the mythical landscape inhabited by the saint believable, so that the one described in the text “is ideological in that it presents an illusionary account of the real landscape while alluding to the actual conditions existing in it. Hence although it neither reflects nor directly mirrors reality, [it] does not altogether dispense with it.”27 The most prominent landscape theme found within early Christian hagiography is that of the desert, particularly as it stems from that Life so foundational in the genre of hagiography, that of Antony, written in the early fourth century.28 The realization that this desert landscape was not in fact the reality of the early Egyptian ascetic but instead a convention used to highlight the separation of the holy man from the city has raised a red flag about taking too seriously the depictions of landscape in other hagiographical works, in which it is common to follow the model of this earliest life.29 Goehring (1993, 2003) has persuasively dealt with the theme of the fictive desert landscape in the Life of Antony and its development as a literary convention: The process of fashioning this illusory, mythic landscape witnessed in the Life of Antony developed its own momentum as the desert myth grew by naturalizing its image of reality in the emerging Christian culture. Subsequent authors built on existing patterns, and readers interpreted existing sources in terms of the desert myth.30                                                                                                                 26 Harvey 2008: 610. 27 Bermingham 1986: 3. See also Goehring 2003: 440. 28 Talbot 2008: 863. 29 On the display of features typical to hagiographic texts in the Life of Antony, see Talbot 2008: 863-4. 30 Goehring 2003: 443. 54 As a literary convention, the ‘desert’ was not limited to the environmental definition. Instead, it came to encompass a wider definition, something more along the lines of ‘wilderness.’ In the region under study here, that convention of wilderness-as- desert is seen in the mountainous highlands of Cilicia, in which the native population, commonly conceived of as ‘barbarians,’ inhabited a region that was distinct from the urban, and Roman, cities of the coastal plain.31 Peter Brown has described this transformation from desert to city in terms of vertical distinctions, whereby the desert – that is, the wilderness – characterized the highlands above the plain.32 The appearance and impact of the conventions of the ‘desert’ in the Life of Konon and, to a lesser extent, in the Miracles of Thekla are described in more detail below. First, I provide a description of the specifics of each text so as to provide the overall trajectory of each, which in turn provides the context in which the more thematic and analytical discussions that follow can be situated. The Life and Miracles of Thekla is a fifth-century CE text describing the eponymous saint’s miracle-working activities in and around her major pilgrimage complex on the hill now known as Ayatekla (or Meryemlik), just one and a half kilometers south of Seleukeia-ad-Kalykadnos (modern Silifke). It is a work in two distinct parts; the first part, the Life, is a paraphrase of a late second-century apocryphal text, The Acts of Paul and Thekla.33 At the end of both the 5th-century Life and the 2nd- century Acts, Thekla journeys to Seleukeia and proceeds to work her miracles in and                                                                                                                 31 Davis 2001; Wood 2009. 32 Brown 2006: 121. 33 Johnson 2010: 2. 55 around the city.34 At the end of her life, instead of dying, she descends into the ground and is described as having gone into a “beautiful sleep.”35 Traditionally, this descent is said to have taken place on the hill at Meryemlik. Coupled with the 5th-century Life is a longer text detailing 46 of her Miracles, which picks up where the paraphrase leaves off: Thekla, having descended into Isaurian soil, emerges frequently to visit people, places and events all around the region, in order to protect, heal and evangelize. According to the Life and Miracles, Thekla’s authority, as well as her recorded movement, covers the scope of both Isauria and Cilicia, as contemporarily defined political administrative regions; Table 2.1 and Map 2.1 illustrate the various destinations to which she is reported to have gone to work her miracles within the wider region.36 For my purposes, I have relied on the Miracles rather than either the late second century apocryphon Acts of Paul and Thekla, or the fifth century Life of St Thekla, both of which describe events that take place outside Isauria. While the Life purports to describe events that took place 400 years before they were being written, in the Miracles the author frankly and unapologetically includes Thekla in explicitly contemporary events.37 In the preface to the work, he specifies that the events he describes are taking                                                                                                                 34 “Having reached this city [Seleukeia] and feeling pleased, she [Thekla] climbed the peak that was nearby and rose to the south, and made for herself a dwelling-place” (Life of Thekla 27, trans. Honey 2013: 254). 35 µετὰ καλοῦ ὕπνου. Acts of Paul and Thekla 43.7, trans. Johnson forthcoming: 57; Life of Thekla 28: “She sunk down while alive and went under the earth” (ἔδυ δὲ ζῶσα καὶ ὑπεισῆλθε τὴν γῆν), trans. Johnson forthcoming: 58. 36 Honey refers to this wide geographical scope as Thekla’s “military theatre,” one that “encompasses a three hundred and sixty degree radius around Seleucia” (2011: 139). 37 Traditionally, the fifth-century Bishop Basil of Seleukeia has been incorrectly identified as the author of the Life and Miracles of Thekla; while this designation has been overturned, the legacy of the original identification lives on in that the author is commonly referred to as Pseudo- (Ps.-) Basil. 56 place now (ἤδη). In doing so, he provides illuminating details regarding the topography, political dynamics and cultural landscape of the fifth century.38 Additionally, I have drawn briefly upon two variant ending of the Thekla tradition to seek out contrasting perspectives, both local and contemporary, of her miracle-working activities in the region.39 In the first, the Myrsineon variant, Thekla takes up residence in a cave outside the city, from where she converts non-believers and heals locals who are sick.40 The second variant places her cave residence at a mountain called Kalameon or Rhodion, where divine intervention opened up a cleft in the rock for the saint, referred to explicitly as the ‘virgin protomartyr’ (παρθένος πρωτοµάρτυς), in order that she might escape from her pursuers.41 These variant endings do less to add to a list of known local place names than to provide a better understanding of how the specifics of her cult fit into the landscape, topographically as well as in terms of local cultural traditions, such as those revolving around rocky features.                                                                                                                 38 “The authors of Passions and saints’ Lives recorded ‘past events’ inscribed in a historical context with a view to the present, i.e., prompted by contemporary considerations” Efthymiadis 2010. See Johnson 2006 passim and Davis 2001 for discussion of the author’s agenda in the 5th- century Life and Miracles. I have relied exclusively on the English translation provided by Scott Johnson’s recent (2012) publication of the Miracles, while also referring to the corresponding Greek text. For his translation, Johnson, in turn, has relied on the Greek text edited by Gilbert Dagron and presented in the 1978 publication along with a French translation and commentary. Dagron (1978) Vie et Miracles de Sainte Thècle: Texte grec, traduction et commentaire. His edition, still considered the authoritative version, is also foundational for all later studies on the subject of Thekla and the texts transmitting her cult and its legacy. 39 These were first published in Greek by Dagron (1978: 413-421) and again, more recently, with an English translation, by Scott F. Johnson (2012: 184-201). Linda Honey presented an English translation of the text edited by Dagron in her dissertation (2011: 440-446). On the date and local character of the texts: see Dagron 1978: 413: “Le deux récits n’ont en commun qu’un caractère nettement local et la volonté de rehausser d’une légende l’origine d’une fondation, d’une image ou d’une relique encore visibles à Séleucie ou à Hagia-Thékla... [it] présente une parenté évidente avec la Vie et les Miracles du ve s.” 40 Johnson (trans.) 2012: 185-193. See also Dagron 1978: 413-415; Johnson 2006: Appendix 1. 41 Johnson (trans) 2012: 193-201. 57 In addition to the miracle collection of Thekla, I refer to the much less well- known sixth-century Life of Konon, which describes the miracles worked by a local holy man in an explicitly identified Isauria.42 The Life was preserved in abridged form from the imperial menology of Michael IV (BHG 2078) and later translated into Slavonic from the Codex Suprasliensis.43 A 14th-century manuscript from Patmos, however, contains a pre-metaphrastic version of the Life, which was translated into French in 1985 by François Halkin. I have worked from this Greek edition, and relied upon Halkin’s French translation of it, to discuss the various miracles of Konon and the information that we can derive from its descriptions of Isauria. The Life has been raised chiefly as an example of the relationship between coast and hinterland. This can be seen in the work of Brent Shaw, especially between coastal populations and highland bandits;44 Philip Wood has used it as a case study for a discussion of the “invention of history” in the sense of an apologia by a native Isaurian contesting the sense of the region as barbaric.45 Most recently, Linda Honey has called upon it in support of the notion that Rough Cilicia, including Isauria, was part of Thekla’s evangelical chora, but returns to the point that it was the Isaurians’ hostility to outsiders that left the region outside of Paul’s purview.46 As has been argued for the author of the Life and Miracles of Thekla, the author of the Life of Konon can be identified with relative, if not overwhelming, certainty, as a                                                                                                                 42 Edited and translated by François Halkin (1985), Vie de S. Conon d’Isauria (BHG 2077). Wood (2009) suggests a Justinianic date for the composition of the Life (Wood 2009: 134). 43 Halkin 1985: 5. 44 Shaw 1990. 45 Wood 2009. 46 Honey 2013: 254. 58 native Isaurian.47 Three Konons are introduced within the span of the first four chapters of the Life: the first, a gardener; the second, a native Isaurian; and the third, the protagonist of the collection, who is both gardener and native Isaurian (ἐκ τῆς τῶν Ἰσαύρων).48 The litany of this third Konon’s activities in the region begins in Chapter 5, coincidentally, with a pilgrimage. However, this pilgrimage destination is not a shrine dedicated to him or his cult, or even to another Christian saint, but rather to the god Apollo – that is, "the statue which the locals call Apollo" (τὸ δ᾽ἄγαλµα Ἀπόλλων ἐκαλεῖτο τοῖς ἐγχωρίοις) – in a cave at his sacred mountain. Unfortunately, the exact location goes unnamed: it is identified simply as “the mountain in the chora of the Isaurians” (ὄρος τῇ χώρα τῶν Ἰσαύρων). Konon, “seeing the Isaurians about to leave the city” (τοὺς Ἰσαύρους ἰδὼν ὡς ἒµελλον ἐκχεῖσθαι τῆς πόλεως), attempts to convince the citizens to halt their procession to venerate a false god, before they even leave the gates of the city – the name of which, like that of the mountain, goes unspecified, except to say that the citizens are Isaurians. Over the course of four chapters, Konon convinces the crowds that their Apollo is a false god, first by defeating them in a race, and then by forcing the statue of the god to confess to the multitude that "There is one God, whom thou [Konon] hast announced to this crowd today as Savior" (εἲς ἐστιν, ἀνεῖπε, θεός, ὃν                                                                                                                 47 “The emphasis on the conversion of the province suggests that its author was a local engaged in the ongoing determination of the Isaurians’ history and cultural independence” (Wood 2009: 134). 48 Life of Konon Ch. 4; Halkin 1985: 8. For a discussion of the third Konon as a conflation of the first two, see Wood 2009: 135. The Life of the first Konon named here, the gardener, has been edited and translated into English by Musurillo 1972: 186-193. The author of the fifth-century Life of Konon does not specify that the first Konon is a native Isaurian, as are the other two, and the Life translated by Musurillo explicitly gives his origins as Nazareth in Galilee (4.2; trans. Musurillo 1972: 189). The Life translated by Musurillo ends Konon’s life in a place named as Carmena, which Musurillo suggests must be Carma in Phrygia or Pisidia (xxxiii), while also mentioning Comana as a possibility (187 n. 3). This place name is not found in Hild and Hellenkemper 1990, but could possibly be the late antique successor to the Hittite city Kummanni on the Seyhan River, near Anazarbos (Goetze 1940: 17; Garstang and Gurney 1959: 51-53). 59 σὺ τῷ πλήθει τούτῳ σωτῆρα καταγγέλλεις τὴν σήµερον). The crowds then rush to destroy the statue, proclaiming that “There is one God, the God of Konon, the God of Konon has triumphed” (εἲς ὁ θεὸς Κόνωνος, λέγοντες, ὁ θεὸς ἐνίκησε Κόνωνος). Afterwards, the sanctuary is maintained in the memory of ‘the blessed one’ (τοῦ µάκαρος) and continues as a destination for processions, to where “all the inhabitants of the city leave, all bearing torches, and proceed to the sanctuary” (τῶν τῆς πόλεως ἐξιόντων προσοίκων καὶ λαµπαδηφορούντων ἁπάντων [τῶν] εἰς τὸ εὐκτήριον), that is, a place for prayer.49 This geographical vagueness regarding the exact location of the mountain shrine or the procession’s city of origin is indicative of the Life of Konon as a whole. While the Miracles of Thekla is replete with known place names, the author of Konon’s Life mentions only one, the saint’s hometown village, Bidana.50 Most scholars have followed Halkin in assigning Bidana to a location just south of Ikonium, based on information from the Slavonic paraphrase of the Life.51 The scholars of the Tabula Imperii Byzantini place it in Galatia/Lykaonia, rather than in Isauria proper.52 Maraval has pointed out the possibility of the town existing in Isauria rather than Lykaonia.53 Part of the difficulty stems from the distinction between Isauria, as a defined Roman province, and Isaura Vetus and Isaura Nova, respectively, the cities from which the group ‘Isaurians’ acquired their name.54 The text states distinctly that Konon is an Isaurian.55 How the author                                                                                                                 49 Life of Konon 5-8, ed. Halkin 1985: 9-13. 50 Ch. 15. 51 “Bidana, as we known [sic] information in the Slavonic life, was located 18 stades (= c. 2.25 Roman miles) north of Isauropolis (= Isaura Vetus), 40 (Roman) miles south of Iconium” (Shaw 1990: 246, n. 11). 52 Belke 1984: 144. 53 Maraval 1985: 389. 54 Mitford 1980. 55 See p. 56 above for the Greek text. 60 intended that designation exactly is impossible to gather, as he refers only to various unnamed cities and government officials as characters in Konon’s activities. Neither Konon nor Thekla were definitive historical figures.56 Instead, their respective Life and Miracles texts reflect the trend in late antiquity of ‘invention’ (inventio), the rediscovery of saints’ relics and sites of their martyrdom whether by accident or on account of the saint’s own deliberate revelation.57 More likely in our case is that the veneration of these two saints at their cult sites was a way to assert Christian foundation myths for the region. Both saints’ legends base them in western Cilicia, in what eventually became the province of Isauria, and thus remain almost silent on potential activity throughout the whole of the province of Cilicia. The Miracles of Thekla refer to her notional activity as far east as Aigaiai and as far west as Constantinople, but the bulk of her recorded visitations occur in the vicinity of Seleukeia (Map 2.1).58 If Konon did indeed come from a Bidana near Ikonium, then he and Thekla were both figures drawn from inland cities. They were considered as Isaurian, in the sense of having a Luwian-speaking identity and not originating from the Greek-speaking, urbanized coast. According to Wood, the salient point raised in the description of the Life of Konon is the relationship between agriculture and Konon’s conversion of the province to Christianity: "the saint is capable of overcoming the hostile mountains, commanding                                                                                                                 56 Konon is a popular name in Isauria, and his cult is likely to have been a conflation of earlier Isaurian holy men named Konon in order to revitalize a cult site. For an example of a pilgrimage cult that developed around an historically attested holy man, see, for example, the Life of Nicholas of Sion from neighboring Lycia (trans. Sevcenko and Sevcenko: 1984). 57 On the posthumous inventio of saints, and especially their relics, see Geary 1986. 58 Mir. 9 records Thekla’s visit to Menodoros, the bishop of Cilician Aigai; in the same miracle, she visits the same bishop “in her customary way” [i.e., in a dream or vision] while he is in Constantinople. Thekla visits the unbeliever Isokaios, a sophist, while he was incubating in a church just outside the city of Aigai in Mir. 39. 61 wild animals and participating in Christ’s own perception in his discovery of buried treasure: he commands nature, mirroring a pre-lapsarian order."59 In other words, cultivation, in addition to religious triumph, becomes one tool by which the pagans are led to ‘one god, the god of Konon’ (εἷς ὁ θεὸς Κόνωνος).60 The conditions of Isauria as described in the Life of Konon speak to a tension about the sub-region’s role in the larger Cilician landscape. The author of Konon’s Life is participating in a tradition that long pre-dated the composition of his text or even the arrival of Christianity. Much like Virgil or Theocritus, the author is lauding the values associated with the hard work of cultivation that took place outside the cities.61 Wood (2009) has approached this tension from a wider, imperial perspective, concluding that The political context for The Life of Conon was a battle over the barbarity of Isauria... where the polemic of others has been subverted in a bid for status as a successful, civilised province of the Roman Empire which was Christianised from within.62                                                                                                                 59 Wood 2009: 135-136. 60 Ch. 8; Halkin 1985: 12. “Of symbolic importance was [Konon’s] ability to ‘convert’ the bandits and demons, not only in a spiritual sense, but also in an economic one, by turning them from wandering and free pastoralists to cultivators of the land who became his slaves” (Shaw 1990: 247). Compelling parallels to this characterization of Konon can be found in the 6th-century Life of Nicholas of Sion (in the neighboring province of Lycia), who is visited by an angel (Ch. 47), charged with saving the local population in the mountains above the city of Myra, with regard to the harvest (Ch. 47 + “and it was granted to you that through your hands the souls of men would be given to these [sickles], which [are] the power and the seal of the Lord” (Ch. 51)), just as in his Life the archangel Michael visited Konon and converted him (Ch. 4). See also Harrison and Young 2001: 79-85. Perhaps it is telling that the overseer for the Church of the Holy Sion, Nicholas’ monastery, is none other than a priest named Konon (Ch. 5); a name very common in Cilicia and Isauria (Zgusta 1964 and Wood 2009), though not unique to it (Elton 2001: 294), in a region known for its Mediterranean-wide export of master builders (Mango 1967; see also Varınlıoğlu 2008: 123-125). Neither Thekla nor Konon show up as names in Houwink ten Cate’s (1961) index of Luwian names from Hellenistic and Roman Rough Cilicia, which could imply that these names only became popular in the region in the early Christian period with the arrival of the eponymous saints’ cults. 61 Shepardson 2014: 135. 62 Wood 2009: 136. 62 The hagiographic project here is seen as both isolating and embedding Isauria and its inhabitants within the late Roman empire at large, and to a lesser extent the coastal parts of its own wider regional context. After all, even though Pompey famously ‘rid’ the area of its pirates in the first century and Cicero governed the province of Cilicia as early as the first century, it was not until the second and early third centuries CE that we can truly understand the highlands of Cilicia as being under Roman hegemony, much less integrated with the coastal areas.63 For our purposes, the significance here is the contrast between Thekla and Konon’s roles as evangelists: according to Wood and Honey, Thekla and Konon participate in the same evangelizing mission based on their mutual language, the Luwian that long dominated the region.64 Yet according to the authors of the second century Acts of Paul and Thekla and the fifth century Life and Miracles of Thekla, Thekla came to the region from Ikonium, not from within it. Miracle 2 explicitly calls her ‘foreign,’ ξένη.65 Whether or not she was supposed to have been speaking Luwian or Greek seems to be beside the point for Ps.-Basil: there is little indication that he, who is writing in Greek, speaks or is spoken to (by Thekla, or otherwise) in any language other than Greek. The explicit references to Thekla’s foreigness in the miracle collection can be understood to have an ecumenical appeal: she came to the region on the Apostle Paul’s orders, and so the region has a claim to a place in the wider, apostolic geography of the time.66 She also                                                                                                                 63 See Shaw 1990 for a description of the historical particularities of these developments. 64 Honey 2013 and Wood 2009. Shaw (1990) refers to her as a Cilician. 65 Johnson 2012: 15 (English) and 14 (Greek). 66 Apostolic geography: Johnson 2010. 63 ranged beyond the region, to two of the arguably most important cities in Anatolia at the time: Constantinople and Antioch. She is participating in the geography of empire.67 Konon has a different pedigree, and a different scope: though like Thekla he is set on his evangelical course by his mentor, in his case the Archangel Michael, his movement remains firmly within the mountainous highlands of Isauria. His activities can be understood as a particularly local, and localizing, endeavor. In that sense they should be understood within the development of an "autochthonous Christian local piety," through which "much attention came to be directed to the locations and powers of holy places as sites that embraced local experience and that situated the new pantheon of Christian ‘spirits’ in the landscape."68 This should not be understood as taking place in opposition to Thekla’s mission, but as a different configuration of it. From the local (Cilician) to the universal (imperial) configuration of the Christian landscape, Thekla and Konon can be understood as both contrasting and cooperating within it to create different pictures of the region. In the next section, I highlight how their actions revolving around certain topographic features of the landscape anchor those places as part of a particularly Christian, late Roman and early Byzantine configuration of Cilicia. Caves and peaks as landscape devices In the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla, the protagonist saints and holy men treat mountains, peaks and caves as devices in making the landscape visibly Christian.69 These features populate the stories about Thekla, in particular, in a variety of                                                                                                                 67 See also Honey 2011. 68 Frankfurter 2010: 37. 69 See, for example, Caseau 2004. 64 guises: as pagan sanctuaries, such as the peak from which Thekla evicts Sarpedonion Apollo in first Miracle of Thekla; as places of refuge, as when Thekla descends into a cleft in the earth in the Myrsineon version of her legend; or as the medium of miraculous events, providing water for the local population. In another miracle, Thekla “arranged for the sudden gushing forth of a spring, which had not formerly existed” near her cave of residence, in order to remedy a pestilence to which the local inhabitants had fallen victim.70 This deliberate inclusion of cave imagery participates in a long literary tradition of caves as sacred places, which is informed by a wider phenomenon, but facilitated by the region’s particular geology.71 The relationship between the second millennium BCE Hittite myths of Illuyankas and its later adaptation into the Greek myth of Typhon at the Korykian Cave, modern Cennet Cehennem (in western Cilicia) has been shown persuasively to have a strong local flavor.72 The first-century author Pomponius Mela explicitly places the Typhon myth in the Korykian Cave.73 Recently, Ephraim Lytle has contextualized allusions in the second century CE Halieutica of Oppian – himself a native of Cilician Korykos who was "reared... among the Cilicians in the shadow of                                                                                                                 70 Mir. 36, trans. Johnson 2012: 149. 71 For discussion of caves in the formation of an early Christian sacred topography in Palestine, see Taylor 1993; Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 22. There is a strong tendency towards caves relating to events in the life of Jesus in the Eusebian tradition (my thanks to Jordan Pickett for pointing out this particular source to me). Caves were recognized as "physical places in the early Christian East [known] through pilgrims' accounts after their 'official' designation as pilgrimage sites by Emperor Constantine in the aftermath of the Council of Nicaea (324 AD)" (della Dora 2011: 764). See also Chapter 4, pp. 151-156. Ustinova 2009 explores the concept of the cave in the ancient Greek world. 72 Houwink ten Cate 1961: 207-214. 73 Oppian Halieutica III.15-17; see Bayliss 2004: 80. 65 Hermes’ shrines”74 – within “a network of pastoral social practices and religious beliefs" particular to this rocky coastal area of Isauria, the symbolic connotations of which drew extensively upon the Hittite tradition outlined by Houwink ten Cate.75 High places, similarly, have been the focus of religious devotion throughout the Mediterranean, both before and after Christianity made its way onto the scene.76 As will be further explored in Chapter 4, the active sacred places on peaks in Cilicia do not exclusively remain the domain of the pre-Christian gods. Thekla, for example, is said to have caused Sarpedonian Apollo to abandon his mountain stronghold, “whether one wishes to call it a tomb or a sanctuary,” and subsequently dedicated it “to poor and simple men, who devote themselves to prayers and supplications, to be hereafter a dwelling place for God.”77 Immediately after accomplishing this victory, Thekla turns to Athena κανῆτις 78 on nearby Mount Kokysion, which was treated like Athena’s temple: This mountain was taken away from the demon and was placed under the rulership of Christ, exactly as it was from the beginning. And now the place is occupied by martyrs, just as a most lofty citadel is occupied by generals and military commanders, and it is inhabited by holy men, since the shield-bearing and city-defending Pallas Athena was unable to fend off the assault of an unarmed, foreign, and naked girl.79 The expulsion of the two pagan deities, Apollo and Athena, is not simply a removal of their numinous presence from the landscape. It is also an appropriation of the sacred                                                                                                                 74 Oppian, Halieutica 3.1-8, trans. Lytle 2011: 371. Later in the poem, at 3.208, Oppian explicitly defines Korykos as the city of Hermes. See Lytle 2011: 351 n. 35 for a discussion of an alternative tradition that puts Oppian's origins in Anazarbos, which he dismisses. 75 Lytle 2011: 362; for contextualization within the Hittite tradition, see especially 372-373. 76 Horden and Purcell 2000: 413-414; see also Chaniotis 2005: 160-162, who exhorts scholars to consider differences in physical environment when examining the continuity of religious rituals across the Mediterranean. 77 Miracles of Thekla 1.2, trans. S. Johnson 2012: 13. 78 For discussion of Athena’s appellation κανῆτις in a regional context, see S. Johnson 2012: n. 12. 79 Miracles of Thekla 2.1, trans. S. Johnson 2012: 15. 66 places they had once inhabited but in which they were no longer resident. As a literary convention, this act is a popular one within the tradition of early Christianity in the eastern Mediterranean, in which individual or communities of holy men occupied these sites so that they could be (re-)claimed as “a dwelling place for God.”80 Likewise, Thekla establishes a church to St Paul in Seleukeia in the site of the former temple of Zeus, after “she drove him out of the city like a tyrant, like a criminal, and she made his temple into a dwelling place for her teacher Paul.”81 As in the preceding miracle, in which she banished Aphrodite from Seleukeia, Thekla is depicted as comprehensively ridding the Cilician landscape, both urban and rural, of its pagan pestilence.82 These narratives participate in an age-old tradition of attributing divine power to geological formations.83 “There are examples around the empire of a special hill or spring or tree that was associated with a local story about a god,” much like those recorded at nearby Antioch, such as “the springs at Daphne or the mountain described by Theodoret at Teleda.”84 As the proponents of Christianity made their way through the                                                                                                                 80 Miracles of Thekla 1.2, trans. S. Johnson 2012: 13. The literature on the motivations and impacts of Christian appropriation of pagan temples and sanctuaries is massive and diverse. See Chapter 3 of this dissertation for discussion of whether the adaptation of pre-Christian shrines was wholesale or contingent. Deichmann 1939 is lauded as an early attempt to survey known examples from the Mediterranean, though many have since been added to the list through archaeological work (Ward-Perkins 2003). For the known archaeological examples of the conversion of temples to churches in Cilicia, see Bayliss 2004. 81 Miracles of Thekla 4.1, trans. S. Johnson 2012: 17. 82 Miracles of Thekla 3.1., trans. S. Johnson 2012: 15. Though the text simply states that Thekla drove Aphrodite “from the city” (τῆς πόλεως ἐξήλασε), it is almost certain that she is referring to ‘Seleukeia,’ because of her reference to its bishop, Dexianos, who appears again in Miracle 29, in which he is explicitly named as “ bishop of Seleukeia” (trans. S. Johnson 2012: 119). It should be noted that the adaptation of ‘pagan’ shrines to Christian churches was not wholesale, but a selective occurrence (Ward-Perkins 2003: 286-7). The frequency of adaptation/appropriation is also controversial: see Saradi-Mendelovici 1990 (my thanks to Rebecca Falcasantos for pointing out this reference to me). 83 Life of Konon, Ch. 5; Myrsineon, 7; John Moschos Ch. 80. For the tradition of attributing divine power to geological formations, see for Henig and King 1986; della Dora 2011. 84 Shepardson 2014: 167. 67 populations of the region (with varying degrees of success), they sometimes faced resistance from a deep-seated sense of religious loyalty to the gods already established in those places.85 This is illustrated in a poignant moment in the Life of Konon, when the unsettled worshippers of the native Apollo were taken aback by their god’s inefficacy against Konon, “assigning blame not to their god, but to themselves, because they loved and honored him and could not bear to betray him in any way whatsoever.”86 The anonymous author reveals a sense of sympathy for the confused Isaurians: “For truly, a habit is difficult to alter, especially [habit which is] ingrained over time.”87 The author is setting up the formidable, but not invincible, currents against which Konon had to work. As Clifford Ando has noted, “Christians almost universally regarded idols and cults statues as the proper and exclusive recipients of pagan worship, and their understanding of the mechanics of conversion developed from this simple fact.”88 The episode employs a literary convention familiar to the audience of such accounts of a Christian holy man triumphing over traditional forms of worship, in that it concludes with Konon’s ritual performance of defeating the god in the cave, thus resolving any question about the balance of power in the region.89 According to Trombley, “the cults of the [Isaurian] region were seemingly a mixture of Hellenic, Iranian, and unknown indigenous religion.”90 The ways in which the                                                                                                                 85 Trombley 2001 infra, although see especially 98-186. 86 τὴν αἰτίαν οὐ τῷ σφῶν θεῷ, ἀλλ’ ἑαυτοῖς ἐπιγράφοντες ἒστεργον τε τοῦτον καὶ περιεῖπον καὶ προδοῦναι ὁπωσοῦν οὐκ ἠνείχοντο (Life of Konon 7, ed. Halkin 1985: 11). 87 Δυσµετάβλητον γὰρ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἡ συνήθεια, καὶ µάλιστα τῷ χρόνῳ παγιωθεῖσα (Life of Konon 7, ed. Halkin 1985: 11.) In a marginal codex, Δυσµετάβλητον read Γνώµη (Halkin 1985: 11 n. 20), ‘resolve,’ which would change the reading slightly to read something like «habit is resolve» but does not change the overall sense of the sentence. 88 Ando 2008: 161. 89 Frankfurter 2010: 37. 90 Trombley 2001: 127-128. 68 newly – and in many cases, probably only partially91 – Christian populations of Isauria and Cilicia negotiated the potentially radical change in their worldview could take many forms. As Glen Bowersock has noted, late antique populations maintained local cults even as the deities to which they were oriented were usurped by new ones, “strengthening and even transforming local worship without eradicating its local character.”92 The process of sustaining local veneration practices “entailed resorting to Christianization of rite and devising local paraphrases for Christian scripture.”93 The conclusion to Konon’s clash with and eventual defeat of the deity described above is an example of just such a scenario. At the end of the episode, a continuity in the pilgrimage practices to the same cave sanctuary, now under the guise of the celebration of Konon’s cult instead of Apollo’s, is explicitly acknowledged.94 The practice is thus maintained while its conceptual focus is made to fit in with the new devotional landscape. Although Thekla may have evicted various competing deities from their mountain strongholds, and had churches dedicated to her built on ‘mountains’ at Seleukeia and Dalisandos, the majority of ecclesiastical structures built in the fifth and sixth centuries in Isauria are associated with caves, not high places. The prevalence of cave imagery in the Lives and Miracles of the two saints emplaced in Cilicia may in fact be a nod to the                                                                                                                 91 See, for example, Rebillard 2012 Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity for a discussion of how Christians in North Africa reconciled their new religion with their old traditions. 92 Bowersock 1990: 21. See Baumgarten’s introduction to Bowersock’s volume of lectures entitled Empires in Collision in Late Antiquity (2012: xii). 93 Trombley 2001: 129. 94 Life of Konon 8, ed. Halkin 1985: 12-13. Τούτων τῶν φωνῶν ἀκούσαιτ᾽ἂν τις λεγοµένων, γεγωνὼς παρ᾽ Ἰσαύροις τῆς µνήµης τελουµένης τοῦ µάκαρος, ἑσπέρας τῶν τῆς πόλεως έξιόντων προσοίκων καὶ λαµπαδηφορούντων ἁπάντων [τῶν] εἰς τὸ εὐκτήριον. Halkin translated it into French as “Ces cris-là, on pourrait encore les entendre, quand les Isauriens célèbrent la mémoire du bienheureux, le soir, quand les habitants de la ville sortent et, portant tous des flambeaux, vont au sanctuaire” (1985: 26-27). 69 implicit continuity of that tradition in a karstic landscape that lent itself generously to such topographical features. An exception is found in the attestation of stylites in Cilicia. Writing from nearby Syria, John Moschos mentions the existence of two stylites at a place called Cassiodora, whose decision to install themselves on pillars is more reminiscent of high places than caves.95 Cassiodora, likely an estate, has not been identified, but its location on the plain may have been the impetus behind creating an artificial ‘high place.’ For our purposes, it is clear that physically, in the manifestation of identifiable rocky cult places, as well as metaphorically, these visibly Christian sites are themselves construed as alternately looking over, and embedded within, the Cilician landscape. Whether they do so from the mountain or the plain, in an urban setting or a rural one, is the question explored in the next section. The Urban and the Rural in Cilician Hagiography Much discussion throughout the history of scholarship on Cilicia has focused on a distinction between ‘the plain and the rough places,’96 not just the topographical – and subsequently cultural and political – differences between Cilicia Pedias and Cilicia Tracheia/Isauria proper, but also those between the cities of the coastal plain of Rough Cilicia/Isauria and its mountainous hinterland.97 Thekla and Konon are often called upon as patrons of each region – Thekla, as healer and protector of the cities of the coastal                                                                                                                 95 Moschos, Pratum Spirituale 29, “A Miracle of the Most Holy Eucharist,” trans. Wortley 1992: 21. For a pillar as mountain: Harvey 1988: 383. “For a Byzantine, to live on the top of a mountain in that manner was to live the bios angelikos, the ‘life of the angels,’ at its most concrete. Nature itself provided a majestic backdrop to the position of the hermit as an ‘angelic’ man – as a mediator between earth and sky” (Brown 2006: 117). 96 This rather lyrical phrase is the title of Mary Gough’s travel narrative/memoir of archaeological fieldwork in the region in the 1950s. 97 See, for example, Shaw 1990; Hoff and Townsend (eds.) 2013. 70 plain, and Konon, as the homegrown evangelist-hero of the highlands.98 These distinctions are sometimes starkly visible in the historical and textual tradition; yet, as dichotomies so often are, the mountain versus plain opposition often raised by these texts is tempered by archaeological and epigraphic sources. Wood has articulated the distinction between the highlands and the coast that is very much encapsulated in the Life and Miracles, respectively: The miracles establish a dichotomy between the violent and pagan highlanders, who are incapable of respecting the Christian institution of the coast, and the inhabitants of the coastland of Cilicia proper, that is defended by Thecla from Isaurian depredations.99 Scholars have noted the focus in Thekla’s Miracles on her preference for visiting and receiving visitors from cities, specifically and exclusively.100 The focus in the Life of Konon, however, is on the topographically specific, but unnamed, and explicitly non- urban landscape of Isauria in the sixth century. Almost every important action takes place outside of the cities. This rural landscape is deliberately set up against, if not hostile to, those in ‘the city,’ however. In Chapter 9, for example, which occurs early on in the collection, Konon goes up against and ultimately defeats a demon that had been terrorizing the populace. Afterwards, those who witnessed his victorious miracle against a demon “entered the city joyfully” (τὴν πόλιν χαρµοσύνως εἰσῄεσαν.)101 There is no explicit statement regarding their departure from ‘the city,’ other than that the demon was ‘elsewhere,’ ἑτέρωθι – presumably an ‘elsewhere’ in Isauria, but it is not certain. Yet, by                                                                                                                 98 For discussions of Konon as stereotypical mountain/wild man versus Thekla’s urban-based influence, see especially Shaw 1990: 245-248; Wood 2009: 134-137; Honey 2013. 99 Wood 2009: 133. See Miracle 5 for Thekla’s defense of Seleukeia from bandits; the fourth century pilgrim Egeria mentions a defensive wall built specifically to defend against Isaurian bandits (Travels 23.4). 100 See Honey 2013: 257 and n. 56 for further bibliography on the ‘city-centric thrust’ of the text. 101 Ch. 9. 71 the end of the chapter the reader has been informed that the inhabitants went back into the city, post-miracle. The use of the verb ‘to go into’ in turn implies that, in order to merit a journey into the city, they must have first left it in order to witness a miracle that took place outside of it. This comes through in the description of both Konon’s as well as those ‘of the city’s’ activities throughout the Life: in most of the episodes, the author deliberately notes that the people enter or leave the city. Ιn Chapter 10, Konon is summoned from his solitude or ‘desert parts’ into the city: τὴν ἕρηµον ἀφεὶς τῆς πόλεως ἐντὸς ἑπόµενος ἐκείνοις ἐγένετο,102 whence he departs again almost immediately, along with those who had summoned him to the city, to a mountain peak to work his miracle: “he asked those present to follow. He walked for a long time and reached the peak of a very remote mountain” (ἕπεσθαι οἱ τοῖς παροῦσι προὐτρέψατο. Καὶ πλεῖστον τῆς ὁδοῦ βαδίσας διάστηµα καὶ ὄρους κορυφὴν ὑψοῦ µάλα διηρµένην καταλαβών).103 Throughout the miracle collection, Konon’s activities explicitly take place outside ‘the city,’ though sometimes in connection with it. We see that this applies sometimes also to others, as for example in the penultimate chapter, in which the provincial governor (ἡγεµὼν), who had had Konon flayed, eludes the angry mob in the city – οἱ τῆς πόλεως – and flees to Bidana, where he torments himself, unbeknownst to those same people in the city (τῶν πολιτῶν ἀγνοησάντων), who eventually follow him.104 What is key here is the realization that it is often the ‘the whole of the city’ (τὸ τῆς πόλεως ἅπαν πλῆθος)105 who turn out to meet him and witness his miracles. Konon may be a homegrown Isaurian from a κώµη (village) rather than a πόλις (city), but his                                                                                                                 102 Ch. 10, ed. Halkin 1985: 14. 103 Ch. 10, ed. Halkin 1985: 14. 104 Ch. 15. 105 Ch. 16. 72 appeal extends to both populations. From the first moments of the collection, these two are not so easily separable by words alone; the holy man sees the Isaurians about to leave the city – ὁ µέγας τοὺς Ἰσαύρους ἰδὼν ὡς ἔµελλον ἐκχεῖσθαι τῆς πόλεως106 – where they had come to gather in preparation for a festival and the procession to the shrine of Apollo.107 The narrative of the miracle, which continues through the next several sections of the text,108 avoids qualifying any of those involved as from ‘the city’ again – they are collectively inspired by the god (οἱ ἐνθουσιῶντες),109 sometimes they are confident in their contest against him (θαρροῦντες τὴν νικῶσαν),110 more frequently they are λαός (a singular group, ‘people’)111 or ἄνθρωποι (plural, many people)112 – but it is not until the very end of the last chapter of the multi-part miracle that the word ‘city’ again arises, and once again it is in explicit connection to the Isaurians: Τούτων τῶν φωνῶν ἀκούσαιτ᾽ἄν τις λεγοµένων, γεγωνὼς παρ᾽ Ἰσαύροις τῆς µνήµης τελουµένης τοῦ µάκαρος, ἑσπέρας τῶν τῆς πόλεως ἐξιόντων προσοίκων καὶ λαµπαδηφορούντων ἁπάντων [τῶν] εἰς τὸ εὐκτήριον.113 The author is literally positioning the Isaurians as city-dwellers, an observation that fits nicely with Wood’s suggestion this Life was written as an apologia for the ‘barbarian’ Isaurians.114                                                                                                                 106 Life of Konon Ch. 5; ed. Halkin 1985: 9. 107 The Genesia was a festival to the dead best known from Athens but said by Herodotus to have been practiced “throughout the Greek peoples,” and is known from epigraphic evidence to have spread at least as far as the west coast of Turkey to Magnesia on the Maeander (Johnston 1999: 43-44, esp. n. 22). Little is known about the details of this festival, but clearly it spilled past the boundaries identified to the epigraphic tradition, to Cilicia. 108 The defeat of Apollo by Konon through God’s grace develops over the course of four chapters, which Halkin has labelled as: Chapter 5 (La Fête d’Apollon), Chapter 6 (Défi du saint aux païens), Chapter 7 (Succès de Konon), and Chapter 8 L’idole confesse le Dieu unique). 109 Ch. 5. 110 Ch 7. 111 e.g., Life of Konon Ch. 7. 112 Ch. 8. 113 Ch. 8, ed. Halkin 1984: 12-13. 114 Wood 2009: 135-137. See outline of the Life, above. 73 The Miracles of Thekla describe the saint evicting pagan deities from temples in cities, as well as from topographical features in the landscape, like caves and mountains. She forced Sarpedonian Apollo from his mountain haunt and Zeus from his Seleukeian temple, reflecting a wider-spread concern with promoting Christianity over the pre- Christian cults in the region, both within and without the city. By the time the author of the Life of Konon is writing about the miracle collection’s eponymous protagonist, urban temples and sacred places are no longer the major concern.115 It was instead the rural highlands that came to be viewed as “a complex and religiously charged landscape... and the roles that Christian martyrs and ascetics increasingly played in the shifting perceptions of its character.”116 It is that shifting character that ties the theater of Thekla and Konon’s evangelizing missions into this aspect of the fluid configuration of the Cilician landscape. The physical places from which they evict pre-Christian gods do not themselves necessarily move: for example, Apollo’s shrine becomes a pilgrimage destination in honor of Konon, or Zeus’ temple in Seleukeia becoming a church dedicated to St Paul. However, their role in the organization of the devotional landscape shifts because of their newly Christian disposition. This new arrangement changes the nature of their connectedness with other places in the configuration. The narrative of Konon’s triumph against Apollo resulting in his destruction at the hands of the immediately converted populace demonstrated the efficacy of his own cult against that of the pagan deity in an explicitly rural landscape, outside the city but                                                                                                                 115 Helen Saradi has noted a similar development in the 6th century CE account of St Nicholas of Sion in nearby Lycia, especially in the context of its later conflation with the more obscure historical origins and events in the Life of St Nicholas of Myra (2008: 131). 116 Shepardson 2014: 164. 74 connected to it via the processional way.117 That connection was facilitated by the movement of people from within the city to outside of it and back again. This movement often occurred in large crowds, and in turn shaped both urban and rural landscapes.118 Crowds As noted above, part of the tapestry of fifth and sixth century life in Cilicia is made accessible through the conscious and prescriptive peopling of the landscape that can be identified in the hagiographic texts. The emphasis on the number of people and the social spectra of those who make up the crowds are not simply an aside within the texts, but a conscious rhetorical device within it, a point to which I will return, below.119 In an attempt to literally flesh out the configurations of the Cilician landscape accessible within these texts, I will turn first to the descriptions of the masses said to have moved to, and through, the landscape, before directing attention to the impact that such details about those crowds would have had on the audience of these stories. The context of pilgrimage travel and movement to and within fifth and sixth century Cilicia is evoked by an already cited episode described in the Miracles of St Thekla, that of a Cypriot family coming to Seleukeia for the annual feast-day celebration on a merchant vessel.120 It is a description full of movement and the many diverse characters undertaking it: from Cyprus to Anatolia by sea, and then from the harbor to the shrine by road, the evocative glimpse of pilgrimage to St Thekla’s shrine is one bustling                                                                                                                 117 For the emphasis on contrasting efficacy, see Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 175. For the specific language of the cult’s efficacy, see Life of Konon 7 and 8, ed. Halkin 1985: 10-13. 118 Shepardson 2014, “Transformative Transgressions” (129-162). 119 See Shepardson 2014: 129 for a discussion of rhetorical descriptions of crowds in the context of crossing the urban and rural divide. 120 (Miracles of Thekla 15.1; tr. Johnson 2012: 67). See note 3 for the Greek text. 75 with people – not the pious, solitary Pilgrim, but a whole conglomeration of noblemen, merchants, families, servants, and sailors, coming together with the various and specified communities resident around the shrine for the saint’s festival.121 The crowdedness depicted in the Miracles of Thekla is echoed in the Life of Konon, whose miracles often revolved around his interactions with crowds, whether hostile or benevolent towards him. In his first miracle, already discussed earlier (pp. 56- 57), he encountered Isaurians gathering inside an unnamed city to celebrate a festival outside of it, at a cave shrine that housed an idol the locals worshipped as Apollo. The author described the worshippers as a huge crowd: “The multitude of those performing the festival went almost beyond number. The armed crowd flocked to the cave to celebrate the statue.”122 The narrative culminates in the statue’s confession: after the saint successfully commands the idol to confess the one true god, the crowd rushes to destroy the statue.123 Parallel to the emphasis on the number of people moving to saints’ sanctuaries and festivals is an emphasis on the number of people subsequently beholding their miracle-working activities. The presumably locally-authored hagiographic texts underscore the number of people in the region who are witness to a saint’s miracles:                                                                                                                 121 Ὃ δὲ Κυπρίων ἔστιν ἔτι καὶ νῦν διηγουµένων ἀκούειν, κἀγὼ διηγήσοµαι. Τῶν γάρ τις εὐπατριδῶν καὶ πιστῶν ἐπιβάς ποτε ὁλκάδος παρὰ τὴν µάρτυρα ἠπείγετο, προσευξόµενός τε αὐτῇ καὶ τὴν ἑορτὴν θεάσασθαι βουλόµενος ἣν ἄγουσι µὲν ἑκάστου ἔτους οἱ καὶ πολῖται καὶ σύνοικοι τῆς µάρτυρος, τιµῶσι δὲ πάντες ἄνθρωποι. Ἀλλ’ ὁ µὲν τῇ κατὰ τὴν Ἰσαυρίδα ταύτην χέρσῳ προσορµισθεὶς καὶ ἀποβάς, εὐθὺς εἴχετο τῆς ἐπὶ τὸ µαρτύριον ὁδοῦ καὶ πορείας ἅµα καὶ οἷς ἐπήγετο· γαµετὴ δὲ καὶ παῖδες ἦσαν οὗτοι καὶ οἰκέται. Καὶ τῶν ναυτῶν δὲ οἱ πλείους ἢ καὶ πάντες πόθῳ τῆς ἱερᾶς πανηγύρεως ἐφείποντο... (Mir. 15.1, trans. Johnson 2012: 67). The text distinguishes between the citizens – presumably, of Seleukeia – and the ‘co-inhabitants’, a group often interpreted as the monastic community resident at the shrine, such as that named by the fourth-century pilgrim Egeria (Travels 23.3-4; Wilkinson 1999: 141). 122 Τὸ δὲ τὴν ἑορτὴν ἀφοσιοῦν πλῆθος µικροῦ και ἀριθµὸν ὑπερέβαινεν. ἒνοπλος δὲ ὁ ὂχλος παρὰ τὸ σπήλαιον ἣκων ἀφωσιοῦτο τὴν τιµὴν τῷ ἀγαλµατι. Vie de S. Konon 5, adapted from Halkin 1985: 23. 123 Εἶς ὁ θεὸς Κόνωνος, λέγοντες, ὁ θεὸς ἐνίκησε Κόνωνος. Vie de S. Konon 8. 76 “These witnesses are not three or four individuals – or some other scant and suspicious number – but entire cities and whole communities.”124 The size and numbers given do not, in all likelihood, reflect reality but rather a device employed by the author to exaggerate the scope of the saints’ impact for his audience’s benefit.125 The two episodes just described are examples of textual replication, what has been called mise en abyme, which refers to an instance in which “character[s] in the text whose activity somehow resembles (‘replicates’ or ‘reflects’) the activity of the reader, namely, the character who listens to a story even as the reader ‘listens’ to the larger story of the textual whole.”126 In the case of the crowds described in Konon’s miracles, their sheer number is one strategy of the author’s to imprint the saint’s impact upon the local landscape: one that will endure, if their reactions are to be taken at face value. The declaration of Konon’s god as the explicitly εῖς ὁ θεὸς in Chapter 8 is emphasized by its repetition in Mir. 9, in which he drives out another demon from its hiding place, and “having seen all this, the gathered crowd began to shout as before: ‘There is one great god, [the god] of Konon. The god of Konon has triumphed.’”127 The detail of seeing noted in the passage is telling. All together, the crowd’s eyes are opened at the moment of Konon’s miracle (ἰδών, having seen/witnessed). Mayer and Allen talk about processions transforming the city into “a virtual church” through the attendance of large crowds at the stational service performed at the martyrion, where “the value of the martyr was said to                                                                                                                 124 Miracles of Thekla 29.1, trans. Johnson 2012: 119. 125 For a fuller discussion of enargeia, see Walker 1993; Webb 2009. 126 Walker 1993: 362. 127 Ὃ καἰ πᾶς ὁ παρεστὼς ὂχλος ἰδὼν πωνὰς ἐκείνας καὶ αὖθις τὰς προτέρας ἀφείς: “Εἷς θεὸς µέγας, ἐβόα, Κόνωνος. Ὁ θεὸς ἐνίκησε Κόνωνος. “Vie de S. Konon,” 8. 77 be reflected in the broad cross-section of the urban (at times, also rural) population that the occasion attracted.”128 Crowds of witnesses are not unique to the hagiographic texts outlining the lives of the saints of Cilicia. “The power that accrued from gathering groups, either as pilgrims or in a festival context, was well known to cotemporary church leaders.”129 Comparisons can be found in the crowds of pilgrims to Simeon Stylites detailed in the fifth century Religious History of Theodoret, who often refers to the masses of people who have come to seek out the presence of the holy man.130 An even earlier homily of Gregory of Nyssa (fourth century) compares the masses of people moving to and from the church of St Theodore in Euchaïta to columns of ants.131 Another text, also contemporary to the Life of Konon, demonstrates not only the size of the crowd, but also the particularities of its makeup. In John Moschos’ Pratum Spirituale, he evokes the diversity of the group that witnessed a miracle of the host that took place in Seleukeia: This great and fearful wonder which defied all reason was not seen merely by two or three persons or even by a few who could be easily counted. The whole church saw it: townsfolk and countrymen, natives and immigrants, all who travelled by land or by sea, men and women, old men and children, youths and elders, masters and slaves, rich and poor, rulers and their subjects, literate and illiterate, those dedicated to the clerical life and those who had espoused virginity and asceticism; widows and decently married people; those in and those under authority.132                                                                                                                 128 Mayer and Allen 2012: 183. 129 Sweetman 2010: 228. 130 I am grateful to Christine Shepardson and Susan Harvey, each of whom independently suggested that I pursue this comparison. 131 On Theodore 69, 3; translated in Leemans 2003: 90. 132 Τοῦτο δὲ τὸ µέγα καὶ φοβερὸν, τὸ ὑπὲρ πάντα λόγον, καὶ πάντα νοῦν καὶ πᾶσαν ἐνθύµησιν θαῦµα, οὐχ οἱ δύο, οἱ τρεῖς ἐθεάσαντο, οὐδὲ ὀλίγοι καὶ εὐαρίθµητοι µόνον, ἀλλὰ ὅλη ἡ ἐκκλησία, πολῖται, καὶ ἐγχώριοι, αὐτόχθονες, ἐπιξενούµενοι, ὅσοι τὴν ἤπειρον ὁδεύουσιν, καὶ ὅσοι τὴν θάλασσαν πλέουσιν, ἄνδρες καὶ γυναῖκες, γέροντες καὶ ἀφήλικες, νέοι καὶ πρεσβύτεροι, δεσπόται καὶ οἰκέται, πλούσιοι καὶ πένητες, ἄρχοντες καὶ ἀρχόµενοι, σοφοὶ καὶ ἰδιῶται, οἱ ἐν κλήρῳ, οἱ ἐν παρθενίᾳ, οἱ ἐν ἀσκήσει, οἱ ἐν χηρείᾳ, οἱ ἐν σεµνῷ, γάµῳ, οἱ ἐν ἐξουσίαις, οἱ ἐν δυναστείαις. John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale 79, trans. Wortley 1992: 64. Emphasis added. 78 In this passage, the range of people involved in the multitudes already evoked in the account of Thekla’s Miracles are here carefully detailed to emphasize that the miracle took place before the eyes of those of all walks of life. The many witnesses were said to have come “by land or by sea,” from near or far, to attend to the miraculous event. These details are important enough to the author for him to list them out, a literary convention echoed in other hagiographic texts of the time. It participates in a long tradition of ‘catalogue literature’ – for instance, Homer and the list of Greek ships, or Sumerian god lists.133 The listing of specifics in this case, however, insists that the miracles, and the Christianity they bring to the landscape, bear upon the entirety of the social fabric, no matter age, social class, gender, et cetera. In this way, the texts can be seen to figure in the configuration of the religious landscape in that they are engaged “with the complex whole of the society that produced them.”134 The lists of all who saw miracles occur, and saints direct them, substantiate this claim. The intended audience of the saints’ life or miracle collection is less easily pinpointed than many other genres of literature, at least in the sense that while the educated elite could be nodded towards in terms of language and allusion, these stories were meant to be accessible to the whole of the social continuum, read aloud to the assembled crowd on the occasion of their feast days.135 The significance                                                                                                                 133 My thanks to Scott DiGiulio for pointing out this literary heritage in the detailed hagiographic lists. 134 Harvey 2008: 612. 135 Rapp 1998 discusses the relationship between the saint, the hagiographer, and the audience. The style of the hagiographic texts was above the popular literature intended merely for uneducated and unsophisticated masses (Harvey 2008: 612). Maxwell 2006 discussed the public nature of Christianization and communication in late antique Antioch. 79 of the detailed list is seen also in the preface to the Miracles of Thekla, in which she watches over and appears to all, even Jewish and ‘Greek’ (non-Christian) doctors.136 Such appearances, when given with locative details, are one way to try to reconstruct the sorts of connections that made up the Christian landscape of fifth and sixth century Cilicia. In the following section, I refer to episodes in the Miracles of Thekla in order to create a spatial reckoning of the configuration indicated in the text. Connections In a discussion of the connections identified in the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla, priority must by default be given to the Miracles, because, as already noted, as the Life of Konon only mentions two names associated with places, Isaurians (as a regional/ethnic indication) and Bidana, the hometown of the saint, which is as yet unidentified on the ground.137 The lack of place names in the Life of Konon also reflects a certain time perspective. The sixth century author of the Life is attempting to place Konon and his witnesses in the first century iteration of the Cilician landscape, while in the Miracles Ps.-Basil is explicitly describing events he asserts took place in his contemporary, fifth-century landscape. Ps.-Basil can more confidently rely on the tradition of saint Thekla’s presence in the landscape, while the author of the Life of Konon must anchor his protagonist within his landscape through reference to details that are familiar to his audience, but which may not have contained many visible material                                                                                                                 136 Trans. Johnson 2012: 9. 137 See note 50, above. 80 traces of Konon that would indicate his presence.138 By placing a textual monument, the Life, in reference to those that may or may not have stood in the landscape, the author of the Life of Konon is actively participating in the ‘refashioning’ of his community and the landscape in which he resides, not just contributing to but also prescribing the local memories of the Christian landscape and those that preceded it.139 The Miracles of Thekla, on the other hand, recount episodes that point to regular connections between the dedicated main sanctuary and various named, and archaeologically known, settlements and churches in the immediate surrounding region, as well as to farther-flung communities like Ikonion and Tarsos. Table 2.2 outlines the various journeys described in the Miracles, and Map 2.2 visualizes them spatially. Both topographically and conceptually, the author of the Life and Miracles contextualizes the main sanctuary within contemporary religious, social, political, and physical travel networks, in order that the reader “has no doubt about these events, but rather can consider them from close up and examine the truth of what [he has] said.”140 This miracle account is not organized in a way that is immediately chronologically or geographically evident, as happens, for example, in the itinerarium of the 4th-century pilgrim Egeria, but they are loosely grouped thematically.141 The topographical details included in the Life and Miracles demonstrate that the author is familiar with the physical landscape, intraregional social and political interactions, and                                                                                                                 138 There is, however, a martyrion in Yanıkhan with a dedicatory inscription to Konon along with the saints George and Christopher, which I discuss at length in Chapter 3. 139 Harvey 2008: 607. 140 Preface to LM; trans. Johnson 2012: 3. 141 S. Johnson 2006: 170 and xix, where an outline of the Miracles is given. 81 place names of the region.142 I compiled references within the Miracles to travels made both to and from Hagia Thekla (modern Meryemlik), or within the region of Thekla’s chora as defined earlier.143 The locations to which the text refers are geographically widespread, as can be seen Table 2.1. From Antioch in the east to Selinous in the west, and as far north as Ikonion, by this reckoning Thekla ‘traveled’ posthumously over a remarkably large area (see Map 2.1). Twenty distinct places are named specifically; of these, ten were recorded as having been visited by Thekla herself.144 Some places named in the text cannot be identified on the ground with complete certainty (for example, Mt. Kokysion or Dalisandos).145 Under close examination, the Miracle stories reveal that Thekla traveled in almost every episode (see Table 2.1). These journeys usually took place in a dream, or waking vision, occurring so often and so consistently that the author sometimes referred to her appearance outside of her shrine as happening “in her customary way,” as he does regarding her appearance to Menodoros, the bishop of Aigaiai, when he is on assignment in Constantinople.146 Not all of Thekla’s miracle-working visits were significant undertakings in terms of travel. Some took place just outside her seat at the pilgrimage complex. The supplicant Paukikos regains his sight at the “small outer precinct which is a little ways from the                                                                                                                 142 For a discussion of the order underlying the organization of the miracle stories, see Johnson 2006. 143 I distinguish between Thekla (the saint’s character) and Hagia Thekla (the site including the sanctuary and the entirety of the complex), following Dagron 1978: 8. 144 These are, in alphabetical order: Aigai, Antioch*, Claudioupolis, Constantinoupolis*, Cyprus*, Dalisandos, Egypt*, Eirenoupolis, Hagia Thekla, Holmoi, Ikonium*, Kalameon/Rhodion, Ketis, Laistrygonia, Mount Kokysion, Myrsineon, Olba, Seleukeia, Selinous, and Tarsos. Those marked with an asterisk are not located within Cilicia. The places that Thekla herself visited are listed in Table 1. See also S. Johnson forthcoming: Fig. 2. 145 I have retained Hild & Hellenkemper’s assignment for Dalisandos at Sinabıç near Mut (1990: 233), even though French has argued strongly against it; he would have it put even farther north, near a höyük at Belören close to Isaura Nova (French 1981). 146 τοῦτο ἡ παρθένος προκαταµηνύει τούτῳ, ῇ νόµος αὑτῇ. Mir. 9, trans. Johnson 2012. 82 church, which is called Myrsineon, the ‘Myrtle Grove,’ where it is claimed and believed that the virgin martyr spends most of her time.”147 When a thief steals a votive cross dedicated to Thekla, the subsequent encounter between the saint and the thief takes place on the road to Seleukeia, where it is cut through the bedrock just at the point where it leads into the complex.148 In another miracle, she makes her way to the nearby harbor at Holmoi (modern Taşucu, the most proximate port to Cyprus) to save two boys from a boat in a storm: “the virgin appeared on the storm-tossed boat.”149 Other episodes, however, indicate that she traveled as far as Constantinople and Antioch (see Table 2.1). Many of the places recounted in the Miracles are farther-flung than those that have materially attested worship of saints in the wider region, that is, portable objects, tombstones and church dedications naming specific saints (see Chapter 3, pp. 122-132). The appropriation of those more distant places – in a way, bringing them under Thekla’s purview – may have acted as an embrace of sorts, one still tied together by the network, but which always comes back to Seleukeia. These episodes expanded her presence beyond the immediate region surrounding her sanctuary, out into the furthest reaches of Isauria and beyond, to Ikonion, Antioch and past them even to Cyprus.150 That is, when pilgrims came from those places and returned home, they took with them her influence in both memory and in material forms such as pilgrimage souvenirs.151 The reach of her authority expanded at a time when ecclesiastical building in the region far exceeds that of public building, suggesting some economic prosperity that facilitated the still-expanding                                                                                                                 147 ᾧ καὶ τὰ πλεῖστα ἐνδιαιτᾶσθαι λέγεται καὶ (10)πιστεύεται ἡ παρθένος. Mir. 23, trans. Johnson 2012: 93. 148 Mir. Ch. 22, trans. Johnson 2012: 22. 149 ἡ παρθένος ἐπὶ τῆς χειµαζοµένης καὶ ἢδη καταδὺεσθαι µελλοὺσης νεὼς φαίνεται. Ch. 15, trans Johnson, etc. 150 Johnson 2006: 169. 151 For more on pilgrimage souvenirs, see Chapter 5, pp. 221-226. 83 “monumental needs of Christianity.”152 These cities were connected, and they participated in each other’s economies, religious festivals, and political and cultural lives, while clearly maintaining identities of their own.153 Just as Paul is attributed as the patron saint of Tarsos in multiple episodes, the city of Diokaisareia contained an inscription naming it as “The City of Saint Luke.”154 Just as Thekla moved through the landscape to various events and places, such as the festival in her honor at Dalisandos in Miracle 26, so did Cilicians move towards the same places, and for the same events. These events could include festivals in celebration of the saint, which for Thekla took place on September 24. These places might have included the various churches dedicated to her, as narrated in Miracle 24 at Selinous (or even to other saints, with whom she may have shared some of these sacred spaces, as George, Christopher and Konon shared the dedication at Yanıkhan).155 It is the prohibition of just such movement that provoked a dispute between Seleukeia and Tarsos as recorded by Ps.-Basil in the Miracles of Thekla (Mir. 29). This was a case of bishop warring against bishop: the Tarsian bishop, Marianos, explicitly forbid his congregation from attending St Thekla’s festival and shrine: As the festival of the virgin got underway, at the same time when all people – especially the Cilicians – were hastening (as they still hasten today to our city and will continue as long as mankind exists) to honor the martyr, each for the benefit of his own soul. As a result both land and sea were overcrowded from the confluence of all the people at this spot, community by community, house by house, nation by nation. But this man , standing up in his own church,                                                                                                                 152 Elton et al. 2006: 306. 153 More implicit is the notion that even though Tarsos could be outright attributed to Paul and explicitly acknowledged as a more important city, a city like Diokaisareia was known in at least some circles as “The City of Saint Luke.” 154 Paul as the patron of Tarsos, Mir. 26, 29 inscription recording “the City of Saint Luke,” Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 72. 155 See Chapter 5, p. 224 for a discussion of Thekla and Menas’ shared visual space on portable objects. 84 forbade and prevented everyone from departing to our city and the martyr’s shrine. Such was his great threat and his revenge against Dexianos, to remove the customary adornment of the festival , and to deprive those who were headed to the martyr’s festival of the blessing from the martyr herself. 156 The healthy competition explicitly recorded between the cults of Thekla and Paul in Seleukeia and Tarsos, respectively, provides a parallel situation: Paul was a guest of the Seleukeians, and the virgin of the Tarsians, and great was the competition between the citizens: whether should flock to the apostle Paul on his feast day, or should likewise come from there to our apostle Thekla on the day of her festival. The rivalry over this issue has become great among all of us and is very beneficial and appropriate for Christian children and communities.157 It is this tacit agreement that the bishop Marianos of Tarsos has violated with his prohibition in Miracle 29 of Thekla’s legend. The importance of cross-community attendance at the saint’s festival should be underlined: their participation shaped not just ritual practice, but the economy and community identity.158 There was a strong continuity in overarching festival form and function from the pre-Christian into the Christian period, and the status of attendees of religious festivals spanned the social spectrum.159 The festival attested in Miracle 33 of Thekla’s Miracles is one of the earliest attested instances of such an event in its Christian guise, and its description demonstrates what a massive, community undertaking it was: The festival of the martyr was taking place, and the final day of the festival arrived, which we customarily call the ‘dismissal,’ since it signals the end of the festivities. On this day, everyone, both citizen and foreigner, man, woman, and child, both ruler and ruled, general and soldier, magistrate and private citizen, young and old, seaman and farmer, simply everyone who was zealous, would eagerly hasten to assemble, to pray to God, and to beseech the virgin martyr, and                                                                                                                 156 Miracles of Thekla Ch. 29.3; trans. Johnson 2012: 121. 157 Miracles of Thekla 4.1, trans. Johnson 2012: 17. 158 Webb 2009: 33. 159 Vryonis 1981. 85 after taking part in the divine mysteries, they would depart sanctified and renewed in body and soul, just like a newly baptized initiate.160 Festival processions taking place along the connections between different places in the landscape impacted its configuration through the simple fact that they made the stamp of Christianity visible through its practices and its movements: “The saints’ shrines became more visible as Christian places on Chrysostom’s map of the region’s landscape during the festival celebrations; and as the Christians left the shrine, their chaste procession became an additional site of Christianity.”161 While the landscape described in the Life of Konon is, as observed, vague compared to the many place names provided in the Miracles of Thekla, other textual sources name travelers to the region, most of whom came to Hagia Thekla.162 Most famous, of course, is the fourth century pilgrim Egeria, who came to Seleukeia - going through the city of Seleukeia but explicitly not staying there163 – by way of Korykos from Tarsos, where she returned after praying at Thekla’s shrine, reading her Acts and lodging with the monastic communities surrounding the sanctuary itself. Besides the Miracles themselves, it is to a great extent the relatively brief account of her visit (Chapter 1, p.12- 13) that informs our understanding of the site and the cult itself.164 The presence of the monastic communities is something almost entirely drawn from this account, though                                                                                                                 160 Mir. 33, trans. Johnson 2012: 1330. Ἦν ἡ τῆς µάρτυρος αὐτῆς ἑορτή, καὶ ἡ τελευταία τῆς ἑορτῆς ἡµέρα, ἣν δὴ καὶ ἀπόλυσιν καλεῖν ἡµῖν ἔθος, ὡς ἂν καὶ πέρας ἐχούσης λοιπὸν τῆς ἑορτῆς. Ἐν ταύτῃ πᾶς τις ἐπείγεται καὶ ἀστὸς καὶ ξένος, καὶ ἀνὴρ καὶ γυνὴ καὶ παιδίον, καὶ ἄρχων καὶ ἀρχόµενος, καὶ στρατηγὸς καὶ στρατιώτης, καὶ δηµαγωγὸς καὶ ἰδιώτης, καὶ νέος καὶ πρεσβύτης, καὶ ναυτίλος καὶ γεωργός, καὶ πᾶς τις ἁπλῶς πρόθυµος συλλεγῆναι σπουδαιότερον, καὶ Θεῷ τε προσεύξασθαι, καὶ ἱκετεῦσαι τὴν παρθένον, καὶ τυχὼν τῶν θείων µυστηρίων ἀπελθεῖν ἡγιασµένος καὶ ὥσπερ τις νεοτελὴς ἀνακαινισθεὶς καὶ σῶµα καὶ ψυχήν. 161 Shepardson 2014: 165, 186. 162 The survey that follows is thorough without claiming to be comprehensive, but should give an indication of the popularity of Thekla’s cult in late antiquity. 163 The account of Egeria’s trip to Seleukeia is recounted in Egeria’s Travels 22.2-23.6 : trans. Wilkinson 1999: 140-141. 164 Egeria’s Travels Chapter 9, 22.1-23.6. Trans. Wilkinson 1999: 140-141. 86 autopsy of the site today does indicate industrial and residential facilities outside the ‘temenos’ wall (Figs 2.1-2.3).165 Egeria’s report that she came to the shrine and read the Acts of Paul and Thekla has informed our notions of the type of veneration that took place, and the importance of reading a saint’s legend in immediate proximity to their relics, and to a wider, contemporary development of ritual and the material sacrality of the hierotopies, or built sacred spaces, around the locations of saints’ purported relics or activities.166 The account also provides a ‘sneak peek’ into the relationship between the sanctuary and the city of Seleukeia: instead of staying in the city, where she noted a ‘very beautiful church’, she proceeded immediately on to the sanctuary and stayed there. Egeria mentions having been in Tarsos on her journey to Jerusalem, but does not mention any monuments, or saints to which those monuments may have been dedicated. However, as that portion of the text has not been preserved, it is unclear whether or which saints she may have stopped to venerate on her way through Cilicia the first time.167 Presumably, as Wilkinson suggests for her parallel comment at Antioch, she had described its holy sites on the Jerusalem-bound leg of her journey.168 Gregory of Nazianzos mentioned his stay at the shrine to Thekla associated with Seleukeia in an autobiographical poem: πρῶτον µὲν ἦλθον εἰς Σελεύκειαν φυγάς,                                                                                                                 165 See Chapter 4 for a more detailed description of the site and its workings. Upon my visit to the site in July 2013, it appeared that excavations had been taking place to the northwest of the site, but I have been unable to locate any publications on new archaeological research in the last several decades. Industrial facilities cover the southern slope of the hill upon which the complex is situated. 166 Brown 2006; Lidov 2006. 167 In his introduction to the English translation of what remains extant of Egeria’s Travels, Wilkinson (1999) discusses the textual tradition. The surviving text ‘picks up’ in the middle of her narrative, at which point she is already in the Sinai. 168 Wilkinson 1999: 140, n. 6. 87 τὸν παρθενῶνα τῆς ἀοιδίµου κόρης Θέκλας. .... καί µοι διῆλθεν οὐ βραχὺς τῇδε χρόνος.169 first I went as a fugitive to Seleucia, to the retreat of the famous virgin Thecla. .... and there I spent a considerable time.170 Unfortunately, Gregory does not describe in detail what he did with his ‘considerable time’ there, the surrounding topography or contemporary events that occurred during his stay, thought to be 375-379 CE.171 His account is significant here because it corroborates Egeria’s statement that she stayed at the sanctuary itself, indicating that there was indeed a community built up around the hilltop shrine where visitors could find accommodations for visits both short (Egeria’s two-day sojourn) and long (Gregory stayed for approximately four years). Theodore, bishop of Mopsuestia during the first quarter of the fifth century, made an intra-Cilician pilgrimage to Thekla in order to seek her guidance in interpreting the Scriptures.172 Theodoret of Cyrrhus, writing just before the author of the Miracles of Thekla, also recorded the visits of several contemporary Syrian ascetics – both male and female – to Thekla’s sanctuary.173 He relates that Marana and Cyra, a pair of female ascetics from                                                                                                                 169 Περι τον εαυτου βιον lines 547-549, 552. PG 37.II.1. De vita sua 548–9 (PG 37. 1067); For Gregory of Nazianzus’ flight to Seleukeia, see Davis 2003: 5; Daley 2006: 13. 170 Trans. Carolinne White 1996: 51. 171 Daley 2006: 13. 172 Canivet 1977: 278, n. 102. Price designates Theodore “the most distinguished Syrian pilgrim” to Thekla’s shrine (1985: 185, n. 5). 173 Theodoret is thought to have written the collection that now comprises the Religious History (trans. R. M. Price 1985) around 440 CE. See Price’s introduction for a discussion of the chronology (and reliability) of the text, as well as the author’s contemporaneous knowledge of the protagonists. 88 just outside Berroia in Syria, journeyed to “the shrine of the triumphant Thecla in Isauria” without stopping to eat, a journey that can be calculated to at least nine days and 450 kilometers.174 A century and a half later, John Moschos included a brief mention of Thekla and Seleukeia in the itinerary of a certain John the Anchorite, who made a habit of visiting a number of saints during his forays out of his cave near Jerusalem.175 Sometimes this elder would decide to go somewhere on a journey; maybe a great distance... to visit martyrs many a long day’s travel from Jerusalem [the nearest city to his cave of residence]. He was greatly devoted to the martyrs, this elder. Now he would visit Saint John at Ephesos; another time, Saint Theodore at Euchaïta or Saint Thecla the Isaurian at Seleucia or Saint Sergios at Saphas. Sometimes he would go to visit this saint, sometimes another.176 This passage highlights connections but also returns to the point of distinction between the evangelizing missions of the two saints whose Life and Miracles are being interrogated in this chapter. Thekla is placed among the ranks of some of the most esteemed and famous saints of the late antique world. Thus it seems that Thekla was ranked amongst the ‘worldwide’ saints of the Roman empire, whose universalizing appeal made her the object of veneration not only in Cilicia, but also in Egypt and the city of Rome. In the concluding section, I contrast the impressions garnered from the spatial details of the Life of Konon and Miracles of Thekla to set the scene of a multiply layered                                                                                                                 174 τῆς καλλινίκου δὲ Θέκλης ἐπιθυµήσασαι θεάσασθαι τὸν ἐν Ἰσαυρίᾳ σηκὸν. Religious History XXIX.7, trans. Price 1985: 185. (PG 82. 1283–496). See also Frank 2008: 830. For the early 5th century date, see Swan, The Forgotten Desert Mothers: Sayings, Lives, and Stories of Early Christian Women (2001: 88). Travel time and distance calculated in Stanford University’s ORBIS workspace (orbis.stanford.edu) between Berroia and Korykos (Seleukeia was not an optional destination in the program). I qualify ‘at least’ because this travel included sea travel; if they took an overland route, the journey would surely have taken even longer. For a discussion of this episode as one “in which asceticism and pilgrimage perfectly converge,” see Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 179. 175 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale (Spiritual Meadow), trans. John Wortley (1992). Wortley dates the collection to around the year 600 CE (1992: ix), 160 years after Theodoret’s collection is thought to have been written (440 CE). See the Introduction for further discussion of this passage and its relevance to the overarching goals of this research project. 176 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale: 180, trans. John Wortley 2008 [1992]: 149-150 (PG 87: 2851-3116). 89 Christian Cilicia, in which the material evidence can be contextualized in the following chapter. Conclusions: the configuration of the landscape In this chapter, I have attempted to draw out elements of two hagiographic texts, the Life of Konon and the Miracles of Thekla, supplemented by other fourth to seventh century texts, that can begin to reconstruct various configurations of the Christian landscape of Cilicia. I have argued that the texts, instead of being seen as competitors for a primacy within the landscape, can be seen as working in tandem to produce different types of narrative, that is, configurations on a universal and imperial (Thekla) and local (Konon) scale.177 The configuration within which the author of each text was operating in turn shaped each saint’s cult in a different way. In the case of Konon, the rural landscape is seen as the site of Konon’s ascetic perfection,178 while also becoming more visibly Christian under his influence.179 The Cilician landscape and its inhabitants are conveyed as having the appropriate strength and piety to become Christian on their own terms. Thekla, on the other hand, is already perfected as a saint by the time she reaches Seleukeia. Because of her connection with Paul, she is already an accepted member of the apostolic pantheon, and thus established the region as one of the ‘apostolic landscapes’ that received special attention from the apostles of Jesus and retains prestige from it.180                                                                                                                 177 Yasin 2012: 270 cited, among others, Pülz 2012’s discussion of competition at Ephesos between the shrine to St John and the monasteries dedicated to the stylite Lazaros (243-244). 178 Goehring 2003: 445. 179 “Christian ascetics appear to have had a strong influence on making the places and people of the countryside more visibly Christian” (Shepardson 2014: 190). 180 For apostolic geography, Johnson 2010; for apostolic landscapes, Johnson 2006: 10. 90 These hagiographies of the two saints intersect because they both prescribe Christian events over a well-known local topography, each manifested in different ways. Thus it is that they both describe configurations of the Christian landscape through the details of stories that had local resonance through the descriptions of the landscape through which they physically wove their presence, particularly through Christian religious processions.181 This movement, in the texts and on the ground, is what helped to configure a recognizably Christian Cilician landscape. The notion of movement in the framework of a Christian prescription of landscape revolves around the connectedness between the places that served as anchors for its conceptual as well as physical organization. In that most stereotypically mobile type of Christian movement, pilgrimage, Blake Leyerle has asserted that “notions of connectedness are primary; what seems to change over time is the nature of that connectedness.”182 In this chapter, I have focused upon the connectedness primarily described in the texts, and have argued that the nature of the connectedness changed through movement between places that themselves were impacted by the arrival of Christianity and its holy agents, specifically Thekla and Konon. The texts are not, however, the only point of access for reconstructing the configuration of a Christian Cilicia. The places described in the text often, and pointedly, had material correlates that are extant as archaeological remains in the modern Turkish landscape. In the following chapter, I turn to those material remains to complicate and enrich our understanding of the configuration prescribed in the locally based saints’ lives.                                                                                                                 181 Frankfurter 2006: 19. On processions as creating individual Christian loci, see Shepardson 2014: 177. 182 Leyerle 1998: 120. 91 CHAPTER 3 PATTERNS OF CULT AND DEVOTION IN THE CILICIAN LANDSCAPE Introduction In the previous chapter, the discussion focused upon the literary figures that populated the early Christian Cilician landscape in the minds of its inhabitants. Setting aside for a moment the characters that helped to shape the nascent Christian landscape, this chapter in its first half explores patterns of cult and devotion deduced from the spatial distribution of the architectural evidence. To that end, the main goal of this chapter is to locate and correlate early Christian sacred places with topographical, political, and cultural variables. In what follows, my analysis is based on the premise that the early Christian inhabitants of Cilicia chose to commemorate their holy dead with discretely defined, physically and socially well-connected, sacred spaces: churches and their associated complexes. The materialization of this commemoration was not always consistent, at least among the remains of the pilgrimage churches extant in the region today. The Christians of fifth and sixth century Cilicia may not always have chosen to put their churches in places where tradition had housed pre-Christian gods, in an explicit attempt to be ‘victorious.’1 Neither did they rely simply upon concerns of economy or accessibility to choose where churches were constructed. There was a certain logic to a given location that appealed to them “beyond purely practical considerations,”2 and the decision to                                                                                                                 1 For a recent discussion of the conversion and placement of churches in relation to pagan cult and how it varied over time and space across the Mediterranean, see Hahn et al. 2008. 2 Varınlıoğlu 2007: 81. 92 appropriate or build ex novo was a deliberate strategy for claiming authority in the landscape, a topic that is discussed at greater length in the concluding chapter. The specifics behind strategies of appropriation are not easily accessible. Yet the motivation for scholars to access that logic remains, because, as Rebecca Sweetman has argued for the early Christian Peloponnese, “even if Christianization was not a forceful process, to a certain degree it had to be an active one.”3 Clearly, the local Christian population chose, at certain times, to install a church in an earlier pagan structure; at others, to construct churches around tombs to which they had attributed a saintly presence; and at still other times, to build a church where there was no currently identifiable preceding association.4 It is also clear that neighboring pagan temples and Christian churches could be active simultaneously, even well after Christianity had moved into a region and been established as a dominating force.5 The tension between churches and temples, as well as between churches themselves, is one facet of the fluid and shifting configuration of the devotional landscape, and like the other approaches just outlined, were all strategies for appropriating, claiming, and proclaiming the authority of Christianity in the Cilician landscape.                                                                                                                 3 Sweetman 2010: 243. 4 For the conversion of pagan temples, see Bayliss 2004. The construction of churches around tombs attributed to martyrs and saints is common throughout the Mediterranean. Their location in Roman nekropoleis can explain the otherwise puzzling placement of churches in the midst of pagan temple-tombs (e.g., at Lamos in western Rough Cilicia: see Rauh et al. 2009: 304). Wulf- Rheidt has suggested that the North Church at Akören II was constructed on or within an earlier Roman building which belonged to an imperial association or society, rather than a temple (2011: 192-3); at Sivastı, a known imperial period exedra (with inscriptions) was transformed into the apse of a small church (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 416-417). 5 Along with active pagan religious practice, evidence for Judaism increases in the third and fourth centuries, with reduced but not obliterated activity in the fifth and sixth (Durugönül and Mörel 2012: 304, 317). 93 Using calculations based on comparisons with the textual and material evidence from neighboring regions, Hugh Elton has estimated that there were up to 1100 late Roman churches in the province of Isauria, the western half of Cilicia, alone.6 This density of built structures suggests that Christianity was a very visible part of the material fabric, held together by the way people moved to, and between, devotional spaces. We can explore the choices that were made regarding the construction of churches, and the subsequent impacts that this might have made on local dynamics, by tracing the patterns left by the remains of ecclesiastical spaces in the region. For a broad overview of the region, I have plotted the locations of churches that are plausibly contemporary (based on architectural studies conducted in the area) to the writing of the Miracles of Thekla and Life of Konon (fifth and sixth centuries CE). Because most of the churches have been dated purely by architectural analysis, it is rarely possible to assign a more refined dating than a “fifth/sixth century” window.7 However, through this localization, it is possible to visualize discernible spatial patterns in the distribution of churches in the region. A discussion of the general distribution of Isaurian and Cilician churches illuminates our understanding of the visible, material footprint of the early Christian presence in, and on, the landscape. In this last part of the chapter, I return to a discussion of the distribution of figures that populated the local inhabitants’ imagination of Cilicia. While antique authors writing                                                                                                                 6 This estimate accounts for an area of roughly 120,000 square kilometers, the provincial boundaries of which obviously varied over time and administrative changes (Elton 2013: 234). Because of the inevitable decay of built structures, along with later occupation and building, especially in urban areas like Tarsos and Seleukeia (modern Silifke), it is impossible to achieve a complete picture of the nature and distribution of ecclesiastical architecture in the late antique period. 7 Even at the complex at Alahan, discussed on pp. 165-168 below, which has actually been excavated (Gough 1985), there is little stratigraphy upon which to base precise dates (Elton 2002). See also Hill’s discussion of chronological issues (1996: 9-10). 94 from outside Cilicia do occasionally refer to other shrines or holy men as destinations of pilgrimage within the region, the overwhelming majority place Hagia Thekla and the neighboring city of Seleukeia at the epicenter of movement, and therefore the region has long been characterized as the domain of St Thekla. But her assumed primacy is complicated by the presence of other saints who populated the Cilician landscape. To contextualize the literary traditions into the material fabric of the landscape and other saints present in it, I draw upon the distribution patterns identifiable in the regional corpus of inscriptions, in order to explore the impact of saintly portfolios – that is, the multiple instances that a single saint may appear – within Cilicia. From the frequency and distribution of attested presence, and arguable influence, of saints’ cults in the region, I move on to explore the distribution of churches within the wider settled landscape. Before I address the questions sketched above, however, I present a brief summary of the characteristics of churches in the project study area as they have been treated in the archaeological scholarship.8 The study of churches in Cilicia Typical Cilician Churches The typical Cilician church was constructed in ashlar masonry from the region’s native limestone, with relatively rare appearances of brick or marble. Since the publication of Cyril Mango’s influential article “Isaurian Builders” in 1966, it has been widely accepted that the superiority of the regional limestone seems to have been                                                                                                                 8 A history of scholarship of early Christian archaeology across Asia Minor can be found in Frend 1996: 91-107. 95 paralleled by the caliber of the native stonemasons, who not only built plentifully in their homeland but appear to have traveled extensively as building contractors throughout the early Byzantine world.9 Traditionally, the phenomenon of traveling Isaurian builders has been attributed to a lack of gainful employment at home; Hill has suggested that seasonal movements to find work in the late Roman period would have been an easy transition for the Isaurians, whom he argues were a transhumant pastoralist population for millennia, up to and through Roman administration of the area.10 Fifth and sixth century Cilician church-building is a tradition that is solely reliant upon the basilical form, which is, in its most basic definition, a longitudinal, hall-like form adopted from pre-Christian Roman buildings, and made up of a nave and side aisles. As Christian churches, basilicas were usually oriented east to west, with an apse at the eastern end, the place of the altar and the focus of worship (Fig. 3.1).11 This form distinguished it from those seen in neighboring regions, such as Cappadocia and Syria, which include circular, cruciform, square and polygonal forms.12 Most of the Cilician examples are three-aisled (Fig 3.2).13 Hansgerd Hellenkemper listed eight other typical features amongst the characteristics most particular to Cilician churches – including the                                                                                                                 9 Mango 1966. The prominence and influence of Isaurian builders has been taken up explicitly by Gough (1972) and Hill (1975, 1977). Eyice has posited that the buildings in Isauria for which Isaurian builders were responsible were made up of itinerant specialists, rather than workmen from the villages themselves (1998: 23). The Isaurian builders’ capacity for working stone seems not to have extended to other building techniques: a recent study by Urs Peschlow on the bricks and brick stamps from the cisterns at Hagia Thekla suggests that brick masons were sent as a group from Constantinople, who brought their stamps with them and produced bricks not only for the imperial foundations at Hagia Thekla, but also for export (2009: 70-71). See also my discussion of the connections between production and trade with the location and construction of pilgrimage churches in Chapter 6, pp. 256-257. 10 Hill 1996: 5-7. Cf. Robinson 2007, who cautions against assuming continuities in Tauros transhumant populations. 11 Lowden 1997: 34-35; Krautheimer 1986: 517. 12 Hill 1996: xxi. 13 Mietke 2009b: 36. 96 presence of galleries and an absence of windows on the north façade – which coincided almost exactly with those provided by Semavi Eyice just a few years earlier (Table 3.1).14 Stephen Hill later developed their suggestions,15 exploring in more detail the variations in the specifics of the basilical plans. By his categorizations, the so-called ‘Domed Basilicas’ and ‘Transept Basilicas’ make up a large portion of ecclesiastical buildings recorded in the region.16 There is also the frequently occurring ‘eastern passage’ to be taken into consideration, a feature that has been associated with martyrial ritual,17 discussed in more detail below. Intraregionally, the various combinations of features allows for a certain degree of geographical categorization to be made. Bayliss has noted that while the individual features of several churches in the upper Cilician plain are not unique, “the particular combination of these characteristics and the local interpretation of the Syrian style of adornment” set them apart from the other churches with which they are often grouped in western Cilicia.18 In eastern Cilicia, for example, the apse was fit snugly and wholly between the side chambers, although it did curve and project slightly to allow for the three windows placed symmetrically (Fig. 3.3).19 In Alahan, much farther to the west, on the other hand, the East Church’s apse was completely enclosed within the wall that linked the side chambers at its north and south (Fig. 3.4).                                                                                                                 14 Hellenkemper 1994: 225; Eyice 1988: 19-20. 15 Hellenkemper 1994: 217-232; Eyice 1988: 19-23. 16 “The critical ‘Domed Basilicas’ and ‘Transept Basilicas’ form a coherent group in architectural and geographical terms, and may reasonably be supposed to have benefited from imperial support” (Hill 1996: 8). 17 Hellenkemper 1994: 233-234. See Mietke 2009 for identification of martyria through archaeological remains without corresponding inscriptional evidence. Hill has called the eastern passage “the most remarkable characteristic of Cilician church planning” (1996: 28). 18 Bayliss 1997: 76. See also Hellenkemper 1994: 228. 19 Hill 1996: 21. 97 With regard to regionalism in the scholarship on the architectural tradition, there are, however, some who preserve a distinction between ‘Isaurian’ and the wider Cilician ecclesiastical tradition. I follow Hill in grouping the churches in Isauria and Cilicia together, particularly in contrast to the tradition known from nearby northern Syria (for example, the eastern Cilician tradition of preserving galleries over the aisles), under whose ecclesiastical administration Cilicia operated, as well as those of Lykaonia and the plateau (characterized by cross churches and barrel vaulted hall-churches).20 Varınlıoğlu, in her study focused explicitly on southeastern Isauria, includes some western Cilician – administratively, Cilicia I – churches in her categorization as ‘Isaurian’ based on the similar artistic tradition, while excluding those farther east as comparanda.21 Bayliss has argued more firmly for a division between eastern and western construction techniques.22 For the purpose of looking at the general distribution of churches within geographical boundaries conceptualized by their contemporary inhabitants as having been an (albeit fluidly) defined whole, I have included all known Cilician and Isaurian churches in the distribution map. Most churches of the churches in this study, however, exhibit a number of features that carry across the region. A typical church form that would be recognizable in both eastern and western Cilicia is the example of the well-preserved basilica at Cambazlı (Fig. 3.5).23 This church, measuring 29 by 22 meters, stands within the northwestern corner of a 75-meter square walled precinct, and was possibly transformed from a pagan                                                                                                                 20 Hellenkemper 1994: 232; Hill 1996: 4. Bayliss, however, has argued for a more distinctive division between eastern and western construction techniques (2004: 67). 21 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 101, n. 147. 22 Bayliss 2004: 67. 23 Hellenkemper 1994: 225; described in detail in Hill 1996: 106-110. Most scholars refer to the modern location as Canbazlı, though the Turkish informational signs read Cambazlı. 98 temple, though other scholars have argued that the precinct wall is contemporary to the construction of the church.24 Whether by the reuse of a pre-existing structure or simply new construction with spolia, the builders went to great lengths to produce a characteristically Cilician church. It has a large, irregular narthex that may be a consequence of how the Christian structure sits on pre-existing temple foundations, or possibly the result of several phases of construction post-dating the basilica itself.25 Scholars agree that the construction of the church dates from the middle of the fifth century to no later than the first half of the sixth.26 The church at Cambazlı had three aisles on the interior and the galleries can still be seen above the side aisles (Fig. 3.6). From the exterior it has a boxy form, because the apse was completely enclosed by the square walls of the side chambers, which met behind the east end of the apse (Fig 3.7). Still, a large window, now largely demolished, would have stood in the middle of the apse (Fig. 3.8). Like many Cilician churches, it had windows along the south side of the church but none on the north, most likely as a precautionary measure because of bad weather coming down from the Tauros Mountains to the north (Figs. 3.9 and 3.10).27 The foregoing description of a typical church is useful because it provides both chronological as well as geographical boundaries. After the seventh century, Cilician churches were usually small, single-chambered buildings, distinguishing them from the                                                                                                                 24 Hill 1996: 107 argued for its conversion from a temple; Bayliss has provided more detailed evidence for its interpretation as later in date, as well as comparisons to fortified churches outside of urban settings, as at Hagia Thekla (2004: 90-92). 25 Hill 1996: 108; Bayliss 2004: 92. 26 Hill 1996: 107. 27 Hellenkemper 1994: 225. 99 basilicas that came before, which date to the 5th-6th centuries.28 Thus, even though most Cilician basilicas are not precisely datable, the decline in construction of similar forms does provide a convenient cut-off date for this study. As is the case elsewhere in the ancient Mediterranean, Jackson has noted the Cilician penchant to build “from materials suited to local environments and [which] often reflect local building techniques and cultural traditions.”29 In Cilicia, the same description can also be applied to the region’s churches, except for the basilica at Kilise Tepe, which features a greater amount of imported marble than most other churches in the region.30 The local limestone could be ornately carved to decorate ecclesiastical structures, as at Alahan.31 Evliya Çelebi, a seventeenth-century traveler who stopped there on his way to Mecca, expressed his awe at the sculptural prowess he observed: There is marble working such that not even a master stonecutter of the present day would be competent to touch his pick to it. It was given to the people of that time to enchant the rocks, so that they carved every stone as if it were a work of the wood-carver Fakhri, into flowers and interlaces in the Greek fashion, so fine that a man stands stupefied in amazement at the sight of them.32 More recent evaluations of the Alahan sculpture are more tempered: Elton has observed that although the architectural sculpture in the complex was well-executed, it was, because of the material, neither expensive nor particularly uncommon, and could be                                                                                                                 28 Hill 1996: xxi. 29 Jackson 2013: 220. 30 Jackson 2013: 224. See also Elton 2013; Hill 1996. Hild and Hellenkemper also record marble architectural elements in the early Byzantine church at Crionario near Kelenderis (1990: 229- 230). 31 Mietke has recently suggested that the sculptural elements at Alahan were not as high a quality as originally assumed because of the site’s unusually fine state of preservation (2009: 39). 32 Translated in Mackay 1971: 173-174, where he also provides the passage’s location within the 1935 structuring of the original text: Seyahatname volume IX, pages 315-316. The carvings at Alahan are not marble, but limestone. 100 found throughout the region, even in comparably situated churches.33 Indeed, Elton has argued that the potential number of churches is not a direct result of the increased prosperity, but instead has more to do with the relatively cheap cost of church construction in a region rich in high quality limestone (Fig. 3.11).34 Types of Christian devotional spaces in Cilicia Art historians have often characterized early Christian religious buildings with labels that indicate form through function: terms such as ‘martyrium,’ ‘palace church’, ‘chapel’35, and ‘cathedral.’ However, these categories are limited both in terms of their wider applicability to real buildings, as well as in the relevance of their chronological scope, which is basically pre-Constantinian.36 Since Cilicia has no extant churches pre- dating the rule of Constantine, it is not surprising that these functional divisions in plan have not been strongly identified in the standing church structures. Mietke has examined three churches at Sebaste, Diokaisareia, and Korykos in detail, and has argued for their function as martyrial churches based on layout, though the three do not exhibit a common floor plan.37 The approach of examining each church in its particular context is, on the whole, useful for identifying early Christian religious buildings on the ground rather than                                                                                                                 33 Elton 2002: 155. Cf. Jackson 2007: 28. 34 Elton 2013: 246. Hellenkemper noted that the area of Cilicia with the most extant churches, Rough Cilicia, “coincid[es] precisely with an area of fine limestone, which stretches from the peaks of the Tauros down to the shores of eastern Cilicia” (1994: 219). 35 For instance, at Cacık, where the chapels of the small settlement are defined purely by size, and referred to as such more as a relic of their initial identification by Jerphanion and Jalabert (1911: 299); Hild and Hellenkemper presents the term in square quotes (1990: 220), and Hill simply refers to them as small churches (1996: 106). 36 Mayer and Allen 2012: 167, 169. 37 Mietke 2009. 101 attempting to shoehorn individual buildings, with all the peculiar features that are manifestations of local predilections, into generic and preconceived categories. While the focus in this region has, unsurprisingly, revolved around the major Christian shrines such as Hagia Thekla, there is evidence of Christian devotion in church form in the Cilician landscape that did not necessarily match the complex at Hagia Thekla in fame or monumentality. Whether urban or rural, the operation of these churches was dependent upon a local – and usually rural – population rather than upon the longer-distance pilgrims who came to visit the shrine of St. Thekla from places along the coast like Antioch, from nearby islands such as Cyprus, and as far away as Spain.38 The study of early Christian churches in Cilicia in particular has led to a surprisingly large amount of broader-resolution data with which to explore the overall picture of the distribution of Christian devotion in the landscape. Churches have long been the focus of Early Byzantine architectural studies across the Mediterranean.39 The most obvious reason for this state of affairs is that within the period’s architectural tradition, these buildings make up the substantial part of what has survived to today.40 The majority of the remains of the late Roman and early Byzantine period in Cilicia does not divert radically from that pattern: churches are the most identifiable feature of the early Christian landscape as we see it today, and that is reflected in the scholarship on the region’s standing architecture. In 1892, Headlam stated                                                                                                                 38 Alcock 1994: 248 discussed a similar endeavor with regard to pre-Christian cults in the Southern Argolid, with a focus on the rural context. 39 Krautheimer 1986; Mango 1967; Ousterhout 1999; Ousterhout (2008) provides an introduction to the subject. William M. Ramsay and Gertrude L. Bell’s The Thousand and One Churches is a foundational book for the history of the study of churches in Anatolia; see the editors’ (R. Ousterhout and M. Jackson) foreword to its recent re-printing (Bell and Ramsay 2008) for a summary of the circumstances under which these early twentieth century scholars approached the material remains of ecclesiastical architecture. 40 Ousterhout 2008: 353. 102 that, along with Lykaonia, Isauria was home to “the best preserved Christian monuments which I have seen. Their name is legion.”41 In 1903, Strzygowski posited that Cilicia was the richest area in Asia Minor for early Christian Kunstforschung.42 Fifty years later, Michael Gough echoed Strzygowski’s sentiments in one of the first surveys of Christian churches in the region, stating that there can be no quarrel with his description of the material to be found there as Schätze; Cilicia was, and still is a treasure-house of ancient monuments, and those of the early Christian period are particularly interesting and well-represented.43 Varınlıoğlu has cautioned that we not confuse the large number of extant churches in Cilicia with monumentality or architectural achievement: their most striking feature, in modern scholarship, is the simple fact that so many are still standing.44 In part, this high number – almost 250 – is a function of the size of the late Roman and early Byzantine provinces in southern Anatolia, compared to other Mediterranean regions that have seen intensive investigation and documentation of churches. Sikyonia in Greece, for example, is a rich archaeological region whose churches number more in the order of 20-30, and the whole late antique Peloponnese could boast of 130 extant examples.45 But it is important to keep in mind that the entirety of the Peloponnese is approximately 21,500 square kilometers, while in the sixth century the province of Isauria, roughly equivalent to the western half of the region of Cilicia, alone covers more than 25,000 square                                                                                                                 41 Headlam 1892: 22. 42 “Die für die altchristliche Kunstforschung ergiebigste Gegend Kleinasiens ist Kilikien, und es ist sehr zu beklagen, daß bis heute nicht ein Schritt getan wurde um jene Schatze zu heben” (Strzygowski 1903: 50-51). 43 Gough 1955: 201. 44 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 123-125. The Gertrude Bell Archive at Newcastle University, which contains digital reproductions of over 25 albums that Bell compiled during her travels in the early 20th century, is invaluable for comparison of how the relative state of these churches has changed over the last century (http://www.gerty.ncl.ac.uk/). 45 For Sikyonia, see Lolos 2011; for the Peloponnese, Sweetman 2010: 212. 103 kilometers.46 The high number of churches identified, then, is not so exceptional as it might seem initially. More comparable to Cilicia is the diocese of Lycia on the southwestern coast of Asia Minor, where, in an area of comparable size to Isauria, the number of recorded, extant churches is almost exactly the same: approximately 190 to Isauria’s 200.47 The most striking feature the Cilician churches collectively present is the state of preservation in which most of them have been found. Most examples are easily identifiable standing architectural remains (such as those discussed by Hellenkemper 1994); the rest are counted from the appearance of indicative architectural elements, sometimes identified as isolated features (as in several examples from the Göksu Archaeological Project [GAP]), but often used as spolia in later Ottoman and Turkish buildings. In Cilicia and Isauria, the abundance of churches is one part of a rich archaeological record through which to approach what Averil Cameron has referred to “the flavour of ordinary life.”48 Recent archaeological work in Cilicia has indeed begun to approach questions of late Roman and early Byzantine life outside the walls of the church.49 The success of this initiative is dependent upon a recent focus on the churches’                                                                                                                 46 Contra Elton’s quote of 120,000 square kilometers in his discussion of the distribution of churches across Isauria (2013: 234). 47 See Hild and Hellenkemper 2004. 48 Cameron 2006: 116. Jackson has asserted that the previous focus on isolated church structures is an issue of agenda, rather than available data (2013: 219). See also Mango 1978: 9. 49 Jackson 2007, 2013; Varınlıoğlu 2008a, 2008b, 2013; Mietke (1996 – Akören); Elton et al. 2006; Elton 2006; Eichner 2005, 2009; Ceylan 2009; Wulf 2003; inter alia. See Jackson 2013: 219-221 for an extended discussion of settlement archaeology in Cilicia and Isauria from the late Roman period on. Many archaeologists working out of the Research Center for Cilician Archaeology at Mersin University have ongoing work on the region, especially in Isauria (http://kaam.mersin.edu.tr/eng.html). This work, along with unpublished survey work farther east at the Bay of Iskenderun promises to give a wider view of rural patterns of settlement and 104 associated complexes and their position relative to contemporary settlement.50 Settlement complexes once labeled as monastic have since been identified as domestic, where Christian iconography was employed in an apotropaic sense.51 At other times the monastic label has been overturned on architectural grounds, such as at Akkale, which was initially identified by Bell as a fortified monastery, but has since been interpreted by Hill as a palace complex.52 At Sinekkale, Eichner has asserted that the small complex was not a monastery, but a villa rustica. Its location on a major road has raised the suggestion that it was once a hostel, but ultimately she has interpreted the site as an agricultural estate, including additional accommodations for travelers, with the apsed buildings serving as privately maintained chapels, rather than as monastic churches.53 The archaeological and historiographical contexts of church spaces in Cilicia The recent archaeological developments in our understanding of an identifiably Christian presence in the landscape outside cities and beyond the walls of the church                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           churches across the whole of Cilicia (http://www.doaks.org/research/byzantine/project-grant- reports/2010-2011/killebrew). 50 For example, much of the work on the Byzantine levels at Kilise Tepe has pursued questions of daily life taking place around, and in connection to, the basilica excavated there; see Jackson 2013. 51 Ousterhout and Jackson 2008: xxvii-xxviii. Elton has suggested that the so-called Byzantine church at Kilise Tepe could potentially be interpreted as a villa, instead of a church (2013: 240). 52 Hill 1994: 141; 1996: 47. Bell (1906b: 402) called attention to an inscription in the lintel of the gate in the wall surrounding the complex, which she did not record and confirmed had not previously been copied by Bent, which may have shed light on the issue. 53 For Sinekkale as a potential monastery, see Dagron and Callot 1998; as a villa rustica, see Eichner 2008. Other villae rusticae have been identified in Cilicia at Delikkale (Hild & Hellenkemper 1990: 236); Gökkale (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 260); Kazmaca (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 297); a Risalitvilla (with projecting corners, a subset of villae rusticae) at Roto: H&H 1990: 393. See also their list, which does not include all those that they discuss in the catalogue entries, on pp. 106ff. The Göksu Archaeological Project has marked several more (Elton 2013: Fig 19.2, marked ‘V’=Elite Residence). A large villa rustica is attested at Domuztepe (Rossiter and Creed 1991; Mitchell 2005: 100). 105 complexes complicate, as well as enrich, the picture of life in fifth and sixth century Cilicia and Isauria. The map of Byzantine sites in Cilicia and Isauria in Hild and Hellenkemper’s Tabula Imperii Byzantini 9: Kilikien und Isaurien (1990) indicated that, based on archaeological and textual sources combined, the balance between settlements with churches and those without leaned more heavily toward the latter (Fig. 3.12).54 Recent archaeological work in Isauria, however, has corroborated the notion that the scale of settlement above a certain footprint, more often than not, is correlative to the number of churches. In Varınlıoğlu’s survey of southeastern Isauria in the Yenibahçe Deresi, for example, she noted that there was only one exception to the pattern of churches located exclusively in what she defined as large villages, those that exceeded five hectares in extent.55 In other words, of the fourteen villages that she identified within her survey area, some may have functioned as Christian communities, even without churches of their own.56 If the inhabitants of villages-sans-churches considered themselves Christians, as has been accepted based on evidence of crosses cut into architectural features like the houses at Sinekkale (for a comparable example at Karakabaklı, see Fig. 3.13), then they would have had to undertake devotional travel to connected villages if they wanted to worship within the formal structure and ritual of the church.57                                                                                                                 54 Hild & Hellenkemper’s inclusion of a cross on the TIB map indicated the presence of a Christian element, such as the textual attestation of a bishopric, not a church specifically; however, it would be most unusual to have a bishopric in a settlement without a church. 55 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 40. The survey ordered the 14 settlements identified into a hierarchy of small, medium, and large villages (Varınlıoğlu 2008: 39-42). See also Eyice 1988: 19. 56 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 17. 57 Eichner 2011: 289. Christian symbols appeared in domestic contexts in settlements with churches, as well. At Emirzeli, a settlement with three early Byzantine churches, a large house on a slope facing the churches had two peacocks flanking a cross carved above the lintel (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 249; Eichner 2011: 138, Abb. 130-132). 106 The notion that some inhabitants traveled in order to participate in the wider Christian community is substantiated by the distribution of churches across the landscape, as isolated structures, in rural settlements, and in urban conglomerations. It also eliminates the possibility of an across-the-board correlation of settlement size and number of associated churches. While larger cities like Anazarbos and Anemurion had five or six churches of their own,58 and remains of at least fifteen churches have been documented in Korykos alone,59 there is an imbalance at some intermediate settlement sites. Hagia Thekla, which is categorized as an extensive but primarily ecclesiastical complex, with an settlement dedicated to both the monastic community and the receiving of pilgrims, has not weathered the vagaries of time as well as Korykos, but the archaeological work that has been done there demonstrates that it had as many as five churches, as many as a large urban area in the region.60 While the volume of visitors coming to Hagia Thekla may have precipitated the high quantity of churches, the number of churches at other, non-ecclesiastical settlements in Cilicia did not always necessarily reflect the needs of the inhabitants, as at Kanytellis, where “the quantity and quality of churches and funerary monuments far outweigh[ed] what would be required for the size of the settlement” (Fig. 3.14).61 This distribution suggests that people in the late antique and early Byzantine period were traveling across the countryside from smaller settlements or single farmsteads in order to worship at                                                                                                                 58 For Anazarbos, see Hill 1996: 85-91, with further bibliography; for Anemurion, Russell 1989. Numbers here are compiled from Hill 1996. 59 Hill 1996 documents fourteen churches in his catalogue; Mietke (2009: 130) notes an as-yet unpublished church discovered in Korykos. See also Herzfeld and Guyer 1930. Korykos’ prominence as a prosperous port in the fifth and sixth centuries and the fortunate fact that the site has seen relatively little new construction since that time certainly contribute to the comparatively large number of extant churches there. 60 Herzfeld and Guyer 1930. 61 Bayliss 2004: 86. 107 churches in more sizeable settlements, like Kanytellis. The details of such small-scale devotional travel will be explored more fully in Chapter 5 with regard to the distribution of churches contextualized in the travel network. The movement of people to and from these churches has ramifications outside the provincial boundaries of Cilicia, as well. Architectural debates surrounding churches in the region have long revolved around two related but distinct issues regarding the province’s architectural relationship with the imperial capital at Constantinople. First, there is the question of the region’s potentially innovative role in the development of early Christian architecture. For much of its history, the state of the field of architectural history has consisted of “preconceived ideas that since Cilicia was a backwater its churches were, in the last analysis, derivative and conservative.”62 Cilician churches were once thought to be “provincialised and insignificant” in the larger history of early Byzantine architecture, assumed to be copies of unidentified but presumed models that had initially been built in Constantinople.63 This notion was part and parcel of a wider perception that because the region was not as culturally sophisticated as the capital, the possibility that it could have generated an innovative and influential basilical form was by default precluded. In the late nineteenth century, for example – even during the spate of relatively systematic material analysis of the region – E.L. Hicks, in his preparation of Cilician inscriptions for Bent’s publication, deemed the region one of “a low level of culture” due to the rarity of its extant inscriptions relative to the rest of Asia Minor and Syria.64                                                                                                                 62 Hill 1996: xxii. 63 Hill 1996: xxxiii-xxxiv. 64 Hicks 1891: 226. 108 These ideas, however, have been largely overturned, since the mid-twentieth century and especially since the 1960s. As early as the 1950s, Michael Gough recognized the region’s proximity to Antioch as a potential inspiration and model for its churches, while cautioning against an overemphasis on what Herzfeld and Guyer had attributed to the influence of Byzantium.65 A major turning point in the previously negative view of Cilician building was the abovementioned article tracing the lives of the Isaurian builders by Cyril Mango, who demonstrated that Cilicia was not just a poor subsidiary of the more extensively explored northern Syria.66 This notion has developed to the point that, instead of looking outside the province for the origins of the form that the Cilician churches took, Hill has argued that they were “the prototypes of the great churches of the sixth century,” including such famous churches as the Justinianic construction of Hagia Sophia in the imperial capital.67 Much of that work relies on historical evidence, but archaeological and architectural surveys of the region have played a leading role in this unfolding scholarly development. The second major issue in debates about Cilicia’s architectural tradition is the question of imperial patronage at specific churches. At Hagia Thekla, it has been widely accepted that the emperor Zeno, a native Isaurian, sponsored the basilica of St Thekla built above the earlier cave church that housed her shrine. This attribution is based on a passage from Evagrius, which states that, while in exile in his homeland, the emperor had vowed a megiston temenos, a great precinct or temple, to the complex if he was restored                                                                                                                 65 Gough 1955: 211, esp. n. 44. 66 Mango 1966, “Isaurian Builders”; Dagron and Callot 1998: 55. For the extensive work done on the villages and provincial architecture of northern Syria, see Tchalenko’s foundational tome, Villages Antiques de la Syrie du Nord: Le Massif du Bélus a l'Époque Romaine (1953). 67 Hill 1996: 9; but see also Varınlıoğlu 2008: 123-125, who has argued that it is not possible “to pinpoint the precise role that Isaurian builders played in the great architectural projects of the sixth century” (2008: 124). 109 to his throne.68 Based on comparisons with this basilica, some scholars have suggested that other churches in the region, namely that of the monastic complex at Alahan, also benefited from imperial patronage.69 More recently, Elton has argued that the complex at Alahan, while dating to the reign of Zeno, was not built at the emperor’s behest. Unlike imperially funded churches, contemporary but locally patronized churches “were both smaller and more simply decorated.”70 Most of the churches in the region – except for the one more securely assigned to imperial patronage at Hagia Thekla and the unnamed church excavated at Kilise Tepe in the 1990s and 2000s – rarely featured imported or expensive materials.71 Thus, in addition to the fact of their locations in the rural settlements of the Isaurian and Cilician countryside, we can say that the ecclesiastical spaces of the fifth and sixth centuries were architecturally and materially integrated into and reflective of the communities within which they were situated, in terms of plan and building material. Since the mid-twentieth century, scholars have continued to grapple with the religious buildings before and after the arrival of Christianity in Cilicia. The work of Richard Bayliss systematically documented the changes seen in the sacred landscape through the conversion of pre-Christian temples, which had been dedicated to universal                                                                                                                 68 Elton 2002: 153; Evagrius, Church History 3.8. 69 Hill 1996 and Gough 1972. Tied into the question of imperial patronage in the province and its far-reaching effects on the capital is the suggestion first put forward by Strzygowski, just after the turn of the 20th century – and still debated today – that some churches in the region sported domes, such as the East Church at Alahan (Strzygowski 1903). While some scholars argue against it based on a lack of archaeological evidence, others continue to employ “Cilician ‘Domed Basilica’” as an analytical category: Hill 1998: 323-326 outlines the history of the argument over the superstructure of the East Church at Alahan. In the same article, he points to the more compelling evidence that the converted basilica at Dağ Pazarı (Koropissos) once supported a domed superstructure, while still referring to it as the ‘so-called Domed Basilica’ (333-336). Varınlıoğlu has argued against any of them being domed, including the basilica at Hagia Thekla (2008: 91). 70 Elton 2002: 154. 71 Elton 2002: 155; Jackson 2007. See also Mietke 2009a and Hill 1996. 110 as well as local deities, into early Christian churches.72 Mietke’s work on individual churches at Kanytellis with Stephen Westphalen, at the Great Church at Hagia Thekla, and on architectural sculpture found within the region (a topic also tackled by Westphalen), has contributed to the known corpus of the early Byzantine ecclesiastical architectural tradition in the region.73 Aligned even more closely with the goals of this thesis project, Mietke’s 2009 study of monumental martyrial churches critically and explicitly examined the potential contribution of material, non-epigraphic sources for a more comprehensive picture of the saintly topography of early Christian Cilicia.74 In it, she presented detailed architectural descriptions of three churches from central Cilicia – at Diokaisareia, Elauissa-Sebaste, and Korykos, respectively – on the premise that it is not plan or form that marks martyrial churches as such. Rather, the often idiosyncratic relationships between pre-existing tombs, church orientation towards and incorporation of those graves, and later, Christian ad sanctos burials, all taken together are more indicative of a church’s martyrial function, as well as the underlying strategies for claiming authority not just for the saint, but for the church’s existence there.75 One funerary practice of early churches was the phenomenon of depositio ad sanctos, the burial of community members near the relics of saints, both inside the church and outside it, a habit stemming from the belief that physical proximity of their remains would make the saint an intercessor for the deceased in the afterlife.76 Thus, from the 4th century on,                                                                                                                 72 Chiara Giobbe’s (2013) survey of temples in Rough Cilicia touches upon some of the same themes as Bayliss, but the length of her chapter keeps her analysis to a much more superficial level. 73 Mietke and Westphalen 1999; Mietke 2009a; Mietke 2009b; Mietke 2006; Westphalen 2006. 74 2009b. 75 For a detailed study of the relationship between ad sanctos burials and church functions across the late Roman Mediterranean, see Yasin 2009 (esp. 69-90, 151-209). 76 See Yasin 2009, esp. p. 21. 111 ad sanctos burial is a practice that can indicate the presence of saints’ relics – and therefore, local and regional pilgrimage to venerate them – in an early church.77 Mietke’s study, while encouraging a push beyond the epigraphically dependent architectural catalogue for identifying martyria, does not include the potential martyrial churches of the whole of Cilicia. Her compiled list of churches associated with the names of early Christian saints by necessity relied on epigraphic evidence, and thus does not include other potential examples like Mazılık or Aloda.78 The rest of this chapter builds upon the conversation started by Mietke to look more widely at the distribution of churches, martyrial or otherwise, that populated the Cilician landscape. General distribution of churches in 5th and 6th century Cilicia Nature of the evidence Church locations were plotted in a GIS (Geographic Information System) according to their associated urban designation (see Table 3.2). Nearly 250 churches, attested through structural foundations still visible in plan as well as by the record of individual architectural elements were plotted in approximately 150 different settlements of varying size, ranging from rural hamlets to the metropolis of Cilicia II, Anazarbos (see Map 3.1).                                                                                                                 77 This can be seen at the Church on the Agora in Elauissa-Sebaste, which was, by the fifth century, erected immediately next to the nekropolis. Based on the arrangement of the burials within the church, which are concentrated at the eastern end of the aisles and dated to the fifth through seventh centuries CE, Mietke argues that the church was a martyrion and that the relics would have been placed in an above-ground shrine, around which devotees sought burial ad sanctos (Mietke 2009c: 126). 78 These two are discussed most extensively, albeit briefly, in Edwards 1982 (Mazılık) and Gough 1957 (Aloda). 112 The locations of the churches that are visualized in the distribution maps come substantially from Hill’s 1996 catalogue, which in turn replicated the churches described in the site catalogue compiled by Hild and Hellenkemper. His catalogue relied almost entirely on plans of churches that he had visited himself. He did, however, mention churches attested by earlier travelers and archaeologists that have since disappeared. I have attempted to refine the location of individual churches that Hill identified as groups, such as the two churches at Demirciören, located four kilometers east of Korykos, which he included with that city’s group.79 Additionally, I have plotted potential churches identified in Hild and Hellenkemper’s catalogue that Hill did not include in his, such as Çukur/Çukurkeşlik, an early Byzantine church recorded by Hild and Hellenkemper in a small settlement located on a forest road between İmamlı and Çaltıbozkır.80 These additions were limited, however, to those basilicas that Hild and Hellenkemper identified as early Byzantine (fourth-seventh centuries CE).81 Some additions made under that chronological indicator, like the church at Araplar in the upper Cilician plain, are significant because of how they temper a distribution map that still leans heavily towards the west. I have also included a few others that Bayliss did not include in his catalogue of temple conversions in Cilicia, such as the Athena sanctuary in a cave at Tagai that was converted, by the fifth century, into the monastery en Tagais.82 Other entries have been                                                                                                                 79 Hill 1996: 144-147; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 237. 80 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 230-231. Hill (1996: 149) names Çukurkeşlik and cites the sources that Hild and Hellenkemper name for that site (1990: 231), but the dimensions he describes for the church there are the same as Hild and Hellenkemper give for Çukur (1990: 230). Another important addition is the early Byzantine church at Cumurlu, which is associated with an inscription naming the founders of the church (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 232). 81 I did not, for example, include Karaisalı, whose church was only qualified as ‘byz.’ (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 290). 82 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 424. Though Hild and Hellenkemper do not name the church ruins as early Byzantine, the attestation of an archimandrite of the monastery by the second half 113 cut from the catalogue, such as Çamlıca, which is a duplicate of the Hild and Hellenkemper entry on the site of ancient Philadelphia near modern Ermenek.83 To the list of approximately 170 churches drawn from Hill’s catalogue, I have added more than seventy, so that 249 churches formed the basis for this study (Table 3.2). Many of these were previously unknown churches recorded in the intervening years since the publication of Hill’s catalogue. Of these, the Göksu Archaeological Project (GAP) survey recorded nineteen churches not already documented in Hild and Hellenkemper or in Hill.84 While each identification is established by material evidence, some of them are made on the basis of single pieces of architectural blocks or sculpture.85 Accordingly, these designations are not as secure as those that comprise Hill’s catalogue. For instance, Elton has cautioned that some identifications, such as that at Kilise Tepe (‘Church Hill’), are based to a great extent on the modern toponym, while alternative interpretations, such as that of an elite residence, must also be considered as a possibility.86 Though the additional churches are not as conclusively identified as most of the discrete structures described in Hill’s catalogue, the settlements associated with these fragments may well have contained at least one church. Indeed, although the presence of architectural                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           of the fifth century makes it reasonable to assume that it was in existence by then (Frend 1972: 249). 83 Hill 1996: 147 and 175. Both entries refer back to Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 378, who in turn relied upon the testimony of Bean and Mitford 1970: 216. The mistake most likely stems from a misreading of Hild and Hellenkemper’s discussion of the correct location to be identified as Philadelphia. At other times, there is a church missing because of conflation, rather than doubling, of site names: Hild and Hellenkemper described a church at Karakilise (1990: 290- 291), as well as one at Kastalawn, which is also known in modern Turkish as Karakilise (1990: 295). Hill described, in his entry ‘Karakilise’, the single early Byzantine church at Kastalawn (1996: 194). 84 19 in the Upper Göksu Valley alone (Elton 2013: 233; 2008.) 85 Elton 2013. 86 Elton 2013: 240. The Kilise Tepe identified by the GAP survey is distinct from the site excavated south of Mut by Postgate and Jackson. Durugönül and Mörel, following Branham 1992, have suggested that because some synagogues included an apse, some of the structures identified early Byzantine churches in the region may revised interpretations (2012: 313). 114 elements that date to the fifth and sixth centuries does not definitively identify their structures of origin as churches, it is likely that they were churches.87 However, rather than include every settlement on the distribution map, based on the assumption that every settlement had a church, it is solely the presence of architectural sculpture convincingly argued as most likely belonging to a church that has merited the associated settlement a place on the map.88 This is an important distinction, because it does not assume that all inhabitants had immediate access to a Christian space in which to worship, but rather assumes a context of necessarily connected villages in a region where some inhabitants must have traveled for devotional purposes. Distribution of cult and devotion Overall, this study relies on almost 250 churches reported in approximately 150 sites across Cilicia (Map 3.1). The settlements range in size from small villages like the numerous Karatepes surrounding Domuztepe in the far eastern reaches of the region, to fortified ecclesiastical complexes like Hagia Thekla at the region’s geographical center, and to bustling port cities like Anemurion in the west and capitals such as Anazarbos and Tarsos (Table 3.2). West of Seleukeia, there is a strong preference for coastal locations, though examples also populate the highlands of southeastern Isauria. In the east, the                                                                                                                 87 At Mut, he notes three, but “the only record of churches from the city comes from Duchesne’s visit in 1880 when he noted the presence of three three-aisled basilicas” (Elton 2013: 238). At Balabanlı (just northwest of Mut): “in the village hall a square cross, probably ancient rock niche” (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 209). At Sinobuç: “There are several cisterns and presses on the hilltop, but unusually, no evidence for churches. However, a single large, late Roman Corinthian capital 700 m north of Sinobuç probably came from a church in the city” (Elton 2013: 240). 88 For the utility of early Byzantine architectural sculpture in identifying buildings, see Mietke 2009b. Additionally, there are churches reported whose location is difficult to determine, such as Keşli, whose existence Eyice reported near Hasanaliler; however, he did not publish its precise location (Eyice 1988: 22; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 299 include it with a question mark). 115 surviving remains are concentrated most heavily in the upper Cilician plain, and there are more churches in cities than in rural settlements. There is a decrease in the density of the churches as one moves from west to east. In addition to differential preservation issues between the hills and mountains of western Cilicia and the alluvial and highly occupied eastern plain, this is likely a function of political situations, both in antiquity and in the modern period. By the 7th century, Cilicia I and II were under Muslim control. With eastern Cilicia as an active border region,89 we may be seeing the result of the turmoil experienced earlier in the eastern region due to upheaval of several varieties, including war, earthquakes, and sickness. Recent investigations at the site of Küçük Burnaz, located twelve kilometers southwest of Epiphaneia, for example, turned up the latest securely dated piece of ceramic evidence to the end of the sixth century, indicating wholesale abandonment of the settlement within the following decades.90 This occurred at a time when most of the churches were still being constructed in the relatively more stable western reaches of the province, and some, as in Anemurion and Alahan, into the seventh century. The variations in patterns of inhabitation demonstrate the dangers involved in investigating Cilicia as a unit. Still, even its contemporaries understood Cilicia as a bounded, administrative unit. Though trends may vary across its 600 kilometers, the church architecture does support the notion that there was a particularly ‘Cilician’ style of church-building and decoration that would have been recognizable to fifth and sixth century inhabitants: a Christian from Flaviopolis                                                                                                                 89 Eger 2013. The westernmost border site of the Muslim frontier named is likely identified with Elaiussa-Sebaste, which was located near the border of Isauria and Cilicia I. 90 Tobin 2004: 90. 116 (modern Kadirli), for example, would have recognized Church 4 at Kanytellis or the West Church at Alahan as familiar architecture.91 Across the entire corpus of churches, many are very clearly located in the area around Seleukeia. As the provincial capital of Isauria, it is conveniently positioned at the conjuncture of sea and land routes, and it is not surprising that settlement patterns would have gravitated towards the economic, cultural and religious center of the region. What is surprising, however, is the lack of a similar clustering of churches around Seleukeia’s contemporaries, at Tarsos (capital of Cilicia I) and Anazarbos (capital of Cilicia II). To a certain extent, this can be attributed to the vagaries of preservation: besides processes of alluviation, the fertile Cilician plain has seen continuous occupation since long before the Romans came to southern Asia Minor, up to the modern period. Much like their Byzantine predecessors, more recent inhabitants have treated the ancient sites as quarries for building material, with their pre-finished architectural blocks, and decorative items. As late as the 1950s, Mary Gough could comment on villagers quarrying monuments for their own construction purposes.92 Therefore, it is both a function of later inhabitation as well as the nature of archaeological landscape investigation in the area, which has, until recently, rarely been systematic or intensive,93 that remains of churches have survived, particularly in the foothills of the Tauros that characterize western Cilicia. A still bustling capital like Tarsos must have boasted several magnificent churches in its role as a bishopric and a metropolis to rival Seleukeia, but it has been built                                                                                                                 91 Mietke 2006: 387-88. 92 Gough 1954: 32. 93 Systematic intensive surveys have been undertaken include the Göksu Archaeological Project (Elton 2006, 2007, 2013); the Rough Cilicia Archaeological Project (Rauh et al. 2009; Rauh et al. 2013, with references); in eastern Cilicia, one of the few landscape surveys has been undertaken by the Mopsos Landscape Archaeology Project (Killebrew 2011). 117 over, up and around for so long that no traces remain. Anazarbos provides a counter- example: though it was never built over, much of the urban center – enclosed within the successive walls surrounding an area of over 100 hectares on the east side of the promontory citadel – has been either quarried or buried under alluvium (Fig. 3.15). It is only recently that it has been possible to identify more than a few of its 5th-6th churches, and much of the site’s standing remains are Armenian in date (1111-1375 CE). This metropolis, with its citadel “rising like an island out of the sea” 94 (Fig. 3.16), does not demonstrate the same attraction for churches as did Seleukeia, or at least not a comparable density, as far as the extant remains can indicate.95 Comparison of Maps 3.2 and 3.3, fixed at a 1:500,000 scale and centered around each metropolis, respectively, illustrates this difference in relative density. There are certainly practical considerations to be taken into account when trying to discern patterns in church location in a region, besides the archaeological bias towards sites that are located on still reachable thoroughfares. Proximity to roads and harbors makes churches accessible to passersby,96 and location within settlements allows them to cater to a local population.97 There are also issues of cost and convenience that influence church construction: as has already been noted, Rough Cilicia had an abundance of high                                                                                                                 94 Mary Gough 1954: 44. She misquoted the letters of H.J. Ross, who used to the phrase to describe not Anazarbos but the nearby castle of Shah Miran (Yılan Kalesi): “At this point we left the Jihun, and as we descended into the plain of Tchukoor Ova [Çukurova] (Hollow Plain), we had within a mile on the north the remarkable castle of Shah Miran (the Sultan of Snakes)... It stands on an isolated rock rising from the plain like an island out of the sea, and the culminating point is a high steep crest covered by round towers connected by a curtain wall. In the distance was another castle on a low hill called Üshük, and further away was, what must be the finest of all by the description given me, the large fortress of Anazarbus” (Ross 1902: 283-284). 95 Recent work has begun to identify heretofore unseen potential churches through geophysical prospection. See Posamentir 2011; Posamentir and Sayar 2006. 96 This aspect is discussed at length in Chapter 5. 97 For a close examination of the relationship between churches, their saints, and the communities in which they were situated, see Yasin 2009. 118 quality limestone to provide for its churches, and it has been attested that the region provided high caliber stonemasons for undertaking such construction projects.98 There has, however, been no systematic study of quarries in the region against which to plot the locations of churches, and source their limestone masonry.99 Additionally, the pagan temples – often standing in the same communities in which the churches were to be constructed – offered already worked stone material, or spolia, as well as sturdy foundations upon which to build. There are twenty examples of temple conversions in Cilicia and, like the overall pattern of church distribution, these cluster around Seleukeia (Map 3.4).100 The distribution of temple conversions thus does not vary greatly from the overall pattern of churches (Map 3.5). As can be said regarding the placement of Christian shrines on pagan sacred places, throughout the Mediterranean, it is often the case that “cult location may remain unchanged, but the prayers and aspirations of its worshippers need not.”101 As noted in the Introduction, Cilicia is well known for its many harbors and beautiful coastline, and the distribution of churches at harbor locations is not surprising. Looking inland, there is a notable density of churches in the upper Göksu Valley forming a rough polygon made up by Klaudiopolis (Mut), Adrassos (Balabolu), Dağ Pazarı and Alahan, set comfortably between and above the confluence of the two arms of the Göksu River at Klaudiopolis (see Map 3.1). This may be, in part, an artifact of the availability of evidence: as the extensive survey and documentation of architectural fragments was one                                                                                                                 98 Mango 1966. 99 Some churches were quarried out of the rock upon which they were built; at Alahan, for example, the limestone ridge itself served as the quarry for the complex that was built along the resulting terrace (Elton 2007: 45). 100 Bayliss 2004. More recently, Chiara Giobbe has surveyed temples in Rough Cilicia (2013). 101 Alcock 1994: 256. 119 focus of the Göksu Archaeological Project’s research agenda, there is a preponderance of church evidence in this region compared to the rest of Cilicia. Additionally, as noted above, the identification of churches in this project sometimes relied on single architectural features rather than distinct basilical plans, potentially skewing the visualization. I will return to the possible ramifications of a density of churches along the Göksu River valleys in Chapter 5, in a discussion of movement between the valley and the metropolis at Seleukeia. However, it should be emphasized that, even though the overall evidence may be somewhat artificially biased towards the Göksu Valley, the general distribution pattern – that is, a heavy clustering of churches around the city of Seleukeia – holds true whether we include those churches or not. From the overall distribution map and the abundance and prominence of Cilician ports and harbors in antiquity,102 it is not surprising that the highest intra-urban density of churches is seen at prosperous late antique coastal cities such as Korykos and Elauissa- Sebaste. The majority of the churches in cities are not concentrated along the coast, however, but are relatively evenly distributed up into the highlands towards Ura (ancient Olba), Uzuncaburç (ancient Diokaisareia), and beyond into the upper Göksu (see Map 3.11). Urban and Rural Churches For the late antique Peloponnese, Rebecca Sweetman has relied on negative evidence for ‘truly rural’ churches, a category that seems to indicate churches located beyond the nekropoleis of densely inhabited centers, to argue for an almost exclusively                                                                                                                 102 The literature commenting on the number of harbors along Cilicia’s coast is vast; for a focused examination, see Vann 1997. 120 urban-based ecclesiastical system.103 The spatial network of churches in Cilicia, however, does exhibit “the need to have a network of churches representing the clergy in the rural sphere.”104 A few examples of churches standing alone, away from an associated settlement, are the isolated church structure identified at Araplar and Cıvıklı in northeastern Cilicia, at Deleli near the Cilician Gates, or at Bey Ören near Seleukeia.105 While Sweetman did not explicitly define urban versus rural in her study, she did argue that “Christianization was focused on the network hubs, which in the Roman period were the urban spaces.”106 While not contesting the tendency for early Christian devotional spaces to correspond with key – often urban – points in the travel network, the question that arises is whether, in Cilicia, those key points necessarily correspond to densely inhabited centers. Those churches known from Cilicia can be roughly categorized by location into loosely defined rural or urban spheres. Without digressing into a long history of the debate over dichotomizing urban versus rural, these categorizations are meant to give a general idea of the logic of church placement in the Cilician landscape, and the relative populations that would have frequented one set or the other. When available, categorizations were made based on literary and epigraphic evidence, as those sources provide a window into fifth and sixth century designations of settlements as urban or not. At some sites, such as at Korasion or Sarıveliler, where textual or epigraphic data have                                                                                                                 103 2010: 226; see n. 76. For Sikyon in Greece, Yannis Lolos has also noted the presence of early Christian churches not connected to settlements, large or small (2011: 338). 104 Sweetman 2010: 227. 105 For Araplar: Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 196. For Cıvıklı: Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 228; For Bey Ören: Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 214; Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 30, no. 51. More examples can be seen in Table 3.2 labeled ‘Isolated’ under Designation (as opposed to ‘Rural,’ where a number of other structures indicate some level of associated inhabitation. 106 Sweetman 2010: 226. 121 At some sites, such as at Korasion or Sarıveliler, where textual or epigraphic data have not attested to its urban status but the extent of the site suggests an urban environment, then I have relied upon the categorizations assigned to the sites by scholarly consensus.107 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990 served as the foundational reference for the differentiation in terminology: ‘Stadt’ was taken to indicate city or large town (like Anazarbos or Diokaisareia), while ‘Dorf’ (village), ‘Weiler’ (hamlet, such as Işıkkale), and the more generic ‘Siedlung’/’Siedlungsplatz’ (settlement), ‘Bauten’ (buildings) and ‘Ruine’ (ruins, remains) are categorized as relatively rural contexts.108 Thus, the distinction between rural and urban, and even between variously sized rural sites themselves, was difficult to make, because measured sizes were not provided. The designations were, by default, a subjective exercise. Some towns, like Korasion (modern Susanoğlu), did not have the official status of a city, but were large enough in antiquity to be considered more urban in character than rural.109 ‘Monastic’ placement in the urban or rural sphere was contingent upon their association with towns or not; Hagia Thekla was located in the city’s nekropolis, outside it proper, but its tight association with the city is indisputable. Kurudere and Al Oda, on the other hand, were relatively isolated from any major settlements. Elton et al. have recently argued that, like Hagia Thekla, the monastic complex at Alahan was associated with a late Roman urban center, located on what is now Alahan village, rather than an isolated rural site.110 Other sites, like Mallos, are                                                                                                                 107 Korasion: Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 311-312; Hill 1996: 241-243. Sarıveliler: Bean and Mitford 1970: 212. 108 For the designation of cities after the institution of three separate provinces Isauria, Cilicia I and Cilicia II, see especially Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 39. Varınlıoğlu is the most explicit about the designation of settlements in southeastern Isauria, which she differentiated by size in hectares (2008: 41-42). 109 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 311. 110 2006: 303-311. 122 known from inscriptional evidence to have held the status of a city, though no churches have been identified there. 111 Nevertheless, like the situation at Tarsos, because of its status as a bishopric, it is certain that such an urban center would have had at least one church in antiquity. Categorized in this broad way, of the 249 Cilician churches, 32 could be considered ‘Isolated’ (not associated with any settlement); 85 ‘Urban’ (in settlements known to have the status of a city); and 130 ‘Rural’ (associated with a small settlement) (Map 3.7-3.11). There are more known churches in the west in general, but categorized in this way, the frequency of rural churches is much higher in Rough Cilicia than in the eastern plain, and, especially along the coast, known churches tend to be located in cities. Topographically, in other words, the map demonstrates an affinity with coastal and plain locations for urban churches, while rural churches are almost exclusively located in the highlands, in both east and west. A comparison of the urban Christian sanctuaries with those located in more rural contexts does complicate some of Sweetman’s conclusions about the city’s dominance of the devotional landscape. She argued that “the presence of churches outside the urban hubs represents an effort to cement a relationship between the urban and rural space, which further encouraged the populations to give attention to the urban space.”112 Though I do not agree with the logic that in Cilicia, the presence of churches outside the urban sphere caused rural inhabitants to always look toward the city, Sweetman’s argument does raise an interesting issue regarding the relationship between the sanctuaries in the cities and their devotional counterparts outside the urban limits. The fact that the majority                                                                                                                 111 Mallos, with an inscription attesting its status, has been identified with the Umgebung of the modern Turkish village Kızıltahta, near Mopsuestia (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 337). 112 2010: 244. 123 of known churches in the region were located in relatively ‘rural’ spheres indicates that the non-urban venerators of early Christian cults did not rely entirely upon the cities for their religious practices and commitments. As in the economic sphere, where small communities were often self-reliant for subsistence but also carried on trade with the larger cities – especially, in Cilicia, with those cities with ports along the coast – the early Christians of the region seem to have had many of their needs met in their immediate or nearby rural localities, and sometimes attended the festivals on saints’ days at the large churches in or near cities (as, for example, at Hagia Thekla). This may explain why there is such a dearth of churches in the southern highlands of western Rough Cilicia between Seleukeia and Antiocheia ad Kragos, because of the availability of urban-based churches along the coast, while farther north there is a relatively much higher frequency of urban churches. The accessibility of the churches along the travel network almost certainly played a large role as well, a point to which I will return in Chapter 5. The relationship between churches in the cities and in the rural sphere can be identified in other ways. The affiliation between spaces dedicated to certain saints, and their duplication throughout the countryside, could very well be a manifestation of a certain association between two locations. For example, a reliquary dedicated to St Zakarias was discovered by villagers in Çaltı, north of Seleukeia (Fig. 3.16). A church dedicated to St Zakarias is also attested in Korykos, a major port city not far to the south, located along the coast. Though several known churches stand between the two locations, duplication of the cult of St. Zakarias could have served to cement a relationship between the church in the city and in the countryside, and could possibly have created a foundation upon which to base other relationships. St. Zakarias shows up farther to the 124 east, as well; though the original find spot is not known, a funerary inscription now in the Adana Museum records a church of Zakarias.113 These churches could very well have been manifestations of sub-networks of their own within the larger configuration of the Cilician devotional landscape, made up of devotional spaces dedicated to a single saint or saints grouped together for one reason or another. This possibility will be discussed further within the context of the travel infrastructure in Chapter 5. To summarize, the overall distribution of churches points to a density of churches in the areas closest to Seleukeia. One could argue that this is simply a proxy for general settlement patterns: that where there were villages, there were churches, and settlement was concentrated along the coasts and between the Kalykadnos and Göksu rivers. However, a contextualization of church placement within the larger late antique settlement pattern demonstrates that churches have been identified at many settlements, but not all (Maps 3.12 and 3.13). Thus, the distribution of churches cannot be seen as a simple and direct correlation with settlement patterns in terms of extant remains. Like the settlement patterns, the landscape of cult and devotion was fluid, a constantly shifting configuration that reflected multiple factors. In the next section, I expand the scope of material under analysis in an attempt to better access that configuration through multiple lenses. Distribution of cult and devotion: literary and epigraphic In the preceding chapter, I discussed the distribution of references to Cilician places within the Miracles of Thekla and the Life of Konon. Here, I expand the scope of                                                                                                                 113 Dagron and Feissel 1987, no. 60. 125 references to any saint or holy person whose cult was said to have been located in the region. The textual evidence suggests that Thekla’s cult dominated the regional sacred landscape, defined explicitly in the Miracles as her divinely assigned chora: “Just as Christ apportioned some cities and lands to certain saints and others to others – so that he cleansed the land thoroughly – he thus assigned our land to Thekla, as he did Judea to Peter, and to Paul the nations [i.e., the Gentiles].”114 The author is explicitly defining Seleukeia and its environs as part of that chora, and also claiming Thekla as an integral and over-arching part of that identity.115 After all, he assures the reader, “Along with the other martyrs whom they have, they call out to her before any of them.” In the same passage, it is made clear that ‘they’ are anyone who prays to her: “This means everyone: all nations, all races, all cities, all towns, all fields and houses, all who make supplication to the martyr.”116 Thekla was an internationally renowned saint, and her cult was also widespread locally.117 The distribution of cult activity, as narrated in the Life and Miracles, conveys the author’s particular agenda: Thekla was his patron and project, not all the other saints                                                                                                                 114 LM 4, trans. Johnson 2012: 17-19. For further discussion of the assigment of various chora to the apostles and their saints (the sortes apostolorum) see Johnson 2010. 115 Johnson forthcoming: “Claiming the very earth of the site allows the author to claim her [Thekla] protection for his [the author’s] own work and for the people who are devoted to her,” (59), which he calls the “patriographical element.” See also Johnson 2010, as well as Honey 2013: the author of the Life and Miracles “carefully crafts the Miracles, including the marvelous healings, to elicit wonder for Thekla with an eye to expanding her cult, to secure a foundation legend for “his own city” of Seleucia and, in the process, to gain recognition for himself by his association with Seleucia and Thecla, his tutelary saint” (253). 116 Miracle 10, trans. Johnson 2012: 41. 117 Davis 2001: 5-6, 36: “The growth and prosperity of Hagia Thekla as a pilgrimage site from the fourth to the sixth century are indicated especially by two factors: (i) the architectural adaptation and expansion of the site itself, and (ii) new literary activity promoting Thecla’s cult (i.e. adaptations and expansions of her legend).” More generally, A. Brown has asserted that "Some pilgrims traveled great distances, but the majority visiting any particular site outside the Holy Land most often came from the immediate area to experience the blessing of a specific holy place" (A. Brown 2012: 198). Thekla was officially removed from the Catholic Church’s canon of saints in 1969 (Hayne 1994: 209). 126 in Isauria, and he was in no way obligated to mention their presence in the landscape (though, he does implicitly acknowledge their existence through his insistence that the population called out to her “before all of them”). However, it should be noted that it is unlikely that there was an exclusivity attached to any one of these saints or their places – it is certainly conceivable that pilgrims would have visited local saints like Konon or Zacharias just as frequently as they visited Thekla (see Table 3.4). The structure of the religious calendar is helpful for thinking about how the landscape was populated by a multitude of saints: An individual saint could be the subject of a specific celebration or vita text, but the text of his or her life also resonated with others of the hagiographical genre, and his or her natale (day of death, understood as one’s birthday into everlasting life) held place within a larger calendar of feasts. A saint’s cult was shaped, in other words, with other saints in mind.... The incorporation of multiple saints into coherent, local calendars and the inclusion of images of groups of saints on the monumental architecture of churches integrated individual saints into a corporate body.118 These calendars were tailored to local needs and varied widely across the contemporary Christian world. Thus, the liturgical calendar particular to Cilicia and Isauria celebrated local saints – like Konon or Theoatros – within a larger framework of famous saints with international reputations, like Luke or Thekla. An extant, locally-adapted liturgical calendar does not exist for Isauria and Cilicia,119 but we can think of the distribution of saints’ presence in the landscape – whether iconographical, inscriptional, or architectural – as an analogous way of embedding local communities, and their history and identity, into an overarching understanding of church history, and conversely, by integrating a larger Christian tradition into a local Cilician landscape with its own traditions.                                                                                                                 118 Yasin 2009: 251, my emphasis. 119 We do, however, possess a description of liturgy of baptism from the Bishop Theodore of Mopsuestia (modern Misis) in Cilicia (Schwartz 2012). See Yasin 2009: 66. 127 It was common for a multitude of saints’ cults to coexist in any given contemporary Mediterranean landscape of the fifth and sixth centuries CE.120 That there were a number of divine players besides Thekla and Konon thought to be ‘present’ in the contemporary Cilician landscape, however, is clear in the texts, hagiographical or otherwise, that have come down to us.121 Konon, and to a certain extent other saints known to ‘inhabit’ the region at this time period such as Sergios or Charitina, serve as a foil to Thekla’s traditionally understood regional dominance, without checking it completely.122 These saints, in their role as intercessors, protectors and mediators, can be thought of as ‘divine players,’ who in distinct but complementary ways were thought to fulfill the various needs of the populace.123 These are differentiated from the ‘earthly players’ – the bishops, the pilgrims, the local residents – who are known historically to have existed as groups, even if we do not know of them in any detail. By framing this discussion around the notion of divine and earthly players, I am attempting to avoid confusion regarding the existence of the saints in any historical sense. Neither Thekla nor Konon were likely to have been historical figures. It was the observable reception of the stories about them by the fifth and sixth century populations of the region that is under investigation here. Along the same lines, any perceived tension between the two saints had perhaps a basis in reality, in which an historical event was                                                                                                                 120 Efthymiadis 2011: 77 notes that one unusual exception was Thessalonike, which from its early days celebrated the Saint Demetrios almost exclusively. 121 For an overview of saints known from textual evidence to have had cults in Isauria and Cilicia up to the time of the Arab conquest, see Maraval 1985, Lieux saints et pèlerinages d'Orient: Histoire et géographie des origines à la conquête arabe. 122 Sergios appears on a sarcophagus lid at Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç) (Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 77); Charitina, in three separate instances at Korykos (Kızkalesi) (Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 184, 191, 213). 123 Thanks to Fotini Kondyli, whose feedback provided the fodder for both framing as well as phrasing the discussion in terms of ‘divine players’ versus ‘earthly players’, and for pointing out the pragmatic role of saints besides their mystical one: as intercessors, protectors, and providers. 128 attributed to the power of the saint. For example, in Miracle 29 of the Miracles of Thekla, Marianos, the bishop of Tarsos refused to allow his congregation to attend the festival of St. Thekla in Seleukeia. The miracle records that the slighted Thekla terrorized the ill- advised bishop to his death, which is celebrated as her righteous anger against someone who attempted to keep away those who would venerate her.124 But rather than a tension between the saints – whose respective cities’ ‘healthy competition’ is praised, rather than lamented125 – this episode more likely reflects the reality of competition between bishops themselves. Across the Christian world this status was a highly esteemed one, and their “personal ambition, civic pride, and the desire for recognition” led them to work with “the power that was at their disposal: persuasion through rhetoric, influence through social networking, and the threat of excommunication."126 This was a toolkit that could, and almost certainly did, include the capacity to prohibit the frequenting of other saints’ – and therefore other bishops’ – domains of authority.127 There are only a few textual sources that record pilgrims coming to the region to venerate a saint other than Thekla, whether expressly for purposes of worship at the shrine or for other reasons.128 For an ideal spatial distribution of textual references to topographical features, it would be most fortunate if the comparable texts outlining the legends of the Anazarbene martyrs Tarachos, Probos and Andronikos, “les plus célèbres parmi les martyrs de Cilicie” and attested from the fifth century onwards, had come down                                                                                                                 124 Mir. 29, trans. Johnson 2012: 119-123. 125 Mir. 4, trans. Johnson 2012: 17. 126 Rapp 2005: 168, 156. Rapp’s volume discusses, among other issues, the uses and abuses of the bishop’s position to promote individual interests. 127 Shepardson (2013) describes the lengths that various Antiochene bishops vying for power in the fourth century would go to in order to prevent their congregations from converting to the heresies they understood their competitors to promote. 128 for example, Gregory of Nazianzus, who undertook an extended stay at Seleukeia but mentions the sanctuary of Thekla nearby. 129 to us in enough detail to provide a comparable example to Thekla or Konon farther west in Cilicia.129 A fourth- or fifth-century church in Mopsuestia has traditionally, but not definitively, been identified as a church to these Anazarbene saints.130 A few saints were even native Cilicians whose Lives and Miracles inspired cults at home and abroad.131 One notable example was the cult of Kosmas and Damian, who were supposed to have been martyred at Aigaiai during the Diocletianic persecutions.132 As is the case with the Anazarbene saints at Aigaiai, attempts to physically locate the cult of Kosmas and Damian have been frustrated; few of these traditions can be associated with identifiable ecclesiastical structures in the region.133 Aigaiai, which like Anazarbos was located in the eastern reaches of Cilicia, could also boast of several other saints’ cults that would draw pilgrims: among them, that of St Thalelaios, whose cult in Aigaiai is considered certain based on evidence that Severus, patriarch of Antioch, delivered two homilies at his basilica there in 517 CE.134 One tradition of the paired saints Kosmas and Damian connects them to Aigaiai, as well as the saints Zenobios and Zenobia.135 That at least some of the pilgrimages were in fact undertaken to visit living holy men who posthumously received the status of a saint and subsequently associated                                                                                                                 129 Delehaye 1933: 165. For the date, see Maraval 1985: 355. 130 Maraval 1985: 355, n. 195. 131 By following the index in Maraval 1985, one can trace the distribution of these cults beyond the borders of Cilicia and Isauria, as well as track the origins of other cults – such as Menas’ or Sergius’ – that found satellite sanctuaries in Cilicia. 132 The literary tradition of Kosmas and Damian is complicated, and can be separated into three different pairs, each with different details regarding their birthplaces and deaths. See Festugière 1971: 85-95; Cspegregi 2007: 53-63. 133 There are several more saints known only from epigraphic sources, and discussed in Chapter 2. At Aigaiai, not only the early Christian pilgrimage churches but the famous incubation complex of Asklepios, with which the Kosmas and Damian legend was almost certainly associated, have not been located (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 162). 134 “On ne douter de l’exactitude de cette localisation. Sévère d’Antioche visita la basilique et y prêcha” (Delehaye 1933: 165). For the details of Severus of Antioch’s visit, see Allen and Hayward 2004: 55. 135 Delehaye 1933: 166. 130 monasteries can be seen in the cult of the holy man Theodosius of Antioch, first recorded by Theodoret of Cyrrhus, who built a cell outside the city of Rhosos in Cilicia.136 Theodosius struck a rock near his cell and created a gushing spring that by “entering the monastery by a conduit and abundantly serving every need” established continuity with the monastery described by Moschos, which he designated Skopelos: There is a mountain between inland Seleucia and Rossos in Cilicia. The fathers of this monastery led us up beyond the monastery about as far as an arrow could be shot. There they showed us a spring, saying that it gave a plentiful supply of excellent water and that it was a gift of God to them137 [through the holy man Theodosius]. At least as early as the fifth century, there are attestations of communities surrounding living holy men in Cilicia who attracted visitors: Theodoret of Cyrrhus singled out the region as one where the pious gathered around ascetics.138 That there were many saints and living holy men populating the Cilician landscape and – at least by the seventh century – attracting pilgrims can be seen clearly in several of the episodes recounted in John Moschos Pratum Spirituale.139 Chapter 27 describes the communications between Abba Julian the Stylite and a pious elder at Mardardos, an estate he notes as “ten miles from the city of Aegaion in Cilicia,” which was twenty miles distant from Abba Julian itself.140 In the following chapter, he tells of Abba Cyril’s healing at the hands of Abba Julian after coming to him in Cilicia “from our own                                                                                                                 136 Theodoret of Cyrrhus Ch. X.1, trans. Price 1985: 89. 137 John Moschos Ch. 80, trans. Wortley 1992: 65. For further discussion on whether this episode in Moschos is a later interpolation, see Price 1985: 93, n. 5. 138 Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History XXX.6: “Numerous are the pious wrestling-schools of men and women not only among us but also in Syria, Palestine, Cilicia, and Mesopotamia”, trans. R.M. Price (1985: 188). For the tradition of early Christian pilgrims traveling to visit living holy men, see Georgia Frank, The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity (2000). 139 John Moschos, Pratum Spirituale (Spiritual Meadow), trans. John Wortley (1992). Wortley dates the collection to around the year 600 CE (1992: ix). 140 Ch. 27 “The Life of the Priest of the Mardardos Estate,” trans. Wortley 1992: 19. 131 country.”141 The theme of Cilician stylites is continued in the following chapter, which describes two unnamed stylites, residing six miles apart from each other near a place called Cassiodora, twenty miles distant from Aigaiai. Competing for their own primacy, they wage a theological battle about the communion wafer, the winner of which “still keeps it [the wafer], for he showed it to us when we visited him."142 The inscriptional evidence supplements the configuration created by the texts. I have collected epigraphic evidence from Cilicia and Isauria in the fourth through sixth centuries to compare the distribution of inscriptions naming Thekla, as well as other saints, in the region (Table 3.4).143 An extremely helpful guide to locating and compiling epigraphic references to these saints’ names is Gilbert Dagron and Denis Feissel’s Inscriptions de Cilicie, published in 1987. As Wendy Mayer has pointed out in the study she undertook with Pauline Allen of churches around Syrian Antioch, one of the difficulties of using Maraval’s work to associate churches with saints is that he lists them not by site but by saint.144 Updated and expanded localized versions of Dagron and Feissel’s catalogue can be found in Mustafa Sayar’s Inschriften aus Hierapolis-Castabala (1989) and Die Inschriften aus Anazarbos und Umgebung (2000), and Stefan Hagel and Kurt Tomaschitz’s Repertorium der westkilikischen Inschriften (1998), though the 1987 Inscriptions de Cilicie still provides the most comprehensive guide.                                                                                                                 141 Ch. 28. “A Wondrous Deed of Abba Julian the Stylite,” trans. Wortley 1992: 20. 142 Ch. 29, “A Miracle of the Most Holy Eucharist,” trans. Wortley 1992: 21. 143 I discovered Gabriele Mietke’s attempt to do the same, unfortunately, after I had already compiled my own table of occurrences. Mietke’s list is based to a large extent on the collection of Lieux saints et pelerinages (1985) of Pierre Maraval, itself compiled almost exclusively from textual sources rather than those that can be materially attested. Either way, her compilation is directed towards the western half of Cilicia, and my own list expands upon hers. 144 Mayer 2012: xv. 132 When saints are literally inscribed on the landscape, they are often outside their physical complexes, usually in a funerary context. They thus provide a “valuable counterweight” to the textual traditions with whose agenda(s) they may not agree.145 The value of their identification for this project lies in their locations: they map the saints in a way similar to the Life and Miracle texts, in that they mark activities related to the saint out in the landscape, beyond the pilgrimage shrine. Yasin has noted, for example, that “inscription of saints’ names or images on church surfaces do not mark the location of relics but instead testify to votive prayers, donors’ benefactions, or liturgical celebrations.”146 As the crosses in domestic, funerary, and imperial travel infrastructure such as milestones show, the efficacy of the saint’s cult was perceived to have reached beyond the walls of the shrine. There are many other saints present in one manifestation or another in the region: some, like Sergios, were well known throughout the Mediterranean. Others, like Konon, with names common to the southern coast of Asia Minor,147 and some, like Theoiatros – which is otherwise unattested as a name – were completely unknown as saints, and (Table 3.4; Map 3.14).148 In terms of overall spatial distribution, the various epigraphically attested saints are much more tightly concentrated around Seleukeia than Thekla’s own Miracles. There is very little spatial overlap between the two categories of evidence (compare Map 3.14 and Map 2.1). But even if the distribution material evidence does not necessary reflect a major role for the Thekla cult in the penetration and extent of                                                                                                                 145 Webb 2009: 22. 146 Yasin 2009: 2. 147 Balzat et al. 2013; Hill 1985: 96. 148 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 206, 737. 133 Christianity throughout the region,149 the sheer size of the complex hints at least at its potential influence over the immediate region, particularly given its proximity to Seleukeia, the metropolis of Isauria and the seat of a bishopric. Thekla shows up as a saint epigraphically six times throughout Cilicia, and almost exclusively in a funerary context. These occurrences include her own shrine at Hagia Thekla, and at Diokaisareia, modern Uzuncaburç, both times on sarcophagus lids commemorating unnamed men who served in Thekla’s monastery.150 Her name, though not preceded by an αγια, does appear in another funereal context in Seleukeia as an epitaph to “Thekla, the physician,” an occurrence that Honey (2006) has argued “suggests a healing tradition associated with Thekla and, in this case, one that was extended to her namesake.”151 A possible occurrence of her name at Korykion Antron is also from a tombstone. At Philadelphia appears the only known occurrence of her name in association with a building, possibly a church dedicated to her, though the relationship is not certain.152 A silver reliquary identified at Çırga featured on the back of the container a female figure between heraldic lions often interpreted as Thekla.153 The fact that she is not the most prominent saint on the reliquary is indicative of the ‘sharing’ nature of many of these early Christian devotional spaces, as in the shared martyrion of George, Christopher and Konon at Yanıkhan. It is in fact Konon, who not only shared devotional space with the saints George and Christopher at Yanıkhan but also with Thekla on the reliquary at Çırga, who proved                                                                                                                 149 Russell 1989: 1623. 150 From my own translation; Greek text transcribed in Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 79. 151 Honey 2006; CIG IV. 9209. 152 Mietke 2009c: 122 and n. 39. 153 See Gough 1958: 246, who suggested the figure be interpreted instead as the Blessed Virgin; cf. Weitzmann 1979: 574. 134 to be the most popular in the inscriptional record, with seven total appearances (n=60+).154 The occurrence of Konon’s name is exclusively in western Cilicia, at Lamos, Yanıkhan, Korykos, Alahan, and Çırga, which aligns with the saint’s Life being explicitly set in Isauria – clearly considered here as a region rather than strictly as a province, as Lamos, Yanıkhan, and Korykos would have answered to the episcopal metropolitan of Cilicia I at Tarsos, rather than to Seleukeia. This spread of the saint’s name is one example of the blurriness of boundaries and the value of investigating Cilicia as a whole rather than solely province by province. In terms of medium, there are three pieces of evidence not inscribed in stone. The first is in fact a terracotta mold for an eulogia, an amulet dedicated to St Raphael and found at Anemurion; it reads, simply, “eulogia of St Raphael.”155 The other two are both dedicated to Konon. The first, at Alahan, is a graffito in the narthex of the well-known East Church; it has been used to designate the complex as a pilgrimage sanctuary dedicated to St Konon, but he numbers among the ranks of possible patron saints at the site and the dedication is still up for debate. The second is more strongly suggestive of pilgrimage to Konon: a fifth-century reliquary from Çırga, found in the highlands northeast of Anemurion, which featured not an inscription, but an image of a saint iconographically interpreted as Konon.156 The Life of Konon cites an (unfortunately unnamed) pilgrimage destination dedicated to the local saint, which strengthens the theory that Konon’s relics were housed at a pilgrimage shrine somewhere in the region,                                                                                                                 154 Konon as a Cilician name: see Wood 2009; Elton 2001. Varınlıoğlu 2008: 84, n. 126 argued that Konon is common to the entirety of the southern coast, and not unique to Cilicia. 155 Russell 1995: 47. There are strong indications that it was a production site; and it was found in a closed context with 20 coins dated between 589 and 656. 156 Gough 1958. 135 though the reliquary’s provenance is less than ironclad.157 An even more compelling example of pilgrimage to Konon can be seen at Yanıkhan, where an inscription on the South Church dedicating the region’s only epigraphically attested martyrion names its patron saints as Konon, George and Christopher. 158 A late fourth century date makes it at least contemporary with the original shrine to St Thekla, and it pre-dates the monumental fifth century renovations and additions to her complex at Hagia Thekla. While no direct connection can be drawn between the Life of Konon and the martyrial South Church at Yanıkhan, the martyrion’s existence does indicate that Christian pilgrimage to local saints was taking place in Cilicia at least as early as the fourth century, contemporary to pilgrimages to Hagia Thekla known from Egeria’s Travels. Paul, who does appear in the Miracles as a “guest of the Seleukeians,” does not feature in the epigraphic material recovered from the region. However, other later saints are known: for example, Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzos, and John Chrysostom, all fourth-century theologians and saints, are identified by painted inscriptions on the apse of a chapel in a cave on the east bank of the Lamos Gorge near Viranköy. A handful of inscriptions showed up in locations where a church is not attested archaeologically, which may, like the inscription of crosses on door lintels, be an indication of the presence of Christian inhabitants in settlements that could not boast churches of their own. Out of all the saints named in the region, at least four of them show up in more than one place: Charitina, Konon, Zacharias, and, of course, Thekla. This spread indicates, as would be expected, that sacred authority was shared throughout the religious landscape, rather than absolutely dominated by any particular saint. As noted above with                                                                                                                 157 Life of Konon 16. 158 Hill 1996: 257. 136 regard to the multiple sites dedicated to the cult of St Zakarias, this duplication of saints’ cults across the region could be a manifestation of particularly close ties between specific locales. A closer analysis of how those relationships may have been manifested physically on the ground will be pursued further in Chapter 5. Conclusion This chapter has attempted to address and visualize the general distribution of early Christian devotion in the Cilician landscape. The distribution patterns of the churches, alongside the literary references to and epigraphic evidence of saints in the Cilician landscape, all point to the creation of new Christian configurations through new foci. This is indeed most visible in the construction of new church buildings. At times, however, this new configuration was based upon the location of earlier sacred places: of all the churches recorded in the region, about twenty were conversions from earlier, pre- Christian religious structures.159 The establishment of churches across Cilicia, therefore, impacted not just the communities within which they were built but the nature, frequency and direction of sacred movement across the landscape. As discussed in the distribution of churches across the urban and rural spheres, those familiar as well as newly created directions of movement knitted those spheres together. It is well attested for nearby cities like Antioch that the movement of worshippers in, through, and out of the urban and rural areas was widespread in the early Christian period.160 At various scales, this movement                                                                                                                 159 Bayliss 2004 discussed 19 conversions; for the monastery en Tagais, see Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 424. 160 Shepardson 2014; Mayer and Allen 2011. 137 between churches would have taken place among the various nodes of the Christian devotional configuration of Cilicia. That configuration was made up of more than just the church buildings and complexes themselves. In addition to the construction of churches, the distribution of saints’ names hints at the fact that the devotional landscape of early Christian Cilicia had many more facets than are accessible to us today through monumental architecture alone. While some saints were present in the funereal landscape of Cilicia through dedicated church buildings – as at Hagia Thekla, where St Thekla’s shrine and entire pilgrimage and monastic complex was built into Seleukeia’s former nekropolis – their names are also attested through epigraphic evidence in the funerary inscriptions of their devotees. Thus it can be seen that the saints’ influence, and their function in the configuration of the devotional landscape, extended not only beyond the physical church structures themselves but also beyond the realm of the living, one that included Cilician Christians who were no longer moving throughout the landscape. The occurrence of multiple saints’ names within a single location, as well as the duplication of an individual saint’s name across the region, also indicates the linked nature of the devotional landscape of Cilicia. This concept of a larger system requires that instead of thinking of each church or piece of inscribed evidence as a discrete location, it is more compelling to consider that the distribution of spaces and saints interconnected the devotional landscape, one whose links were continuously reinforced by the movement of Christians between them. What can be seen in the distribution patterns is not due entirely to practical considerations in terms of accessibility, conversion, or convenience. The scale of 138 settlement and number of churches was not always correlative, and indicates that something more particular to the topographical, cultural and religious realities of fifth and sixth century Cilicia created the distributional patterns of churches, inscriptions and literary references in the region as we can identify those patterns today. In the following chapter, I delve into the particularities of the churches within their individual topographical settings, to explore whether those churches that are attributed a martyrial function, and thus arguably a destination for pilgrimage, can illuminate our understanding of the patterning of the early Christian devotional landscape, from the coast up into the far reaches of the Cilician highlands.   139 CHAPTER 4: MARTYRIA AND ROCKY PLACES Introduction In the last chapter, I discussed the general distribution of known churches in Cilicia, the problems associated with the evidence and the general patterns that can be elucidated. I observed that while differential preservation issues must be taken into account, most urban churches can be topographically categorized into coastal and plain locations, while rural churches are almost exclusively located in the highlands of both eastern and western Cilicia (see Maps 3.9-3.10), though there is of course some overlap. I concluded that the topographical, cultural and religious realities of late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicia must account for the particularities of the distribution that can be identified today. By exploring in greater depth the specific locations of churches that were the focus of devotional travel, I hope to shed light on some of the cultural parameters that may have contoured the distribution noted in the previous chapter. The general distribution of churches can be first complicated and then refined by parsing out the contextual and formal differences between churches, focusing initially on the presence of certain characteristics that may mark them as martyrial churches, as well as on their respective locations immediately adjacent to caves and sinkholes. These differences raise several questions. If we factor in the known and likely martyria within the general distribution of churches, can we identify anything like a pattern to their distribution throughout the region? Do arguably martyrial churches show up in a certain relationship to the settlement pattern – that is, are they more likely to be in urban, rural or isolated 140 contexts? Does the presence and potential influence of identifiable pre-Christian foundations affect the placement and dynamics of martyrial church patterning in the region? To that end, what is important for my purposes here is an explicit definition of the relationship between ‘martyrion’ and ‘pilgrimage.’ The two are usually treated, although not always critically, as mutually inclusive indications. But is that an overly simplistic assumption? That is, must a martyrion receive pilgrims in order to be recognizable as such? In certain cases, it is evident in the written sources that a Life of a saint was written in order to encourage pilgrimage to and veneration at a cult site and, presumably, its martyrion.1 An attempt to elucidate the answer to the questions posed above lays the groundwork for better understanding the distribution, dynamics, and devotional movement between these sacred places. In what follows, I outline the formal characteristics of martyria in Cilicia in order to plot and subsequently examine their patterning within the overall distribution of churches. Then, I take a step back to look at their immediate context within the landscape, namely, next to topographically striking features of Cilicia: caves and sinkholes. Pilgrimage places: martyria Defining martyria Up to this point, I have, following the work of Yasin, relied on the word ‘church’ to cover a wide range of buildings included under the designation ‘ecclesiastical                                                                                                                 1 Daria Resh (2013) discussed this practice in a conference paper “Rhetoric and Orality in the Life of St. Theoktiste of Lesbos,” using as an example the tenth-century Vita of Saint Theoktiste, 141 architecture.’2 Indeed, it is likely that there may have been some variation in plan, indicating that some churches had a specific, designated primary function, as with the funerary role of the North Church at Yanıkhan.3 Most of the small community-based churches located outside the major centers of Cilicia would have been multifunctional, encompassing funereal, martyrial, and congregational – that is, a church used for meeting on a regular basis – designations depending upon circumstances.4 In their various roles, churches thus “functioned as nodes around which social and religious life hovered.”5 These were places where people gathered to worship in a variety of ways and for a variety of purposes. In the scholarship of the early Christian Mediterranean, martyria have been defined as a building or shrine erected over the grave of a martyr, or on a site connected with the life of a saint – whether a martyr or not – or with the events of the life of Christ himself. In an architectural sense, martyria were “buildings which served as monumental memoriae over saints’ remains.”6 Though a martyrion has been defined as simply as a “site which bears witness to the Christian faith”7; the Greek word µαρτύριον means, literally, testimony or proof,8 implying that a martyrion was a place that could exist with or without a physical structure erected to mark its location. For the purposes of this chapter, I rely on the more materially accessible architectural definition of martyria, without arguing that martyria of the non-structured variety were absent.                                                                                                                 2 Yasin 2009: 7. 3 Hill 1996: 262. 4 Sweetman 2010: 222; Mayer and Allen 2012, esp. 165-174. 5 Mayer and Allen 2012: 165. See also their note 4. In Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean (2009), Yasin discussed at length the multifunctional, community- forming and locally expressive nature of the late antique church. 6 Yasin 2009: 7. 7 Krautheimer 1986: 519. 8 Liddle-Scott-Jones at Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. 142 Introductions to the subject of pilgrimage architecture have argued against immediately evident typological distinctions for early Christian martyria, which, on the ground, exhibit a range of forms across the Mediterranean.9 Most known martyrial churches, however, exhibit a centrally focused symmetrical plan, whether the form was manifested as circular, octagonal, quatrefoil or cruciform.10 In a symmetrically arranged interior space, pilgrims could be funneled through the church in an orderly manner in order to venerate the saint’s relics. Thus, the central plan is key to understanding movement within famous late antique pilgrimage complexes, such as that of St. Simeon at Qal’at Seman in northern Syria.11 The central plan has been called upon to argue for the interpretation of the so-called St. Luke’s Tomb in Ephesos as a circular martyrion after its conversion from a monopteros fountain into a church (Fig. 4.1).12 Also at Ephesos, however, is the known pilgrimage church of John, which in its Justinianic heyday did not appear much different in plan than a typical basilical church, with an elongated nave leading up to the shrine at the center of the transept.13 The earliest martyria appeared, not surprisingly, in funereal contexts, outside the cities where the holy dead had been buried. Though churches could be constructed inside or outside, martyria almost always appeared outside city walls, because of the long- standing taboo on burying the dead – even the holy dead, such as martyrs – within cities’                                                                                                                 9 Ousterhout 2008: 48. “Typology – the planar and other formal qualities of Christian buildings – continues to provide one of the most popular analytic approaches in Christian archaeology” (Bowes 2008b: 591). 10 Lowden 2008: 427. Specific examples of these various forms include: “circular, as in the Anastasis rotunda in Jerusalem; octagonal, as in the structure sheltering the Grotto of the Nativity in Bethlehem; or cruciform, as in the Martyrion of St. Babylas Antioch” (M. J. Johnson 2012). 11 For the archaeological history of Qal’at Seman, see Schachner 2010: 360-361, with references. 12 Pülz 2012: 249. 13 Mango has also previously argued that “the distinction between the elongated house of congregation and the ‘centralized’ martyrium should not, however, be pressed too far” (1986: 22). 143 bounds.14 Thus, it was here that church-builders first made the considerable, and often creative, effort to incorporate martyrs’ graves into the very fabric of the church structure. Grabar, in his influential study on the development, structure and function of the martyrion, argued that, both architecturally and conceptually, martyria were successors of pagan funerary monuments, especially heroa.15 In the fourth century, relics began to be translated into churches that were not purpose-built as martyria, which by this time were often located within settlements. The architectural distinction between the two ecclesiastical structures – centrally focused martyria outside the city, and longitudinal, usually basilical churches within – was eventually lost.16 Yasin has argued that the translation of apostolic relics to the Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople was a key moment in the growing trend of relics coming to altars, rather than churches (and their respective altars) being built around the relics.17 The architectural history of the Church of the Holy Apostles, often treated as the exemplar for the development of relic translation in the 4th century tradition, delivers a clear, and critical, message for understanding the role of churches in the late antique landscape and the scale of pilgrimage within it: “with the possession of relics, any church could be a martyrion; any church could become the goal of pilgrimage.”18 Possibility, of course, does not necessarily mean practice. In what follows,                                                                                                                 14 Mayer and Allen 2012: 168. 15 Grabar 1946. 16 A succinct summary of the chronological development of martyria in the early Christian Mediterranean, and the blurring of distinctions in both functional and typological terms from the fourth century on, is given in Mayer and Allen 2012: 167-174. 17 2009: 152. 18 Ousterhout 2008: 50. Significantly, however, the textual tradition indicates that the churches in Constantinople, including that of the Holy Apostles, did not boast of being a pilgrimage destination for the Byzantines; “our pilgrims’ accounts of the city are Russian or Western European – that is, coming from a different (and later) tradition” (ibid. 52). 144 I attempt to elucidate whether any and all churches in the Cilician landscape were conceptualized as martyrial churches, and how that may have impacted the configuration of the devotional landscape. Identifying martyria in Cilicia Compounding the issue of categorizing churches in Cilicia by form is the fact that most of the extant churches date from the fifth and sixth centuries CE, a period that post- dates the fading typological distinction between martyria and congregational churches, Mediterranean-wide, in the fourth century.19 Martyria have traditionally been portrayed as absent from the broader Cilician landscape because of an almost complete absence of church forms specifically identifiable as having a martyrial function, coupled with a lack of epigraphic evidence explicitly identifying any church structure as a martyrion. In 1982, Robert Edwards boldly stated: “there are no known martyria in Cilicia.”20 Because he appears to have been defining ‘Cilicia’ as the Cilician plain, rather than including western Cilicia and southeastern Isauria – this is not exactly untrue, though his regional definitions do not hold up to careful scrutiny.21 The most famous of Cilician martyria, the basilica of St Thekla at Hagia Thekla (modern Meryemlik), has long been accepted as a martyrial basilica that received pilgrims from all over the Mediterranean world (Figs. 4.2-                                                                                                                 19 This chronological window for most Cilician churches is a pattern that can be seen across the Mediterranean, where “the vast majority of churches in both East and West date to the fifth century and later” (Bowes 2008b: 587). 20 Edwards 1982: 28. 21 Contra Hill 1996: 207, who cites the basilica of St Thekla at Meryemlik as an outright refutation of Edwards’ position regarding the presence or absence of martyria in a broadly defined ‘Cilicia.’ Even if Edwards’ was conceptualizing the location of Mazılık as being outside Cilicia Tracheia, he was also locating it outside of Cilicia Pedias, both of which, as the two halves of Cilicia, leave very little Cilicia in which Mazılık might be located in (see Edwards 1982: 23). 145 4.4).22 This church already rejects the categorization of martyrial churches as generally known, because even as an early martyrial church, it is a longitudinal basilica rather than a centrally planned structure. Three years after Edwards’ statement, Hill published an inscription from the South Church at Yanıkhan, first recorded by Gough in 1959 but which remained unpublished until 1985, that has been put forward as persuasive evidence that the church was used as a martyrion dedicated to the saints Konon, George and Christopher (Figs. 4.5).23 Since both Hagia Thekla and Yanıkhan are similar in plan (Figs. 4.2 and 4.6), with the presence of eastern passages (discussed below), it has been argued persuasively that both were martyria as well as pilgrimage churches.24 The literary and epigraphic traditions discussed in the two previous chapters suggest that the majority of Cilician saints were recipients of cults that did not extend geographically beyond the region’s borders. In the same way, certain architectural features particular to the ecclesiastical structures of Cilicia may attest to a regionally specific tradition of martyrial churches.25 Based on the clear plan and known martyrial function of the South Church at Yanıkhan, Hill has suggested that the numerous churches in Cilicia and Isauria with similar longitudinal plans may have had a martyrial function, as at Anazarbos (Fig. 4.7). This is based to a great extent on the peculiarly Cilician ecclesiastical feature referred to as the eastern passage, “which is, in effect, a chamber sandwiched between eastward projecting side-chambers.”26 The eastern passage                                                                                                                 22 Notable examples include the 4th century pilgrimage Egeria, and the itinerant ascetic described in Moschos’ Pratum Spirituale (see Chapter 2 in this dissertation). 23 For a description of the inscription see Hill 1985; Hill 1996: 257. 24 Hill 1996: 31. 25 Mietke 2009 has noted that some Cilician martyrs are attested only in the places where they were buried (such as Lukios in Diokaisareia), while others are rarely found outside the places where tradition holds that they were first venerated (2009: 125). 26 Hill 1996: 30. 146 projected beyond the apse of standard basilical plan, thereby facilitating movement from the nave, around the apse, and back into the nave again on the other side of the central aisle. Because the eastern passage linked side-chambers and thus, the aisles on both the northern and southern sides of the church, it has been interpreted as a processional space.27 This configuration of ambulatories would allow for a formalized approach to a tomb or relics without disturbing the layout and activities of the apse in an otherwise congregational church. Using the example of the Church of the Holy Apostles at Anazarbos, Hellenkemper has stated that the covered walkways approaching the eastern passage could not, on account of their width, accommodate a formal procession,28 but Bayliss has since shown that since the details of the liturgy are unknown, it is not possible to dictate the required width of such a corridor. Hellenkemper’s plan shows the [eastern] passage nearly 7 m. wide; enough room for four persons to walk side-by-side with arms outstretched and not even have to touch fingers.29 As Bayliss’ tone implied, it seems absurd to suggest that this is not enough room for a procession of any scale. Without secure knowledge of the local liturgical details, it is impossible to say definitively whether relics would have been visited on an informal basis in addition to formal processions (for example, on saints’ feast days). However, in a logistical sense, Bayliss’ argument demonstrated that there was enough space for worshippers to move to and around relics via the eastern passage.                                                                                                                 27 Bayliss 1997: 77. See also Hill 1996: 28-37. 28 Hellenkemper 1994: 234. Markus has argued that ritual processions became an integral part of early Christian church activity, and a formative element in the creation of loca sancta (1994: 265). 29 Bayliss 1997: 77. See also Hellenkemper 1994: 234. 147 As has already been argued above, a Cilician church was not necessarily solely a martyrion or a funerary basilica. The co-occurrence of certain elements in the plans of churches can indicate a multifunctional role.30 What is most useful for my purposes is to distinguish whether a church had either a primary or secondary martyrial function. Based on the fact that it is otherwise impossible to distinguish consistently between congregational, monastic, funerary or martyrial churches, Hill has argued persuasively for the presence of an eastern passage to be considered as a particularly Cilician convention of configuring martyria within a basilical form.31 Substantiating his argument with known examples from the later Roman world, particularly the church of St Demetrios in Thessalonika, and with internal Cilician evidence – most notably, with the eastern passage in the fifth-century basilica at Hagia Thekla – he has situated the eastern passage within the Cilician architectural tradition as an early development towards the appearance of martyrial transepts, that is, the transverse arms of a basilical structure, inserted between the nave and the apse. In a martyrial church, this area functioned as a funnel around which pilgrims could process to venerate relics at a central altar, as seen, for example, in the ambulatory North Church at Akören II.32 Thus, while it is still the case that, in general, fifth and sixth century churches cannot be identified as martyria solely by architectural plan, the presence of an eastern passage in the churches of fifth and sixth century Cilicia makes a strongly compelling case for the veneration of relics through processional movement. Gabriele Mietke has also argued for the contribution of archaeological evidence for the “exaltation of saints” – in other words, the phenomenon of martyr veneration as                                                                                                                 30 Mayer and Allen 2012: 174. 31 Hill 1996: 30-37. 32 Wulf-Rheidt 2011: Figs. 3, 12. 148 seen in the local architecture – in early Byzantine Cilicia.33 Her argument for a martyrial identification of three churches located at Korykos, Diokaisareia and Sebaste is based not on the presence of an eastern passage – which is altogether absent from one of her examples, the covered church she reconstructed at Diokaisareia – but on the structural relationship between the churches and pre-existing Roman graves (Fig. 4.8). As was the case for the earliest martyrial churches located in nekropoleis, the builders of these fifth and sixth century examples went to great lengths in order to incorporate the pre-existing graves and tombs into the physical church structures.34 This approach was echoed across the Cilician landscape, as with Church 4 at Kanytellis, but particularly where the sacred places involved a cave or sinkhole, as at Hagia Thekla, where “a basilica of standard design [was] situated in relationship to the sacred topography... [namely,] above her holy cave.”35 The construction of arguably martyrial churches that were built in association with a pre-existing (and potentially pagan) grave or tomb and next to a cave or sinkhole will be explored more fully in the second half of this chapter. Based on the presence of the eastern passage, and the arguments put forward for individual churches because of their relationship to pre-existing tombs, 41 churches across Cilicia are presented here as potential martyria (Table 4.1). Where these churches differ most radically is in size. The comparison of church footprints in Fig. 4.9 shows that most potential martyria in Cilicia were the same size as the typical church described above, rather than a distinctively large church like the main basilica at Hagia Thekla,                                                                                                                 33 Mietke 2009: 132: 34 Mietke 2009, esp. p. 131. Hill followed earlier scholars in suggesting that the church was not covered but consisted of porticoes flanking an open space, but similarly suggested that the complex was a martyrium precinct (1996: 255). 35 Ousterhout 2008: 49. For a detailed archaeological exploration of the relationship between the basilica and the cave, see Herzfeld and Guyer 1930. 149 which measured 81 long by 43 meters wide. I chose to compare the overall footprint of the church, including the narthex and the eastern passage, rather than simply the dimensions of the nave, because of the peripatetic nature of the movement through the pilgrimage church to venerate the relics, rather than the maximum capacity of the nave during a church service. Particularly intriguing is the relatively diminutive size of the South Church at Yanıkhan, the known martyrion of the saints George, Christopher and Konon. Measuring only 30 meters long by 15 meters wide, this small church could not have accommodated a large number of pilgrims at any given moment. It did, however, include a 20 by 10 meter atrium to the west of the narthex. The fact that the main paved road through the village diverted through this atrium suggests that the martyrion’s status on the community was significant, a point that will be discussed at more length in Chapter 5. The largest martyrion was, not surprisingly, at Hagia Thekla, though the Cupola Church, a part of the same complex and located less than 200 meters to the north, was only incrementally smaller than the main basilica at 78 by 35 meters. The presence of the region’s two largest potential martyrial churches within the same site emphasizes that scale is a significant variable in considering the phenomenon of pilgrimage movement across the entire devotional landscape of Cilicia. The two churches were almost exactly contemporary, dating to the late fifth century CE.36 Their simultaneous use indicates the significant number of people coming to the site, in order to require such large spaces to accommodate them. The situation is reminiscent of the renovations that took place a few decades later at the pilgrimage church of St John at Ephesos, which was enlarged by                                                                                                                 36 Hill 1996: 225. 150 Justinian.37 It is unlikely that this has anything to do with the size of associated settlements, as discussed below. By plotting the locations of potential martyria in the region, the distribution map shows that, as with the general distribution of churches, most show up in southeastern Isauria, northeast of Seleukeia (Table 4.1; Map 4.1-4.2). As always, there is the risk that this distribution is the result of differential preservation in the plain or of the biases in long-standing research agendas, rather than reality. One of the seemingly few martyrial churches in the plain of eastern Cilicia, and a relatively large one at 56 x 22 m, is the Church of the Holy Apostles at Anazarbos.38 Geophysical prospection in the same city has revealed a triconch – that is, a three-apsed trefoil building – that may be identified as the martyrion of St Menas, though the interpretation is not definitive.39 While there is no conclusive reason for the extremely uneven distribution of martyria across Cilicia, the local pride that Isauria felt in the major pilgrimage destination at Hagia Thekla may have been manifested in a density of churches there that emulated the basilicas there in form, if not in size. While there are a number along the coast, many stand out as being located in the rugged, highland topography, especially in southeastern Isauria. It is difficult to say whether this was because there were more Christian communities actively building and worshipping at identifiable martyria in this region. The distribution of martyria at urban, rural, or isolated sites suggests that it is very rare for a martyrion to be categorized as ‘isolated’ (see Table 3.2). This is somewhat                                                                                                                 37 Pülz 2013: 230. 38 Though Budde (1969) suggested that the church at Mopsuestia could be a martyrion, Hill (1996: 235) argued that the church’s identification as a martyrion was based on weak evidence, and cited Kitzinger (1973) in noting that what is known of the architectural plan is in fact more suggestive of a synagogue than a church. 39 Posamentir 2011: 214. 151 surprising, given that throughout the Mediterranean, isolated churches have often been identified as special ‘pilgrimage’ churches, located far out of the way in order to make the journey more meaningful.40 Instead, most of the martyrial churches show up in urban contexts, a pattern that highlights the relationship between the appeal that martyrial churches held for travelers, and the concomitant activities that devotional travel entailed, especially surrounding saints’ feast days and the markets that accompanied them.41 This observation has compelling ramifications for the dynamics behind the configuration of the sacred landscape under Christianity, and I address it more fully in Chapters 5 and 6. For now, I will address the changing configuration in terms of the selective transformation of pagan temples into churches, in order to explore another question asked in the chapter’s introduction: does the presence and potential influence of identifiable sacred foundations that pre-date Christianity affect the strategies of placement underlying the dynamics of martyrial church patterning in the region? Conversion of temples into martyria Early Christian churches throughout the Roman world were often associated with the ‘victory’ of early Christian saints over pre-Christian deities through the forcible eviction of those long-reigning gods and goddesses from their temples. As discussed in Chapter 2, this is manifested specifically in the Miracles of Thekla in the description of the saint’s expulsion of ‘Sarpedonion’ Apollo from his mountain peak (Miracle 1), of Athena from nearby Mount Kokysion (Miracle 2), and of Aphrodite, ‘from the city’ of                                                                                                                 40 Sweetman 2010: 227. Mayer and Allen (2011: 182-190) also discuss the particularly pilgrimage churches of Antioch being located outside the city walls, in order to generate a notion of distance and effort, even though they were not located very far. See also Shepardson 2014, esp. Ch. 4, ‘Transformative Transgressions.’ 41 See Chapter 5, ‘Markets and Fairs’ for a more detailed discussion of the markets that occurred on saints’ feast days. 152 Dexianos, bishop of Seleukeia (Miracle 3). Even Zeus, “the very chief of the demons himself,” was ejected from his own temple in the city of Seleukeia (Miracle 4), in which location she installed a church dedicated to Paul, an act echoing the narrative of Paul’s own expulsion of Zeus from his temple in Tarsos.42 The transformation of pre-Christian sacred places into churches, whether a temple or not, was not carried out uniformly. Çatıören is a particularly intriguing example of the selectiveness behind the transformation of the sacred landscape, because while the basilica there was built on the podium of a temple itself, it also faced the untouched Temple of Hermes across the valley, which can still be seen standing today (Fig. 4.10).43 There was, clearly, something about the pagan temple at Çatıören that, at least according to its contemporary Christians, demanded its conversion – or, conversely, something about the Temple of Hermes that stayed the hands of would-be church-builders. Those factors could range from indifference to economics, and at this stage any conclusion about this particular situation at Çatıören must remain speculative. In Cilicia, the physical transformation of temples to churches can be identified in the remains of twenty churches studied by Richard Bayliss in Provincial Cilicia and the Archaeology of Temple Conversion (2004)44 (see Map 4.2). Across the Mediterranean, evidence indicates that many pre-Christian temples had gone out of use before the                                                                                                                 42 Trans. Johnson 2012: 11-17. See also Johnson forthcoming: 60-61. 43 Bayliss 2004: 87-88, and figs. 131-134. Giobbe (2013) does not include the Temple of Hermes in her survey of temples in Rough Cilicia, which extended as far east as the Lamos River and thus included Çatıören in its scope. 44 Bayliss 2004. Previous scholarship has argued for pre-Christian predecessors for all these structures; Bayliss discusses all of them, though he does not carry through the interpretation in every instance (see, for example, his refutation of Bent and Hill’s acceptance of Church 4 at Kanytelis/Kanlidivane as having been converted from a temple, p 86). More recent studies of the conversions at Diokaisareia, Elauissa-Sebaste, Alahan, Korykos, and Korykion Antron can be found in Elton et al. 2007. 153 moment of their conversion, but some had not.45 It is unclear whether a temple predated the basilica dedicated to St Thekla in its third, fourth, or fifth century iterations at Hagia Thekla.46 Nearby, the converted temple-church at Seleukeia has long been identified with the episode recounted in Miracle 4.47 As Bayliss has noted, the dedication of the physical remains of the temple in Seleukeia to Zeus is based entirely on that passage, however, “as the only known temple conversion in Silifke, it seems reasonable that the title should stick, while not being considered conclusive.”48 Most of the churches identified as temple conversions can no longer provide evidence regarding their original dedication, either before or after the moment of conversion. The one temple that does still preserve its dedication, the temple of Olbian Zeus at Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç), no longer bears any traces that it had a martyrial function (Fig. 4.11). There are numerous pagan sacred spaces near caves that were later the site of churches. While the five sites associated with caves, discussed below in detail – Korykion Antron, Kanytellis, Kadirli, Mazılık, and Alahan (Map 4.5) – are, archaeologically and architecturally, some of the best documented in the region, there are                                                                                                                 45 Bowes 2008b: 596; Bayliss’ (2004: 3-4) investigations indicate that in Cilicia itself, temples that were eventually converted, had been abandoned before they were transformed into churches. In nearby Antioch, the writings of Libanios make it clear that as late as end of the fourth century, the Tychaeum was still intact, though that does not necessarily indicate continuous use up to that time or until the translation of St Ignatios’s relics to the Tychaeum under Theodosios II at the beginning of the fifth century (Mayer and Allen 2011: 148; 81). See also Hahn, Emmer and Gotter (eds). 2008, From Temple to Church: Destruction and Renewal of Local Cultic Topography in Late Antiquity. 46 Herzfeld and Guyer propose a 3rd century version of the church (1930: 5-8), a view adopted by most scholars of the early to mid-20th century (see, e.g., Devreesse 1945: 145). That there was 3rd century version of the church is not entirely supported by Hill (1996: 213) or Hild & Hellenkemper (1990: 442), who attribute the reuse of Roman columns to the possibility of Thekla’s cult succeeding a pre-Christian deity’s temple and precinct on the hill outside the city. The pre-existing temple makes the 3rd century Christian church unlikely (Bayliss 2004: 89). 47 Hill 1996: 241; Bayliss 2004: 74; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 404. 48 Bayliss 2004: 74. This tentative acceptance is generally accepted by scholars of the region; however, C. Vermeule has suggested that the temple could have been dedicated to the imperial cult (1968: 258) [from Giobbe 2013: 134]. 154 other known instances of churches coinciding with rocky geographies and pagan sacred spaces. At Lamatorma, the placement of pre-Christian gods in caves can be seen in the Roman imperial period sanctuary complex, comprised of substantial buildings and an enclosure in addition to the cave itself, to Athena Λαµατορµα.49 In the deep gorge created by the course of the Kalykadnos River, an ancient staircase cut into the living rock leads to a cave in the western face, where an inscription records a sanctuary to Athena en Tagais. Church ruins are located to the north, reachable by foot in a just a few minutes, which have been suggested as an early Byzantine monastery lying on top of part of the sanctuary complex.50 Another, though less convincing, example, appears at Yapılıkaya, where a cave sanctuary to Hermes is tentatively attributed a “possible Byzantine use.”51 The Göksu Archaeological Project documented cave sites with Christian elements at Kızıl Dağ and Oprukkaya.52 Most of the overlap between the locations of martyria and temple conversions occurs to the north/northeast of Seleukeia, and virtually none in the hundred kilometers between southeastern Isauria and Mopsuestia. However, at least half of the twenty temple conversions became martyrial churches, accounting for a quarter of all martyria in the region. Of these ten martyria, the most common intersection among them is that they feature the co-occurrence of three variables: pre-Christian religious foundations, formal architectural features argued to have a martyrial function, and proximity to caves and sinkholes. In the next section, I examine several sites that demonstrate the presence of these three variables (see Map 4.5).                                                                                                                 49 Bean and Mitford 1970: 202-204; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 328. 50 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 424. 51 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 459. 52 Elton 2013: 233. The Turkish word for ‘sinkhole’ is, compellingly, ‘obruk’ (my thanks to Müge Durusu for pointing this out to me). 155 ‘Rocky geographies’: martyria and caves53 Una cosa é certa: in questa regione, dalle caratteristiche geologiche particolari, le numerose grotte e caverne sono in gran parte state santificate divenendo oggetto di un culto cristiano la cui origine va ricercata nel paganesimo.54 One thing is certain: in this region, because of their particular geological characteristics, the numerous grottos and caves had in great part become sanctified and the object of a Christian cult whose origins were to be found in paganism. Semavi Eyice’s firm statement is clear about the long-standing association between early Christian churches and caves as well as its origins in pagan cult. In the previous section, I explored the association between martyria in particular and the conversion of pagan temples in the Cilician devotional landscape. More often than not, these associations feature a third variable: rocky geographies, or more specifically, the proximity of a temple – and then a church – to a geological formation particular to Cilicia’s karstic landscape. This particular geology can manifest in the form of the large sinkholes known most famously at Korykion Antron, a pair of depressions known in modern Turkish as Cennet Cehennem, ‘Heaven and Hell’ (Fig. 4.12), or at large cliffside caves that were later converted into churches, as at Aloda.55 Most famously – after the cave under the basilica at Hagia Thekla, of course – the monastic complex at Alahan grew up around a cave.56 The cult of St Thekla was constructed, both literally and figuratively, around the legend of her disappearance into the cave in the nekropolis at Hagia Thekla outside                                                                                                                 53 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 74-82 has discussed the role of caves in the cultic landscape of southeastern Isauria. 54 Eyice 1988: 18. 55 Elton 2013: 236. 56 Elton 2002. 156 Seleukeia.57 This relatively common coincidence of churches, pagan temples, and caves is presumably behind the recent suggestion, made by the investigators at the eastern Cilician city at Anazarbos, that a structure’s identification as a church is based to a great extent on its proximity to a pre-existing cave devoted to the worship of Zeus.58 The history of caves as sacred spaces in Cilicia dates back far beyond the immediately pre-Christian pagan sanctuaries, even to Hittite religious myths and rituals and the ‘disappearing gods’. In Chapter 2, I discussed the textual sources’ predilection for reporting the eviction of pre-Christian deities from their mountain peaks, but then placing the newly arrived saints’ churches close to caves (with exceptions, of course: Thekla was said to have a ‘home’ on the peak at Dalisandos, and Konon evicted Apollo from a cave, specifically one at his mountain). On the ground, it is clear that in Cilicia, almost all temple conversions are located near caves and sinkholes. By comparison, the closest that churches usually come to being on a ‘peak’ is at settlements like Kurudere or Çatıören, where the location of the church rises above the rest of the settlement, usually on a ridge. Even at the site usually identified with Dalisandos, which is described as a peak in the Miracles of Thekla, there are no remains of a church, but there is a large natural cave associated with the site.59 One arguably ‘peak’ site is at Sarıveliler Kalesi, where ruins of an early Byzantine church are described on a ‘steep height,’ presiding over the tombs, cisterns, and foundations of other buildings in the settlement, though there is no indication that there was a pre-existing temple at the site.60 Throughout the ancient Mediterranean world, “caves have long been privileged                                                                                                                 57 See Johnson 2010, esp. p. 11. 58 Posamentir and Sayar 2006: 345. 59 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 233. 60 Bean and Mitford 1970: 212; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 398. 157 sites for encounters with the metaphysical,” both before and after the arrival of Christianity.61 In much of the earliest hagiographical literature, caves featured widely as places in which holy men sought to seclude themselves from the wider world.62 One example of this phenomenon is Saint Simeon the Elder, who was famous for his career as a holy man on a pillar in northern Syria, but who first attempted to become a recluse in a cave.63 The link between caves and saints (and eventually, churches) did not end with the early Byzantine period in Cilicia, but continued on until at least the middle Byzantine centuries: at Sarıkavak, there is a so-called ‘cave city’ (Höhlenstadt) associated with a middle Byzantine chapel in connection with a large cave, that has clearly seen use, probably as a sanctuary, and possibly as an anchoritic or monastic complex.64 In the centuries preceding the erection of the churches near caves, such as those discussed below at Korykion Antron and Kanytellis, one very important cave had played a leading role in the increasing attention to sacred spaces in the Christian world: the clearing of the ‘cave of salvation,’ the place of Christ’s burial in Jerusalem, described by Eusebius in the Vita Constantini.65 This initial inventio, or ritual discovery of a relic in order to create or strengthen a saint’s cult, led to a proliferation of holy caves ‘discovered’ after centuries of obscurity. Among these were the various grottos marking the stages in Christ’s life that, once identified beginning in the second century CE, became pilgrimage destinations under Constantine.66 These included the Holy Sepulchre,                                                                                                                 61 della Dora 2011: 764. See Ustinova 2009. 62 See, e.g., Brown 1977; Kalas 2009: 153. 63 The major sources for the life of Simeon Stylites (the Elder) are given in Harvey 1988: 376-77. 64 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 397. 65 Eusebius Vita Constantini 3.28; see also Ćurčić 2006; Yasin 2009: 22-23; and della Dora 2011: 770. 66 On inventio: Geary 1986: 178. 158 the Grotto of the Nativity and the Grotto of Ascension, as well as the Cave of Lazarus.67 This fourth century development put caves on the map of empire... as sites physically marking the inexplicable dogmas of the newly sanctioned creed... Caves are the spaces where biblical paradoxical wonders took place, beyond human vision and understanding (from the birth of Christ from a virgin to his resurrection and the revelation to Saint John on Patmos).68 By the fifth or sixth century, the cave at the site now known as Khirbet Qana had been identified as the first century Cana in Galilee, the setting of the wedding feast and Jesus’ miracle of turning water into wine. The cave on the south slope of the site served as a pilgrimage destination, and archaeological investigation in the late 1990s and early 2000s appears to confirm the medieval textual tradition that placed the miracle at the feast, and the crypt in which it had taken place, at Khirbet Qana.69 Whether inventio was involved in the antique localization of the feast in the cave is unclear, but the cave – which plays no part in the account of the miracle rendered in the Gospel of John – had, by the fifth century, been appropriated as the proper location for veneration at the site, much like its counterpart caves in the other miracles of Jesus recorded in the New Testament.70 Slobodan Ćurčić discussed the juxtaposition of the cave and church as a middle and particularly late Byzantine idiosyncrasy outside the Holy Land. The phenomenon                                                                                                                 67 My thanks to Jordan Pickett for drawing out the connection to these early caves in the Eusebian martyrial tradition. Veronica della Dora ascribes these places as contributing to a “speluncar theology” (2011: 764); for a discussion of these sanctuary complexes in particular see ibid., 768- 770. See also Taylor 1993: 157-179. 68 della Dora 2011: 761. 69 D. Edwards 2002: 103, 121-126. 70 Architectural decoration (a 5th-6th century cross, seen at Fig. 23) and the altar made out of a reused sarcophagus lid, complete with stone vessels plastered into place near the altar, suggest that the water-to-wine miracle was recreated on a ritual basis (Edwards 2002: 124). See also Ćurčić 2006. 159 may have developed out of a conceptualization of the semicircular space of the apse in any early eastern church as architecturally symbolic of the series of caves identified with Christ’s life in Palestine.71 The history of the tradition has been traced by Peter Walker back to the writings of Eusebios of Caesarea in the late third and early fourth century, resulting in its widespread appearance in 4th-6th century Palestine, though it was not explicitly articulated until the early 8th century in the so-called Historia Mystagogica.72 However, this phenomenon can be seen as early as the 5th and 6th century in Cilicia, where several sites can be identified in juxtaposition with caves, though the precise spatial relationship can take various different manifestations. The cave as a sacred place of divinely facilitated dwelling and descent was no stranger to Cilician sensibilities. In fact, a number of caves in the region were associated with churches that had potential martyrial functions, as at Mazılık and Alahan. The cave was conceptualized as a place where the (now Christian) divine dwelt. In the fourth century Gregory of Nyssa designated “the opening in the rock which Scripture calls a ‘hole’ the divine Apostle interprets... as a heavenly house not made with his hands.”73 Following the same logic, the cave shrine dedicated to Thekla was also known as the saint’s home, one dedicated to her by God himself: “Thekla, my true servant, do not fear, for I am with you, look at where the rock has opened in front of you, for therein will be your eternal home and therein will I provide protection for you.”74 Caves were a point of contact between the divine and earthly realms in the pre-Christian tradition, as well. The argument that caves may have been intentionally used for the continuity of pagan                                                                                                                 71 Ćurčić 2006: 218-221. 72 Walker 1990: 184-194; Ćurčić 2006: 216-217. 73 Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Moses 3.245. 74 This particular passage is from a variant ending of the Thekla Miracles, trans. Johnson 2012: 199. 160 worship in the face of an expanding Christian influence in some regions of the Mediterranean is key to understanding the significance of Konon’s triumph over the statue of Apollo in a cave, as noted in Chapter 2.75 Without evidence for that particular shrine it is impossible to say whether that cult place was long-lived or a more recent reactionary foundation, but it does suggest that those evangelizing Christianity in the region were confronting more than simply a dying pagan tradition. As noted above, the church forms at Hagia Thekla and Yanıkhan may have influenced the design and construction of other churches in the region, and in turn these likely served a funerary or martyrial function. In what follows, a detailed discussion of the association of early Christian churches with caves – or their manmade imitations – informs our understanding of the location and impact of potential martyrial churches in their specific contexts. I draw upon evidence from five different sites across Cilicia (Map 4.5). On a regional scale, we can posit something akin to the process that Pullan termed “celestial order in the terrestrial empire,” as churches became distinctive landmarks punctuating the mundane landscape with an overtly Christian, and literally ‘saintly’, presence.76 Korykion Antron and Kanytellis: caves, churches, and geological formations At Korykion Antron, or the Corycian Cave, there are two famous depressions termed ‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’, respectively, retained in the modern Turkish name for the site, Cennet Cehennem (Figs. 4.13-4.14). The larger sinkhole, ‘Heaven,’ is an irregularly shaped ovoid basin 70 meters deep, 250 meters long, and about 30 meters wide. A                                                                                                                 75 Alcock 1994: 255. 76 Pullan 2005: 398. 161 serpentine paved staircase, 200 meters long and carved into the side of the depression, provides access. The staircase, though reconstructed in sections, is probably ancient in its course into the cave: “Strabo evidently descended by the road at the S.E. corner and found the floor, as it is now, 'very uneven and for the most part stone'” (Fig. 4.15).77 Of the two sinkholes, it is the only one that is known to have had activity in antiquity; ‘Hell’ is smaller but almost impossible to access due to the steepness of its sides (Fig. 4.16). In the fifth century, the so-called Clifftop Temple at the southern edge of the southern cavern (Heaven/Cennet) was dismantled and rebuilt as a basilica with the spolia of the Hellenistic structure (Figs. 4.17-4.19).78 Bayliss accepted Hill’s suggestion that the presence of the telltale eastern passage indicates its likely funerary or martyrial role, while stating that other than its immediate proximity to the edge of the Corycian Cave, there is no other archaeological, epigraphic or historical evidence for the site being a draw for early Christian pilgrims (Fig. 4.20).79 In classical antiquity, the cave was known as the prison of Typhon, an adversary of Zeus, which was probably why the temple at the edge of the depression is sometimes attributed to Zeus.80 Bayliss has pointed out the heightened tension that went hand in hand with the place’s literal awesomeness no matter what its religious affiliation, repeating the mid-first century words of Pomponius of Mela: Inside [the Corycian Cave, at the bottom of the depression Heaven/Cennet] there is a space which inspires such terror that nobody dares to advance further; so it has remained unexplored. The whole cave is venerable and truly sacred; it is worthy to be a habitation of the                                                                                                                 77 Bent 1891: 213; the ancient road that Şahin et al. (2010: 82) traced from Göztepesi terminated 50 meters from the mouth of the cave. 78 A detailed explanation of the temple conversion is given in Bayliss 2004: 82-84, with extensive bibliography of the history of research at the site. 79 Bayliss 2004: 84. 80 Bent 1890: 449. 162 gods, as it is, indeed, generally held to be. There is nothing there that is not venerable, that does not in some manner manifest divine presence.81 The church was not integrated architecturally into the cave with which it was associated, but linked via a tortuous rock-cut staircase that winds down the eastern side of the depression to the mouth of the cave (Figs. 4.21-4.22).82 Pomponius Mela describes its approach: There is one descent into it, narrow, rough, a mile-and-a-half long, through lovely shadows and the shade of a forest that resonates with a tinge of rusticity, while streams continually flow from one direction or another. When the bottom is reached, again a second cave is opened up...83 At the mouth of the cave, one comes upon the Chapel of Saint Mary at the final descent, which looks directly over the opening of the cave (Figs 4.23-4.24). Beyond the chapel, the staircase continues down into the cave itself (see Fig. 4.15).84 For those pilgrims who did descend all the way into the cave, the sight of the Chapel of Mary upon re-emergence must have been a welcome as well as a striking one, as can be seen in Fig.                                                                                                                 81 Pomponius Mela, de Chorographia 1.76, trans. from Markus 1991: 139. See Bayliss 2004: 80; and Romer 1998: 55, who distinguishes the cave at the bottom of the depression termed Cennet/Heaven from that described by Pomponius as that belonging to Typhon. Varınlıoğlu names Dilek Mağarası as the setting for the myth wherein Zeus imprisoned the monster Typhon, but does not specify its location relative to the depressions at Korykion Antron. A recent regional study of the impact of landforms and vegetation on modern livestock names Dilek Mağarası as being located 300 meters south of the depression Cennet/Heaven, and describes it as a 200-meter long cave with stalactites and stalagmites (Sarıbaş and Pınar 2009: 372), which aligns well with Hild and Hellenkemper’s locational description of Narlıkuyu, although they do not refer to it explicitly as a cave. This designation is reflected in guidebooks for this stretch of the coast. While there are no remains of churches there, it is clearly connected to Korykion Antron through its water sources as well as the manmade travel network. Thought be a healing place for asthma, it is often referred to as Astım Dilek Mağarası. 82 According to Pomponius Mela, the depression itself “gapes wide with a tremendous maw and makes an opening, right at the very top, into the mountain” (1.72, trans. Romer 1998: 55). 83 Pomponius Mela 1.73, trans. Romer 1998: 55. 84 Time constraints and the slickness of the damp stone steps precluded my going any farther on my visit in November 2012. I will simply repeat Pomponius Mela: “Inside, there is a space too hair-raising for anyone to dare to go forward, and for that reason it remains unknown” (1.74, trans. Romer 1998: 56). 163 4.25. Bayliss thought it likely that the sixth-century chapel was built partly of spolia from the fıfth-century clifftop basilica, which makes it unlikely that the two churches were simultaneously active. However, if they were contemporary to each other, it is possible that they acted as part of a stational approach – that is, stopping along the way – to the climax of the ‘pilgrimage’ visit, the cave itself.85 Without detailed architectural measurements comparing the blocks from the cliffside temple-church and the chapel of Saint Mary, we cannot confirm that this is the case. It remains a possibility that the missing remains of the cliffside temple-church were not used as spolia in the chapel but rather by modern Turkish villagers after Bent’s admittedly enthusiastic destruction of the late antique portions of the structure in his search for inscriptions.86 There is evidence that a Christian community was resident in the small settlement of late Roman houses, several of which bore crosses on their lintels, arranged around the basilica at the edge of the depression (Fig. 4.26).87 This setting, in addition to the absence of a proximate cemetery, argues against the basilica’s potential role as a cemetery church with a funerary function. At Korykion Antron, the lack of ad sanctos burials and the effort put into infrastructure that provided access to the cave may indicate that any devotional travel was aimed not at the church but to the cave itself. This supports the suggestion that it was possibly part of a stational approach to the cave, akin to the progress pilgrimage outlined by Coleman and Elsner at Sinai.88 Church 4 at Kanytellis is, like the Temple-Church at Korykion Antron, perched on the edge of a depression (Fig. 4.27). Bayliss believed the argument for its construction                                                                                                                 85 See Coleman and Elsner (1994) for a description of a stational pilgrimage seen at Mt Sinai. 86 Bent 1891: 214. 87 Bayliss 2004: 80. For more on the settlement see Feld and Weber 1967. 88 Coleman and Elsner 1994. 164 on top of a former temple is a thin one, suggesting instead that the platform might have been built originally for a tomb, rather than a temple.89 Unlike the situation at Korykion Antron, this church saw a great deal of ad sanctos Christian burial take place around the apse, further supporting the argument that it was built on top of a tomb.90 An inscription above a door in the narthex quotes Psalm 118 and records the dedication of the church to the memory of one deceased Papylos (Babylas), who fulfilled a vow in building it (Fig. 4.28)91: † Αὕτη ἡ πύλη τοῦ Κυρίο[υ], δίκαιοι [εἰσε] λεύσονται ἐν αὐτῇ. Ἔργο [ν...]ωνος Κρονίδ[ου] ˙ µνή[σθ]ητη Κύριε. † † Ὑπὲρ µνήµης και ἀναπαύσεως Παπύλου και τῶν τέκνων αὐτοῦ τὴν εὐχὴν ἀπέδωκεν. † †This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through it.92 The work of [...] (son of) Kronides; remember (him), Lord. † †For the memory and the repose of Papylos and his children He fulfilled his vow. † The presence of an eastern passage is suggestive that the commemoration would have been ritualized, particularly because Hill has successfully argued, contra Forsyth, that the eastern passage was part of the original construction.93 It is unclear, however, whether the commemoration would have been directed towards Papylos, the church’s patron, or an unidentified saint. Church 4 bears obvious similarities to the temple church at Korykion Antron. Its location on the edge of the sinkhole overlooks the access staircase to the bottom on the                                                                                                                 89 Hill 1996: 188; Bayliss 2004: 87; both following Forsyth 1961: 132. 90 Bayliss 2004: 87. 91 Hagel and Tomaschitz record the two lines as separate inscriptions, SEG 37, 1326A and CIG 8857, respectively (1998: 133-134, Kanytelis 7a and 7b). See also Dagron and Feissel 1987: 52, n. 21; Eyice 1980: 491. 92 Psalm 118: 20. 93 Hill 1996: 192; contra Forsyth 1961, 132. 165 opposite side, as at Korykion Antron. Eyice has asserted, however, that the ritual connection to the cave lies not in the staircase, still visible today, but in a tunnel that connected the basilica and the cavern, directly below it, on the northern side of the sinkhole: L'esistenza di una galleria che, scendendo dall'abside, raggiunge il fonda della caverna attesta che il valore religioso pagano ad essa attribuito si perpetuo senza dubbio in una forma cristianizzata.94 The existence of a tunnel that, descending from the apse, reaches the base of the cavern attests that the pagan religious value attributed to it is perpetuated without a doubt in a Christian form. Bayliss has dismissed the existence of this tunnel and attributes its perpetuation in scholarship as a mistake initially published by Bent at the end of the nineteenth century, who wrote that it was blocked off at the time.95 However, according to Semavi Eyice the “tunnel-like stairs” (tunnelartige Treppe) were still visible in 1977.96 The confusion may have arisen from the descriptor ‘tunnel’, as Bayliss himself points to a staircase carved into the rock face directly below Church 4, aside from the main access staircase opposite. In the 1980s, Hild and Hellenkemper noted only that the basin is “über eine teilweise erhaltene Felstreppe zugänglich.”97 Their sources for the site do not include Bent, with whom the whole notion of a second set of stairs appears to have arisen, but they do include Bell, who accepted Bent’s interpretation.98 Kadirli and Mazılık: building churches on top of caves                                                                                                                 94 Eyice 1988: 17. 95 Bayliss 2004: 110. 96 Eyice 1977: 490. 97 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 286. 98 Bayliss 2004: 87; Bell 1906b: 403. 166 The settlement at Kadirli has been generally accepted as the site of ancient Flavias/Flaviopolis.99 This church, constructed with spolia appropriated from an earlier structure – like Church 4 at Kanytellis – could have formerly been a temple or a monumental tomb, but this cannot be established securely (Fig. 4.29).100 It was in turn spoliated to construct the Alacami mosque. Though the modern city of Kadirli has encroached upon and around the Alacami, Gertrude Bell’s 1905 photographs in the archive at Newcastle University show that the mosque – though by this time deserted – still stood alone in the field to the east of the village, surrounded only by the cemetery. The structure served as a mosque for centuries longer than it served as a Christian church, and no inscriptional evidence survives that might allow us to assign the latter a date, dedication and function. In the last decades of the 19th century, Bent reported a church in Kadirli with a mosaic recording the dedication of a church by the Guild of Fullers; unfortunately, he noted that at the time it was being used as the floor of a reed cottage, but not its location.101 Bayliss suggested that it probably marked the site of an intramural church, and therefore we cannot connect it to the standing remains that are now known as the Alacami, which is built into the ancient nekropolis.102 Any indication of the mosaic church’s location is now hidden under concrete. An anonymous menologion – a catalog of saints’ lives organized by the date of the feast day celebration of each saint – of the tenth century records the building of an                                                                                                                 99 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 378-379; Hill 1996: 176. 100 Bayliss notes that “the large quantity of architectural spolia used in the construction of the basilica is typical of the Cilician plain in this period and may allude to the pre-existence of an earlier structure on the site” (1997: 60). 101 Bent 1890: 223, 236 no. 1. 102 Bayliss 1997: 59. It is unfortunate that we cannot connect it to any standing remains, as it “gives a rare insight into the variety groups, even commercial in this case, providing patronage for church construction in the province.” 167 unattributed martyrion in Flavias by a certain Julian of Anazarbos during the reign of Diocletian.103 No martyrs have been recorded for the city in either text or epigraphy. Bayliss has pointed out that the saints Tarachos, Probos and Andronikos were martyred in nearby Anazarbos during the period of Diocletian’s Great Persecution (303-305 CE), though he does not explicitly suggest that they were the dedicatees of this potential martyrion.104 As a possible pilgrimage destination, the site’s location makes sense: a bridge, no longer visible, spanned the Savrun River at the settlement, where routes leading down from the Tauros converged.105 The late Roman iteration of the church did not include the telltale eastern passage, but the northern side chamber had a doorway that allowed for entry from outside the church; the apse, which was bonded at various levels with the side-chambers, was linked to each chamber through internal openings.106 What makes a more compelling case for pilgrimage at the site is the opening of a cryptoporticus excavated in the center of the stone staircase approaching the narthex of the church from the west. The steps lead down to a passageway, one meter wide and lined with stone, the extent of which is difficult to discern; blocked since the middle of the 20th century, it is reported to run parallel to the nave of the church to a barrel-vaulted crypt at the eastern end.107 It is tempting to compare that arrangement to the basilica at Hagia Thekla, where the entrance to the crypt church – located on the west end of the church, though on the south side – opens to a                                                                                                                 103 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 379; Menologii anonymi Byzantini saeculi X quae supersunt II. 83. 104 He adds, however, that “the possibility cannot yet be ruled out, that this site had some prior association with a martyrium supposedly built in Flaviopolis by Julianus of Anazarbus during the same period” (Bayliss 1997: 72). 105 Bayliss 1997: 59. Davis saw remains of the old bridge at the end of the 19th century (1879: 126). 106 Bayliss 1997: 63; 65. 107 Bayliss 1997: 70. 168 short set of stairs that lead to the ‘nave’ of the small underground space. That nave is oriented east to west and culminates in a shrine at the eastern end, mirroring the layout of the basilica above it (or vice versa). A parallel example to the configuration of church–passage–underground crypt can be found, as Bayliss notes but does not dwell upon, at Mazılık, which also demonstrates a close relationship with the network of caves over which it was built (Fig. 4.30).108 As at Alahan, the church is built upon a narrow terrace, looking out over the Cilician plain.109 The network of caves below the church is accessed by a passage outside the church to the southeast. Though the exact relationship between the caves and the church cannot be established from the architectural documentation, Edwards, the first to publish the site, suggests that it may have been associated with pagan worship, and in time came to be correlated with a local saint, now unknown.110 What is clear is the trouble to which the builders went in order to construct the church here, on a narrow terrace over a network of caves. Like the other examples discussed above, the relationship between church and caves could sometimes be so important that when natural features could be utilized, as at Mazılık, they were so; and when not available, a ‘cave’ would be physically created, as seen in the cryptoporticus at Kadirli. Alahan: caves and monasteries Because of its excellent state of preservation, seemingly isolated high in the pine forests of the Isaurian countryside, the ecclesiastical complex at Alahan has long been touted as an exemplar of Cilician and Isaurian church architecture (Fig. 4.31). Perched                                                                                                                 108 Bayliss 1997: 70. 109 Edwards 1982: Plate VIII(a). 110 Edwards 1982: 28-29. 169 romantically on a terrace with a wide-ranging view over the Göksu Valley, previous scholars have designated this collection of buildings as a monastic complex, because of its stereotypical associations of remoteness with early Christian monasticism (Fig. 4.32).111 Some have also attempted to identify the complex as Apadnas, a monastic site said to have been restored by Justinian.112 This characterization of the site has been complicated by recent survey work, the results of which have demonstrated that the Alahan complex is not, after all, an isolated monastic site, but was located immediately above – via a winding mountain path – a small urban center that now lies beneath the modern village.113 In the Roman period, there were two churches in the city in addition to those now preserved in the complex.114 The absence of a trapeza, a communal eating area for monastics, has also counted against calling this complex a monastery. There are, however, “all the necessary elements for a pilgrimage shrine and the argument for this identification is clinched by an inscription which records the presence at the site of apantitiria (guest-houses) and a paramonarios (custodian).”115 The ceremonial walkway proceeding along the edge of the terrace may have played a ritual role in pilgrims’ approach to the site (Fig. 4.33). Arguments about the attribution of the pilgrimage sanctuary range from Konon116 to Tarasis,117 but none are definitive; we cannot identify the name of the complex or the city                                                                                                                 111 See, for example, Peter Brown’s work on removal of the ideal Christian life from the ‘daily grind’ of urban life (1971; 1981). Alahan has been studied at length by Michael Gough, after whose untimely death his wife Mary Gough and other collaborators published his work (1985). 112 Elton 2002: 154. 113 Elton 2007: 59; Elton et al. 2006. 114 Elton 2007: 60. 115 Hill 1998: 317. For the absence of trapeza and presence of pilgrimage elements, see also Elton 2002: 154. 116 Hellenkemper 1994: 221. 117 Hill 1998: 317. 170 with which it was associated, much less the saint to whom it was dedicated.118 The first structure on the site was the Cave Church, which, as at Hagia Thekla and Mazılık, influenced the layout of the later structures on this narrow terrace site. The narthex of the immediately proximate West Church, in order to accommodate the apse of the Cave Church, had to be truncated at one end, and as a result only extended partially the width of the overall church.119 The construction of the West Church adapted not only to constraints of space created by the Cave Church, but also to issues of accessibility: “The floor of the south side of the Basilica is supported on massive substructures, and the presence of a door and slit windows at a low level in the south wall demonstrates that there must have been a crypt.”120 As in other instances of martyrial churches associated with caves, the accessibility of the cave shrine or crypt to pilgrims made it possible for pilgrims to pray directly next to saints’ relics.121 The accommodations made between the two churches and the crypt indicate that they were all in operation simultaneously after the West Church was built. Skepticism regarding Alahan’s origins as a monastic community does not preclude the later presence of one. The expansion of the complex along the narrow terrace suggests quite the opposite. Numerous caves near the site may have been used as monastic cells, and it is indeed possible that a community of monastics grew up around the pilgrimage site after it had already been established, as has been attested at Hagia                                                                                                                 118 Identification of the complex as Apadnas has been thoroughly refuted. See Elton, 2002: 154; contra Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 194-195. 119 Hill 1998: 320. 120 Hill 1998: 321. 121 “Charged with biblical miraculous narratives, caves presented themselves to early Christian pilgrims [and travelers] as spaces for prayer and meditation along their journeys” (della Dora 2011: 764). 171 Thekla, seventy-five kilometers to the southeast down the Göksu River valley.122 The same situation has been argued for nearby Aloda, where monastic living quarters in caves surround a rock-cut cave church, which is entered by a long passage cut into the rock.123 This position is supported by the complex recently recorded at Kurudere lower in the Tauros hills towards the coast from Alahan, where the monks’ modest living quarters in caves in the ravine surrounded a high-quality church made of ashlar, located on the ridge above them.124 Conclusion There are characteristics observable across these five case studies of churches that, while variously manifested, strongly suggest a martyrial function revolving around a long-held notion of the cave as holy place. This is especially clear from the artificial intervention in creating access points between the church and the cave at Kadirli. In fact, what seems to define the relationship between these churches and the caves and sinkholes with which they were associated, is the contrast between the relative positions of the church and the cave. As della Dora has argued for caves across the Mediterranean, “these anti-landscapes took life precisely from their opposition (or complementariness) to the landscapes and narratives in which they are embedded.”125 The Cilician examples described above demonstrate a verticality that inherited the prominence of caves in the early Christian landscape in Palestine. This sense of contrast between up and down has a                                                                                                                 122 Elton 2002: 154. Gough suggested that monastic cells for the site could have been located at nearby Aloda (1957). 123 Gough 1955: 210. 124 Varınlıoğlu 2008(b): 81. 125 della Dora 2011: 777. 172 legacy in later Byzantine Christian depictions of sacred places: Peter Brown has described an 11th-century image in which a monk emerges from a cave at the very top of a mountain as the materialization of the bios angelikos – the ‘life of the angels’ – in between heaven and earth.126 The same verticality can be seen starkly and purposefully contoured into the Cilician landscape. The construction of the complex at Alahan centered around the cave and original Cave Church there, but also provided a wide vista over the Göksu Valley below. The same situation figured at Hagia Thekla, where the church above St. Thekla’s cave crypt also overlooked the Seleukeian plain towards the sea. At Mazılık, the church above the network of caves had a wide view over the Cilician plain. At Kanytellis, the churches perched on the edge of the sinkhole provided a stark contrast between the surrounding settlement and the sharp drop into the immediately adjacent depression. As at Korykion Antron, where the Chapel of Mary is accessed by a “long, tortuous staircase,” possibly connected with the basilica at the top,127 a winding staircase often likened to a tunnel linked the basilica with the cave below. At Korykion Antron itself, there are two points marking what could be called a stratified verticality: the first, at the temple-church commanding a view over a stark drop into the depression Heaven/Cennet, and the second at the Chapel of Mary’s position marking the point of transition between the depression itself and the cave. In one direction, it looked up against the steep face of the depression’s western edge towards the temple-church, while in the other, down into the dark vastness of the cave. Central to both sites is the massive presence of the sinkhole itself, around which each potential pilgrimage complex grew.                                                                                                                 126 Walker 1990: 184-194; Brown 2006: 117. 127 Bayliss 2004: 80. 173 The re-use of rock-cut and natural cave features by the Christian populace is identifiable across the Byzantine Mediterranean.128 In Cilicia, we see the association of caves not just with the a wider Christian tradition of (re)appropriated caves as sacred places, but also as tied into specifically regional influences, at home and abroad: Thekla’s cult pervaded the region and farther afield. Her pilgrimage church influenced the design of pilgrimage churches in Cilicia, as at Yanıkhan, and potentially as far away as Jerusalem and Constantinople. The topographical specifications of her cult site at Hagia Thekla were replicated throughout the Cilician countryside, even for different saints as objects of pilgrimage.129 Rather than searching solely for a pattern of architectural types that can be applied across the region, this study has attempted to identify the various and multiple arguments for martyria in the region and plot their locations against one another to look for a pattern in distribution and topography, rather than only in plan. The evidence suggests that there are patterns to be found in the selective Christian repurposing of pagan structures. It has long been acknowledged that it is not rare for an enduring perception of sanctity of pagan shrines to be perpetuated architecturally and socially in the service of Christianity.130 Famous examples can be seen across Turkey, for example in the well-documented conversion of the Temple-Church at Aphrodisias in Caria and the Temple of Apollo at Didyma, and throughout the Mediterranean in the conversion of the Parthenon in Athens and the Pantheon in Rome, among others.131 While the cave itself remained the sacred location, the churches appeared in order to accommodate the liturgy, by which the church                                                                                                                 128 Blake 2003: 204, 217. 129 Hill 1996: 31, passim. 130 Gough 1955: 203. 131 Bayliss 2005; Temple-Church in Aphrodisas: Hebert 2000; for the Parthenon, Kaldellis 2009; for the Pantheon, Bowes 2008b: 596. 174 structures were accorded sacred associations of their own. Eventually, the development of this tradition led to the construction of ‘caves’ when a natural one was not immediately available, as at Kadirli. Rather than relying solely on their pre-conversion location, certain fifth and sixth century Cilician churches hearkened to natural features that had already proven attractive to pagan cults, and others to the exact locations of the cults themselves. The analysis in the previous section identified compelling correlations between the martyr churches and the presence of associated underground spaces, whether natural or manmade. Still other martyria demonstrate a seemingly more pragmatic approach to location, and were situated in the areas where the population needed servicing: in large settlements and urban areas, in particular. In the next chapter, I move on to the textual attestations and material remains of the travel infrastructure in the region to discuss how these various holy places fit together as pieces of a regional network, returning in particular to the notion of a shifting configuration of the devotional landscape. An exploration of how these different places were connected sheds light onto the logic behind the distribution of churches in Cilicia.   175 CHAPTER 5 TRAVEL INFRASTRUCTURE IN CILICIA Introduction: The shape of the travel infrastructure In the Introduction to this thesis, I discussed the devotional landscape of early Christian Cilicia as a multi-faceted configuration, continuously and dynamically reconstituted by the punctuated movement between its various nodes. In the previous two chapters, the goal was to locate and correlate early Christian devotional spaces within the topographical, political and cultural landscapes of fifth and sixth century Cilicia. I focused specifically on the role of churches in configuring that devotional landscape. I concluded that churches, as new foci established over time, led to a constant configuring of the Cilician landscape at distinct but overlapping scales. In this chapter, I build upon those foundational maps to consider the ‘multi-faceted’ part of the configuration anchored by churches: the various elements that comprise ancient travel infrastructure. This is community-scale infrastructure, and as such would extend beyond the number of people who considered themselves Christian to impact the whole of the Cilician landscape. I argue that the location of early Christian churches within the travel network may be an indication of their appeal to travelers and therefore be correlated with the configuration of the devotional landscape as well as anchors within the wider infrastructure of movement through the late antique landscape. This suggestion holds whether or not early churches were embedded in settlements or stood as isolated structures. Choice of placement is key because this travel involved different scales, in terms of both the distance traveled as well as the frequency of its undertaking. It therefore   176 also varied in terms of the activities undertaken – both ordinary and extraordinary – and their various impacts on the ever-changing configuration of the devotional landscape. How was this travel undertaken? How can we use its reconstruction to better understand the dynamics of late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicia? In order to answer these questions, the first part of this chapter outlines the elements that go into reconstructing the travel infrastructure of a provincial Roman landscape before delving into the question of how to identify the paths and patterns of devotional movement within it. My premise is that examining the travel infrastructure within the context of early Christianity is a way to apprehend the intersection between a relatively fledgling community of religious followers who are often studied in isolation but, in recent scholarship, have increasingly been situated within the late antique world of which they were born.1 For that reason, I examine five categories of evidence related to the road network – milestones, monumental arches, bridges, inns, and cemeteries – in order to outline a configuration of early Christian churches within the fifth and sixth century Cilician landscape. Thus, the first section sets the stage for emplacing the configuration of the early Christian devotional landscape within the late Roman world of Cilicia. In the second half of the chapter, I address the layout of devotional movement in Cilicia. First, I return to the category of churches because of their role as focusing devices within the devotional landscape. By locating and correlating the buildings themselves within the travel infrastructure – that is, the various places and features that make up the network that facilitates and directs the movement of people across land and water, including roads, bridges, and harbors – a better picture of the scale of devotional                                                                                                                 1 Bowes 2008b.   177 movement and pilgrimage in fifth and sixth century Cilicia emerges. Then, I add to this picture through the discussion of material evidence for activities such as baptism, souvenir production and movement, and the celebration of saints’ feast days. With this analysis, I address the impacts that early Christian movement would have had on the organization of Cilicia by examining the different activities within the travel infrastructure that early Christian practice would have engendered and the various overlapping scales at which they would have been undertaken. These activities are all part and parcel of the various scales of movement, including pilgrimage, throughout the Cilician landscape. The road network and its ‘indicator phenomena’ Travel infrastructure is comprised of many elements. These elements are bound together, first and foremost, by the road network, which usually has been visualized as a network of major routes across the Mediterranean world (Map 5.1). But these are not necessarily the routes along which the late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicians lived their daily lives. It has been argued for Italy, for example, that even the archetypal great roads of Roman Italy “were accessed through branch roads [because the main] road aimed as much as possible at the final, long-distance destination.”2 But the inclusion of branch roads leads to issues of scale and, inevitably, to the question of how one goes about defining a road versus a track versus a path. There is an infinite variety in the grounds upon which such definitions can be based: whether in terms of its physical remains (how many meters wide, is it paved, did it have milestones associated with its progress?) or its perceived function (was it for the cursus publicus, a drove road, a sacred                                                                                                                 2 Quilici 2008: 554.   178 way?). The answers to these questions, once noted and added up, lead to a very particularistic understanding of what a road is. It reduces the importance of other factors that may have played a significant role in the road’s perception and use, such as who built it, when, and where to and from it leads. The central idea, however, is that roads are more than simply lines in the landscape. Rather, they are an accumulation of different features in the landscape and the journeys of the many people moved along them. The reconstruction of travel infrastructure requires more than just lines drawn between various places. Thus, when I refer to a ‘route,’ I mean not just the worn or paved track line itself, but all the associated landscape features that are involved in moving goods and people overland. A consideration of the entire material assemblage of Christian pilgrimage travel, including roads, shrines, and portable objects, in addition to the destination churches, grounds the activity in the daily world in which it took place. I refer to these various categories as ‘indicator phenomena,’ a term borrowed from Ferguson et al.’s (2009) discussion of Hopi trails.3 By indicator phenomena, I mean features found along, and indicative of, roads and ways of movement in the landscape. Below, I present spatial information associated with the indicators of travel in Cilicia, including roads, bridges, travellers’ accommodations (such as inns), milestones, tetrapyla (a type of monumental arch marking a crossroads), and harbors. This is one among a growing number of synthetic approaches to understanding a given landscape, so that rather than looking only at, for example, churches (e.g. Hill 1996), tetrapyla (e.g. Mühlenbrock 2011), or milestones (e.g. French 1981/88; 2014), I am bringing together the various elements detailed in those studies, to think about the role of travel infrastructure in a given region. This can lead to a more detailed understanding of how                                                                                                                 3 Ferguson et al. 2009: 28.   179 people - specifically, early Cilician Christians - traveled to, around, and from pilgrimage complexes, and how that can open up a window into how those complexes were integrated into the communities and regions within which they were located. The reconstruction of routes and historical geography in Cilicia Traditional discussion of physical movement in Mediterranean antiquity has revolved around routes as directions of trade and transport, not necessarily the material remains of the roads themselves. This is the case because they are often reconstructed without much reference to their physical remnants. Because road reconstruction was often undertaken by historical geographers, rather than archaeologists, the predominant source for reconstruction of the road network was literary rather than archaeological, besides a passing attention to the natural pathways in the terrain, particularly those carved out by the river valleys connecting the Cilician coast with the central plateau.4 In Cilicia, the prime example of this is Ramsay’s reconstruction of the road network, which he completed without ever having been there himself.5 There is a long tradition in the Mediterranean of putting a heavy reliance upon the routes depicted in the Peutinger Table (Tabula Peutingeriana), a medieval copy of a 4th-century Roman map of the Mediterranean known since the early 16th century.6 Long debates regarding the date of the original map and its function have, to some degree, lessened its influence on the reconstruction of the road network, though it is still referred to today, particularly in the connection of sites identified with place names that appear in the map. Indeed, some                                                                                                                 4 Sayar 2002: 452. 5 Ramsay 1890: 361-387 did provide a detailed route-based sketch of Isauria and Cilicia based on ancient sources as well as on those of his colleagues. 6 Talbert 2010: 10ff.   180 scholars have insisted that the only routes through region that made possible connections with the wider Mediterranean were those depicted in the Peutinger Table, namely, the coastal road from Side to Rhossos and the route from the central Anatolian plain to Tarsos via the Cilician Gates.7 More recently, Friedrich Hild has carefully correlated archaeological evidence with the Peutinger Table to define one major route from Ikonion (modern Konya) to Pompeiopolis on Cilicia’s southern coast.8 This is an elaboration of one section of the route enumerated in Tabula Imperii Byzantini (TIB) 5, in which Hild and Hellenkemper walked the reader through major routes through Cilicia, with rare reference to material remains.9 Such listing of stops along various itineraries remains a mainstay of Cilician route description in the Roman period and beyond. In part, this is due to the occurrence of itinerary-style travel writing in the early centuries of the Common Era, particularly after the 4th century, and especially within the realm of early Christian pilgrimage.10 Foundational to the return of travel writing as an object of study are the translations of pilgrims’ accounts to Jerusalem by John Wilkinson (2002). One of the first known accounts is the Itinerarium Burdigalense, the itinerary of the Bordeaux pilgrim, dated to the early 4th century. Elsner described the account as a characteristic example of the itinerarium genre of Greek and Latin writing, unusual only in its Christian emphasis. The genre comprises lists of towns along Roman roads with distances (usually given in miles or stades) but may go beyond this in adding further (more colourful, touristic, propagandist, pilgrim-centred, or merchant-oriented) material, as does the IB [Itinerarium Burdigalense] - especially in its Holy Land section.11                                                                                                                 7 Devreesse 1945: 142. 8 Hild 1991. 9 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 128-142. 10 Dilke 1987: 237; Elsner 2009; Hunt 2004. See Frank 2000: 35-78 for a discussion of historia as travel writing narrated by pilgrim-authors. 11 Elsner 2000: 184.   181 The portion where the Bordeaux pilgrim does pass through Cilicia is a rather dry list: mansio Opodando mil. XII mutatio Pilas mil. XIIII fines Cappadociae et Ciliciae. mansio Mansucrinae mil. XII ciuitas Tarso mil. XII inde fuit apostolus Paulus fit ab Anchira Galatia Tarso usque milia CCCXLIII, mutationes XXV, mansiones XVIII. Mutatio Pargais mil. XIII civitas Adana mil. XIIII civitas Mansista mil. XVIII mutatio Tardequeia mil. XV mansio Catauolo mil. XVI mansio Baiae mil. XVII mansio Alexandria Scabiosa mil. XVI mutatio Pictanus mil. VIIII fines Ciliciae et Syriae.12 In short, from the Cilician Gates (Kylikiai Pylai), the 4th-century pilgrim proceeded south to Tarsos, continued east to Adana, and crossed the Cilician-Syrian border on his way to Antioch. He made no remark about the Christian landscape save to note that the Apostle Paul was said to be from Tarsos, and does not, as the famous pilgrim Egeria did, travel west from Tarsos towards Seleukeia in order to visit the shrine to St Thekla. This section of the account replicated, with a few exceptions, the route taken almost a century earlier and recorded in the overland portion of the Itinerarium Provinciarum Antonini Augusti, the Antonine Itinerary, a 3rd century travel document often used to reconstruct the Roman road network by its stops:                                                                                                                 12 Itin. Burd. 578, 4 – 581, 2, ed. Cuntz 1990: 93.   182 Podando m.p. XXVI Nampsucrone m.p. XXVII Aegeas m.p. XXI Catabolo m.p. XXIIII Bais m.p. XVI Alexandria m.p. XVI Pagris m.p. XVI Antiochia m.p. XVI13 The editor, Otto Cuntz, inserted a lost leg between Aegeas and Catabolo, namely, Tarsos (Tharso, m.p. fere XVII), Adana (m.p. XXVIII), and Mopsuestia (m.p. XVIII).14 In a later portion of the text, the route recorded legs from Laranda (m.p. XVIII) to Flaviada (Flavias, modern Kadirli, m.p. XXII) and Anazarbos (m.p. XVIII), argued by William Ramsay in his reconstruction of the historical geography of Cilicia.15 Clearly there were multiple ways to move through and around this region. What these itineraries show, however, is not the traffic patterns of the Cilician population or its visitors writ large, but the route of the cursus publicus, the Augustan transport and communications system that spread throughout the Roman world.16 These routes are helpful for reconstructing Cilicia’s connections between its major cities and beyond the provincial borders towards Cappadocia to the north and Syria to the south. They are key for understanding the punctuated movements of long-distance pilgrims like Egeria, who may have been counted among those private individuals who either paid, or were given permission, to use the imperial transport system, though technically the system was reserved for the military, state couriers, and other officials of the Roman government.17                                                                                                                 13 Itin. Prov. 145,4 – 147,1, ed. Cuntz 1990: 20-21. 14 Itin. Prov. 211,11 – 212,4, ed. Cuntz 1990: 30. 15 Ramsay 1890: 311. 16 Dilke 1987: 236; Kolb 2001. 17 Kolb 2001: 101-102.   183 The narrative description of routes in Hild and Hellenkemper (1990)’s Tabula Imperii Byzantini (TIB) 5 remains the most comprehensive source for the various major routes within Cilicia. The most recent description of routes in Cilicia comes from Mustafa Sayar, a scholar who has published extensively on the archaeology and especially the epigraphy of Cilicia. Milestones, in particular, were as essential to the organization of the route network in antiquity as they are now for reconstructing it. I will return to the centrality of inscriptional evidence in the form of milestones below. Outside of the category milestones, other inscriptional evidence can occasionally provide evidence for reconstructing the road network. A curious example on an epitaph can be found among the many inscriptions recovered from Korykos, three of which name κορασιοδρόµος, a vocation that translates something along the lines of “courier to Korasion.” This title seems to indicate that for a time there existed something like a delivery service that existed between the two sites.18 Like Ramsay before him, Sayar concentrated on routes that looked outward from Cilicia and connected it with the rest of the eastern Roman world. Within that perspective, the north-south route through the Cilician Gates, connecting the coast to the plateau, was the single most important (to be discussed in more detail below, under ‘Connections beyond Cilicia’). The major east-west route along the coast remains today the major connection with Pamphylia and northern Syria (Map 5.2). For both, Sayar followed the schematic and description of the routes in the TIB: Kilikiai Pylai – Tarsos – Adana – Mopsuestia – Tardequeia – Katabolos – Amanikai Pylai – Issos – Kilikiai Pylai – Alexandreia – Pagrae – Antiocheia.19                                                                                                                 18 Iacomi 2010: 23. 19 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 132-133 (schematic map on p. 131).   184 The east-west connections made by Hild and Hellenkemper rely heavily on the stations named in the Peutinger Table: Side (in Pamphylia), Selinus, Anemurion, Arsinoe, Kelenderis, Cape Kraunoi, Seleukeia, Korykos, Soli-Pompeiopolis, Zephyrion, Mallos, Aigaiai, Katabolos, Alexandreia ad Issos, Rhossos, Seleukeia Piereia.20 When combined with Hild and Hellenkemper’s narrative of the procession of the route, it follows: Side – Syedra – Selinous – Antiocheia ad Kragos – Charadros – Anemurion – Arsinoe – Kelenderis – Cape Kraunoi – Palaiai – Seleukeia – Korykos – Elauissa- Sebaste – Soli-Pompeiopolis – Zephyrion – Mallos – Aigaiai – Gölovası – Katabolos – Alexandreia ad Issos – Rhossos – Seleukeia Piereia.21 In addition to the Cilician Gates connection, Sayar enumerated several north-south routes that he held as the significant links between Cilicia’s coastland and the plateau via the highlands of western Cilicia and the upper plain of eastern Cilicia (ordered from east to west, and see Map 5.2): a) Ikonion – Lystra – Leontopolis – Germanikopolis –Titiopolis – Anemurion b) Ikonion – Laranda – Klaudiopolis – Seleukeia c) Ikonion – Ad fines – Tetrapyrgia – Pompeiopolis d) Kaisareia on Argaios – Rodandos – Feke – Kozan – Imamoğlu – Mallos e) Kaisareia on Argaios – Rodandos – Feke – Kozan – Hamam – Anazarbos – Mopsuhestia – Aigeai f) Kukusos – Flaviopolis – Kastabala - Epiphaneia22 He also noted the road located at the junction of the Taurus and Amanos Mountains, connecting Cilicia with Syria and Commagene, but does not give its stopping points. These schematic reconstructions seen in Map 5.2 are useful for envisioning connections between different places – usually cities, but sometimes way stations such as Katabolos – in terms of relationships, rather than physical infrastructure. The routes in no way take                                                                                                                 20 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 134; for the stations named in the Peutinger Table, see Talbert 2010. 21 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 134-136. 22 Sayar 2002: 454. More details regarding the routes originating at Ikonion are outlined in Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 138-140.   185 into account, for example, the locations of milestones and bridges. In their brief description of the major routes Hild and Hellenkemper do occasionally note the presence of paved road to substantiate their claim for the route, but it is too vague to plot with any precision.23 The Barrington Atlas has better taken into account the particularities of each route (Map 5.3). The TIB has followed the same pattern. It is obvious that these visualizations take into account the physical connections between places and their indicator phenomena such as milestones, particularly in the regions where a high number have been found. Exact tracing of the ancient route was neither the goal nor the result of those ambitious projects, though they are extremely helpful for visualizing movement throughout Cilicia on a broad scale. However, the resolution of the route network in those regions does not offer a more detailed view of how people moved around the landscape on a daily basis, which will be examined in more detail in the following section (‘Branch roads’). In Cilicia, scholars have focused more on Bronze Age movement than Roman, with emphasis falling on connections between the coast and the plateau in western Cilicia, and also to the south towards the Levant and Mesopotamia in eastern Cilicia.24 The more recent of those have incorporated sophisticated spatial analysis into their posited reconstructions of the patterns of movement.25 Though these new methods continue to highlight the prominence of the Cilician Gates route at the expense of other, more minor connections (such as those listed by Sayar, above), there are important ramifications to the results obtained through least-cost path analysis between locations in                                                                                                                 23 For example, “Zwischen Kırıtlar und Sağlıklı ist das antike Pflaster der Straße auf mehreren Kilometern bis zu einem Straßentor oberhalb von Sağlıklı erhalten” (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 132). 24 Bikoulis 2012; Newhard et al. 2008; Ökse 2007; Jasink 1991; Forlanini 2013. 25 See Bikoulis 2012; Newhard et al. 2008.   186 the plateau and on the coast. For example, Bikoulis’ combined least cost path and social network analysis has demonstrated that the Göksu valley, sometimes suggested as a major alternative route to the Cilician Gates, was most likely not a major traffic funnel during the Bronze Age.26 Seleukeia’s secondary importance to Tarsos within the Cilician travel network may reflect the Göksu Valley’s relative status as a travel corridor to the Cilician Gates route. Few pilgrims besides Egeria recorded the trouble taken to detour to Seleukeia from Tarsos and back.27 Without assuming a stasis in routes over the millennia, it is perhaps not surprising that there are far fewer texts recording pilgrimage to Ayatekla than might be expected for a major pilgrimage site and one considered as part of the Mediterranean pilgrimage ‘circuit’. Coupled with evidence for extended banditry in the Isaurian highlands, the potentially minor or local role of the Göksu Valley, played out in reality, puts in context the passage from Thekla’s Miracles, when only an imperial Roman soldier going between Seleukeia and Ikonion in Miracle 16 would proceed via the less highly trafficked, and thus less protected and more dangerous, Göksu valley in order to reach Cappadocia. It also supports the fact that Egeria went back to Tarsos in order to proceed northwest towards Constantinople via the Cilician Gates.28 While most of the work cited above has relied upon literary rather than material evidence for the substantial reconstruction of the road network, archaeology has begun to play a larger role. In Cilicia, most archaeologically identified remains of roads are those that are paved. Though the major roads through Cilicia have already been discussed, it should be noted here that even the major roads within Cilicia cannot be plotted as certain.                                                                                                                 26 Bikoulis 2012: 49-51, 54-55. 27 Egeria 9.22.2-23.6. 28 Wilkinson 1999: 44.   187 David French’s recent publication of the milestones he collected in the region, and the map depicting the routes that can be interpolated from those milestones shows almost all of them with question marks. As French himself has noted: Except for a small area – the ilçeler (sub-departments) of Bozkır and of Beyșehir – in the vilayet of Konya, I have not carried out research for milestones and roads in the tri-partite province of Cilicia, Isauria and Lycaonia. Several roads are, therefore, conjectural... Others have been included on the basis of ancient sources... The coastal road around Silifke (ancient Seleucia) and the inland route from Kızkale (ancient Corycus) have been observed, en passant, during numerous holidays in the area. The greater part of Cilicia, however, has been, and remains, terra incognita in my researches on the roads and milestones of Asia Minor.29 Most archaeologists and travelers working in Cilicia have noted the presence of likely Roman roads – particularly those that were paved – during the course of their fieldwork. To my knowledge, none have undertaken this systematically or published precise spatial information regarding the specific location of such remains. More often, information is described rather than spatially located: The remains of ancient paved roads are preserved only on very short stretches due to the destruction caused by the construction of an asphalt road in the late 1990s: between Güvercinlik and the asphalt road, between Sinekkale and Yenibahçe, south of Karakabaklı, and near Gökkale.30 There are road sections mapped, apparently by actual surface finds, between Akören and the Seyhan River.31 A comprehensive final publication on the settlement survey project at Akören will hopefully clarify many more details regarding the situation of the settlement within the road network. Unfortunately, because of Turkish permitting protocols, I was not able to systematically survey or record remains of roads during my visits to Cilicia in 2012 and 2013. Instead, like much of the records of roads in the region, my documentation was                                                                                                                 29 French 2014: 9. 30 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 45. 31 Wulf-Rheidt 2011: 190, fig. 1.   188 dependent upon road fragments’ visibility from the modern road network. This can color perceptions of the distribution not just of the road network but also of settlements along its various branch roads, as the course of roads changes over time. This process of shifting roads began not long after their construction, as has been recorded in a passage from Libanios describing "a classic example of a road in collapse,"32 where the road itself becomes much more difficult to traverse than any ground around it: “the road was, so to speak, half marsh, half mountain and hard going.”33 Thus, it is likely that courses of roads shifted over time, as Fig. 5.1 shows how the course of the modern track aligns partially, but not fully, with the ancient paved road. This is just one instance of how modern infrastructure colors our understanding and experience of these places. This situation occurs also at Cambazlı (described below), where the modern road runs to the east of the basilica though the monumental entrance to the precinct was along the ancient road to the west. The numbers of manmade open-air reservoirs seen today along this road highlight the area’s agricultural function, and it is clear from surface remains that similar structures for water storage were present in antiquity as well. Fig. 5.2 is yet another example of the ancient road running parallel to the modern road in southeastern Isauria, in an area where there is no settlement to keep the roads in place, and the agricultural boundaries shift along with the road. Even a road as highly trafficked over time as the major coast road, was in the last decades replaced by the main highway (Fig. 5.3). One avenue for future research would be the compilation and mapping of the mention of bits and pieces of road remnants from the various projects                                                                                                                 32 Laurence 2004: 44. 33 Libanios 14.7, quoted in Laurence 2004: 44.   189 in Cilicia, in order to compare them against the various other indicator phenomena for the regional travel network. The work undertaken by scholars such as Ramsay, Sayar, and Hild and Hellenkemper, described above, regarding Cilicia’s connections with the rest of the Roman world, has been central to the modern understanding of Cilicia as a crossroads of the eastern Mediterranean (which it most certainly was). It is also foundational to the undertaking of this project, which has relied heavily on their work to examine movement through the region at a broad scale, one centered mostly on travel between urban areas. However, as the scope of this project is defined primarily by travel that took place within Cilicia, the focus is on routes that would have been available to the wider public who would have used that infrastructure for purposes of devotional travel. Milestones: Orienting Cilicia to the Empire One of the most explicit ‘indicator phenomena’ of ancient routes are in situ milestones. Milestones are freestanding stones, usually in the form of a cylindrical column or post, that are inscribed with distances in milia – that is, a measure of distance denoting 1,000 Roman steps or passus – between various locations in the Roman empire.34 Because of their inscriptions, milestones are usually the only physical remnants used in historical geographical reconstructions of routes in the ancient Roman world. The survival rate of milestones shows wide divergence across the entirety of the Mediterranean.35 Thousands have been located, though they are often not in situ. Usually                                                                                                                 34 Though, French has reported potential milestones in Cilicia that do not fit the indicative cylindrical shape so common across the Mediterranean (French 2014: 54-55, Nrs. 38A and B from Gürağaç). 35 Laurence 2004: 48-49.   190 they have been moved from their original locations to be reused in some other form, often as an architectural element. Milestones are to be found along the major roads of the Roman empire, so that, theoretically, anyone unfamiliar with the landscape through which they were travelling could use them as a reference point.36 In Asia Minor, milestones were erected mostly between the second and fourth centuries, coinciding with the massive expansion of built roads under the rule of the Roman empire, and peaking in the late third century.37 However, attention to roads did not end abruptly in the fourth century, as an inscription carved into a rock face and dated to 521 CE recorded the construction or upkeep of a road between Korasion and Korykos: ἐπὶ Φλ(αουίου) Ἰουστίνου ἀγοῦστ(ου) καὶ Ἰουστινιανοῦ ὑ- πάτου Ἀππαλὶς ὁ ἐνδοξότ(ατος) τὴν ὁ- δὸν ἂβατον οὒσα(ν) εκόσµησεν38 On behalf of Augustus Flavias Justin and his consul Justinian most honored Appalis enhanced the road, (it) being impassable. Though not a milestone in the sense of marking distance from an urban center, the inscription does indicate the course of the ancient road at that point, traces of which were found immediately below it. Explicitly related to the course of the road, however, its date does demonstrate that roads that had been built before but become impassable – the road along this section of coast is partially constructed and partially cut into the living rock in                                                                                                                 36 See discussion of this experience in Laurence 2004: 44-45. 37 Laurence 2004: 51; Eichner 2011: 14. 38 Mackay and Mackay 1969: 139.   191 the form of steps39 – continued to be, or were reappropriated, for traffic at least into the sixth century. Thus, the distribution of milestones, although incompletely preserved, demonstrates the configuration of Cilicia within the major road network in the centuries leading up to and including the period that saw the proliferation of church building across the landscape (see Maps 5.4-5.7). The information given in the text inscribed on each milestone is generally formulaic. In addition to distances, they often record names of cities and the persons behind the construction. A milestone erected near Anazarbos during the reign of Severus Alexander (222-235 CE) is typical: Αὐτοκράτορι Καίς[αρι Μ. Αὐρ]- ηλίω Σεουήρ ⟦Ἀλεξάνδρῳ⟧ Εύσεβεῖ Ευτυχεῖ Σεβαστῳ κα⟦ὶ Ἰοὐ⟧- ⟦λία Μαµαίᾳ⟧ Σεβαστ⟦ῇ, µητρὶ⟧ τοῦ κυρίου Σεβαστοῦ καὶ κάς[τρων] ἀπὸ Ἀναζάρβου τῆς α(=πρὠτης) κ(αλλίστης) [µ(εγίστης) καὶ ἐνδό]- ξου µητροπόλεως τῶν (τριῶν) επ[αρ]- χειῶν προκαθεζοµενης, καὶ δὶ[ς] νεωκόρου, καὶ ᾽Ρωµαϊκοῖς τρο- παίοις κακοσµηµένης τετει- µηµένης πλείσταις καὶ µε- γίσταις καὶ ἐξαιρέτοις δωρε- αῖς καὶ ἐλευθέρῳ κοινο- βουλίω, µ(είλιον) β´. 40 To the Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Severus Alexander Pius Felix Augustus and Iulia Mamaea Augusta, mother of the dominus Augustus and mother of the fortified city. Two miles [distance] from Anazarbos, the first, best, great and famous metropolis, which is the seat of three provinces and has two imperial temples and is adorned with a monumental arch of the Romans, with very many and great privileges and the seat of a free common council.41                                                                                                                 39 Mackay and Mackay 1969: 140. 40 SEG XIII 1955, 517. See Gough 1952, 143 f. Nr. 25; Sayar 2000 Nr. 13. 41 Translated into German by Mustafa Sayar (2000: 25).   192 This inscription was recorded as in situ in a field east of Anazarbos, between the rock-cut road and the modern village of Tozlu, where a Roman bridge has also been documented (discussed more below). Gough posited that it marked the point where the major road forked, leading east towards Kastabala and north towards Flaviopolis.42 Sometimes the milestones indicated the type of work that had been completed on the road – whether it was construction, repair, or improvement. A bilingual Greek and Latin inscription from Yenisu, northwest of Seleukeia, recorded that the road (probably from Diokaisareia) was definitively constructed under the emperor Titus in the first century AD. Though the Latin text is mostly illegible, the Greek reads: Αὐτο[κράτωρ Τίτος Κ]αῖσαρ Θεου Οὐεσπα[σιανοῦ υὶό]ς Σεβαστὸς ἀρχιερεύ[ς µέγ]ιστος δηµαρχικῆς ἐξοθσίας τὸ θ´αὐτοκράτωρ τὸ ιε´ πατὴρ πατρίδος τειµητής ὓπατος τὸ η´ὁδοὺς καταεσκε[ύ]- ασεν (vac) διὰ (vac) Μάρκου Πετρωνίου Οὐµβρενίου σεπτεµουίρ[ουµ ἐπουλωνουµ] πρεσβεθτο[ῦ καὶ ἀντιστρατήγου] - - - -43 Here, the operative verb is καταεσκεύασεν, to construct or build. By contrast, another bilingual inscription from western Cilicia records the construction of the road in both languages. Both the Greek and Latin versions consist almost entirely of a listing of the emperor’s titles regarding his lineage and his progress through the cursus honorum before finally indicating in the last line that the emperor (in this case, Hadrian), the pater patriae, or literally, ‘Father of the Fatherland,’ made it: Imp(erator) Caesar divi Traiani Parthici f(ilius),                                                                                                                 42 Gough 1952: 101. 43 French 2014: 48-49 (Nr. 34).   193 divi Nervae nepos, Traianus Hadrianus Aug(ustus) pontif(ex) max(imus) trib(unicia) pot(estate) xxi, p(er) [p](etuu)s (?) aug(ur) (?), co(n)s(ul) iii p(ater) p(atriae) fecit. Αὐτοκράτωρ Καῖσαρ θεοῦ Τραϊανοῦ Παρθι- κοῦ υἰός, θεοῦ Νέρουα [υἰω]νός, Τραϊανὸς Ἀδρι[α]- [νὸς...]44 Here, the Latin verb fecit (from facere, to make) does not indicate precisely what kind of action the benefactor took, and the Greek does not survive to provide comparison or corroboration. There existed specific terms for actions not indicating initial construction in Latin: stravit (from sterno), refecit, restituit, or curavit, indicating not just repair but also improvement. For example, a 3rd century milestone reported to have been found at Yakapınar near Mopsuestia (modern Misis) and now in the Adana Museum contains the formula “viam et pontes a Pylis usque [ad] Alexandriam ex integro (restituit),” indicating that the dedicatory emperor, Severus Alexander, restored the road and the bridge rather than constructed them ex novo.45 These verbs often have a chronological dimension, as Laurence has argued, whereas earlier imperial milestones usually recorded construction, they later came to describe any form or scale of work done on the road. The late second and early third centuries are known as a turning point in the epigraphic practice on milestones, when the dedicatory formula ceases to refer to the emperor in the nominative case, as “journey-easer,” to the emperor in the dative case, commemorating him as a “restorer of peace.”46 While that information is useful not just for better apprehending the                                                                                                                 44 Hagel and Tomaschitz 1998: 60 (Char 1a, 1b). 45 French 2014: 58-59 (Nr. 42A). 46 Laurence 2004: 45-47.   194 status of a road over time, it also has much to say about the imperial administration and its footprint in the provinces. Throughout their history of use, milestones served not simply as neutral conveyors of spatial information but also as expressions of the reigning imperial ideology. As seen in the Severan example above, the distance noted features much less prominently than the praise of the emperors and of the city itself. Another milestone at Anazarbos, on the other hand, is an example of damnatio memoriae, the obliteration of a person’s (usually an emperor, along with his close officials and family) name and images from public monuments. It was also dedicated to the emperor Severus Alexander, whose name is erased from the second line.47 The functionality of the milestone as a travel document remains, however, along with the rest of the inscription, which detailed the distance to Anazarbos (one mile) and named Anazarbos as a superlatively famous city. Milestones were not produced to fit a single formula or shape across time or space. They were not all even inscribed in the same language, as can be seen in the examples reproduced above, existing in Latin and Greek, individually as well as simultaneously. At times, they provided additional information besides the distance to the nearest major cities. At the famous Cilician Gates, the milestone definitively provides the northern boundary of Cilicia. Not only did it announce itself as a boundary marker but in addition, it was inscribed on a panel smoothed out from the living rock. Thus it is certain that they are still in situ (or were, at the time of recording).48 The stone dates from the reign of the emperor Caracalla (217 CE). Its conclusion Ὅροι Κιλικων means ‘the                                                                                                                 47 Sayar 2000: 27 (Nr. 17). See also Sayar 2002: 462-463. 48 Yorke 1898: 306-307.   195 borders of Cilicia.’49 The relationship between the two languages in this inscription is a telling demonstration of priorities. In Latin, the language of the Roman empire, is recorded the accomplishments undertaken in the name of the emperor, including the widening of the road cut out of the living rock: montibus caesis viam latiorem fecit. But it is the last line, in Greek, the lingua franca of the eastern Roman empire, that emphasizes the marker’s role as boundary stone. The formulaic Latin milestone would have been recognizable to those passing by even if they could not read specifically what it said: but the addition, the outlier, part of the text was presented in Greek. Thus, the role of the road in both defining and holding together what was Cilicia is present not just in its location and role as mile marker, but in the very material from which it was carved and inscribed. More recently, an exact replica of this inscription has been positively identified further south on the road between Tarsos and the Cilician Gates.50 Though it is not clear whether the newly identified inscription was, like its predecessor, actually carved out of the living rock, it still attests to the widening of the road by cutting through the rock. The impact of this visual replication/continuity is discussed further below (‘Connections beyond Cilicia’). Thus, it is possible to use the presence of milestones to reconstruct major routes through Cilicia. But for every major road that ran through the region were countless branch roads. This is particularly significant in looking to the west, where “no Roman milestone was found along any of the routes to inlands between Anemurium in the west and Seleucia in the east.”51 Therefore, the presence of other indicator phenomena must be                                                                                                                 49 See also the discussion in Mutafian 1988: 231. 50 French 2014: 9-10. 51 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 26 n. 45.   196 assembled in order to interpolate the paths of movement outside the major routes through the region. Monumental arches Most monumental arches were generally located in urban contexts throughout the Mediterranean, where their alignment marked the axis of the major street system of the city, which may or may not continue out into the hinterland and beyond. They do, however, also exist outside of a settlement context. In Cilicia, they are known to exist not just in the urban context (as at Diokaisareia, Fig. 5.4) but also in the suburban (as at Korykos) and even in isolated contexts away from any known settlement (as on the via Tauri). This monumental arch over the via Tauri north of Tarsos, marks the road’s continuation from that urban center towards the Cilician Gates (Fig. 5.5). Thus, no matter what scale of settlement with which they may have been associated, monumental arches can be used to reconstruct the path of routes through the landscape. The common variable between monumental arches was that “they were all located on the thoroughfares connecting major cities or marking streets, entrances or roads.”52 One example of a tetrapylon, a structure that consisted of four arches arranged around a square, is at Korykos (Fig. 5.6). Located outside the walls of the city, this arched monument stood on the course of the road that connected the eastern gate of the city with the road that passed through the Roman nekropolis, commonly called the via Sacra. Mühlenbrock has called the relationship between the tetrapylon and the nearby basilica ‘unique’ because the axes of the monument’s arched gates refer back to the orientation of                                                                                                                 52 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 56, citing Hellenkemper 1980: 1266-7; Mietke and Ristow 2004: 846.   197 the church.53 The photograph in Fig. 5.7 demonstrates its current relationship to the first of three basilicas along the via Sacra. It has thus been argued as an architectural mediator between the basilica, its funereal context, and the road connecting it to the city.54 The integration of arches – as monumental indicators of the road network – into the very fabric of the devotional landscape can be seen particularly clearly at Karakabaklı. The south tetrapylon at Karakabaklı marks not only the path of the paved street through town but anchors the settlement more broadly as a point on the road between the coast and the highlands, possibly bolstering the village’s status (Fig. 5.8).55 Its presence is unusual in an otherwise typical rural settlement for the region, though not unique: the nearby settlement at Işıkkale, located along the same road from Korasion, also had a tetrapylon.56 At Karakabaklı, however, the south tetrapylon was literally incorporated into the travel network when, some time during the first half of the sixth century, the tetrapylon that had stood for over a century as a monumental marker of the road, was transformed into the entrance of the basilica and a small apse added to the west (Fig. 5.9). The north tetrapylon was also transformed into a chapel when a small apse was added to the east (Fig. 5.10).57 There is no indication that, after their conversion into chapels, these features lost their role in funneling traffic in and around Karakabaklı. As monumental elements of the travel infrastructure, the tetrapyla also participated directly in the devotional landscape.                                                                                                                 53 Mühlenbrock 2003: 272. 54 Mühlenbrock 2003: 272. 55 Varınlıoğlu 2013: 203-204. 56 Aydınoğlu and Çakmak 2011; Varınlıoğlu 2013. 57 See Varınlıoğlu 2007: Fig. 12 for an aerial view. She indicated that the main street had been blocked off in the process, though the spill of the polygonal blocks (presumably from the no longer extant arch on the south side) no longer makes that visible.   198 Bridges Like monumental arches, bridges mark discrete points in the landscape where traffic was funneled. Hild and Hellenkemper note 31 bridges in Cilicia that date from the Roman through the Ottoman period, most of them in continuous use over time with restorations and additions (see Map 5.3).58 The bridge over the Pyramos (modern Ceyhan River) at Mallos (partly built over by the modern town of Kızıltahta), for example, though heavily reconstructed in the Ottoman period to incorporate water-mill structures, still has identifiable Roman elements in the bridge’s piers.59 Indeed, most bridges were initially built in the Roman period, when, immediately after Cilicia’s establishment as a Roman province, there was an expansion of the road network, complete with the planning and construction of new bridges, though the exact dates are uncertain.60 One of the few major bridges still approximating its Roman form is the Justinianic bridge in Tarsos, over 100 meters long and with three arches. It has been partly buried by the silting up of the river, but has recently been cleared enough to be better seen (Fig. 5.11). The Taşköprü over the Saros (modern Seyhan) River in Adana is also reputed to be of Roman origin, according to an inscription in the Adana Museum.61A more recently identified bridge at Kırıkköprü in southeastern Cilicia, once built over the Deli Çayı (which has now shifted                                                                                                                 58 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 129; 132-139; they are listed out in the TIB 5 index under Brücken. My thanks to Michele Massa for sharing shapefiles and bibliography for ancient bridges in the region. 59 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: Plates 279-282. 60 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 388. 61 O’Connor 1993: 127; CIG 4440.   199 to the south), went through at least three stages of construction and maintenance activities, beginning in the late Roman period.62 Most Cilician bridges are extant in their Ottoman iterations, as seen in the bridge at Mopsuestia (modern Misis), whose construction under the Ottomans marked its return to the status of a major station in the region’s travel network, after centuries of relative obscurity since its reconstruction under Justinian (Fig. 5.12).63 The reconstruction of the bridge and significance of the crossing point as a major hub in the travel network is also signaled by the construction of a caravanserai on the bank opposite the Roman and Byzantine settlement, which can be seen in Davis’s 19th-century print of the site (Fig. 5.13).64 Likewise, the bridge over the Kalykadnos (modern Göksü) in Seleukeia is modern, “but it was erected on precisely the same site as the Roman bridge, and it seems likely that it includes Roman work.”65 However, it is possible to identify those bridges that were likely to have had Roman foundations, such as the bridge north of Demirtaş, which was immediately proximate to the Roman settlement there and facilitated the Roman road that led up into the Isaurian highlands from the settlement near the coast. Others are known to have been constructed much later in date, such as the bridge at Drakontais, alleged to have been built in the 13th century, or at Gadid, built in 1246, though these may have had precedents in wood or stone before the record of their 13th-century constructions.66                                                                                                                 62 Eger 2010: 53, 55; Coockson 2005: 12-14. 63 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 358. 64 Wimmel 2011: 6. 65 O’Connor 1993: 127. 66 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 237, 243, 255.   200 Bridges anchor routes in the landscape because they funnel traffic across water where it could not otherwise be easily forded.67 Their significance for reconstruction of the travel network lies in the fact that, for the period under study, many were built with long-lasting materials, namely, stone. Even those that were constructed in large part from perishable materials such as wood would likely often have stone foundations, which is the form in which most bridges are identified today. At Efrenk, a stone bridge connected the small Roman imperial-period settlement on a small hill with remains of a church, which on the northeast led by a steep, rock-cut staircase into the ravine of the Lamos river, while remains of a stone-paved road to the southwest demonstrate the settlement’s link to Sömek and Cambazlı, with a necropolis to the east of the road.68 An early Ottoman bridge led to the east banks of the river. Though the Ottoman bridge may have had a Roman precedent, indicating possible links with Tapureli to the east, the materially definite connection faced west toward Sömek and Cambazlı. Some bridges were seasonal affairs, as seen in the highly collapsed remains of a five meter-wide stone bridge just outside the northwest corner of the complex at Hagia Thekla, which crossed a winter wadi on the west side of the ridge on the east side of the modern village of Becili.69 It adds another compelling element to the argument for Hagia Thekla’s significance that a seasonal bridge, one locals say originally had three arches, would have been built of stone to gain access to the pilgrimage complex.                                                                                                                 67 For earlier routes, Ökse has relied on sites located near a “location where a river could be easily crossed without a bridge,” in order to posit the presence of a caravan route. 68 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 244. See also Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 98. The remains of the church are recorded only by Sayar (2004: 223; 2006: 2). Illustrative images of the two bridges can be seen at http://arkeodenemeler.blogspot.com/2013/10/efrenk-kalntlar-kilikia-mersin- silifke.html. 69 Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 443.   201 Inns and way-stations: punctuated movement One point of entry into the nature of punctuated movement in the ancient world is the under-investigated nature of small-scale inhabitation along those routes, such as inns and way-stations, which John Chrysostom reports to have existed along many fourth- century roads as places of rest and lodging for both travelers and their animals.70 Using material evidence for where people stopped provides evidence for punctuated movement as real time experience.71 Unfortunately, this is a very difficult question to address through material remains without access to the full course of the old roads and known stops along them. Archaeologically, these way stations are part of a “rather neglected class of settlements,” not just because of research agendas that have long focused on more monumental and public architecture, but also because of the difficulty of identifying them as such.72 The literary evidence, however, does contain hints about certain kinds of stops along the major roads of the ancient world. The list-itinerary recorded by the Bordeaux pilgrim, discussed above, narrated the journey of a traveler who encountered multiple stops along the route to Jerusalem, presumably along a well-established course.73 These stops are usually entered as stages depending on what kind of stop he was making along the cursus publicus. This transport and communications system worked as a relay of sorts, with opportunities to stop for food, shelter and a change of horses at the various mansiones and mutationes established along the way.74 At mutationes, the traveler permitted by the imperial administration to                                                                                                                 70 Constable 2003: 24. 71 My thanks to Sue Alcock for highlighting this relationship between stopping and moving along a route. 72 Potter et al. 1999: 199. 73 For an in-depth discussion of the Itinerarium Burdigalense as a travel text, see Elsner 2000. 74 Kolb 2001: 102.   202 use the cursus publicus was able to change horses; mansiones provided overnight accommodations for those with the proper documentation.75 Roman and early Byzantine itineraries testify to numerous mansiones and mutationes. However, these buildings have not yet been positively identified in Cilicia.76 According to Hopwood, Bean and Mitford located a mansio and milestones at Kırkkuyu, along the road to Germanikopolis (modern Ermenek).77 However, the ‘mansio/mutatio’ that they posit is simply “a large heap of roughly worked stone,” the designation of which as an official stopping place on the cursus publicus depends more on their identification of this modern track to follow the course of the Roman road between Anemurion and the ancient city of Isaura.78 There are two Roman imperial period milestones, but those are no longer in situ, having been built into a rough wall bounding the track. However, the existence of a post-second century inscription at the mountain pass immediately to the north does support their identification of the route with the Roman one.79 More likely to shed light on the punctuated movement of people outside the realm of official travel is the archaeology of the inn, a way-station that was open to any who could pay for it. The potential for this kind of study can be seen in Constable’s (2003) study of the pandocheion, funduq, and fondaco in the late antique and medieval world. These cognates designate, generally, the institution of traveller accommodation in the eastern Mediterranean. In late antiquity, the term pandocheion designated an inn or hostelry, to the Arabic funduq, which was associated more with merchant activity than                                                                                                                 75 Wilkinson 1999: 23. 76 Sayar 2002: 452. 77 Hopwood 1991: 306; citing Bean and Mitford 1970: 189-190. 78 Bean and Mitford 1970: 189. Their suggestions are to a large extent based on the Peutinger Table, and on comparison to Ramsay’s description of the Korykos-Olba road, which was only wide enough for one vehicle to pass at a time (Ramsay 1890: 495). 79 Bean and Mitford 1970: 191.   203 with the housing of travellers more generally. From Arabic, funduq was adopted into Latin and other European languages as the fondaco, which, by the later medieval period, were more likely to store goods than accommodate travellers themselves.80 The inns “took many forms, serving not only as hostelries, but also as commercial depots, warehouses, emporia, tax-stations, offices, taverns, prisons, and brothels.”81 The distribution map of known examples of pandocheia that Constable provides is quite revealing about the state of scholarship on the institutions. She insists that they are concentrated in Palestine, Syria and southern Anatolia by the first centuries BCE, but it is only through a passing reference in a seventh century hagiographic text, described below, that we know of one at Sykeon in north-central Anatolia. 82 Inns and hostelries may have been distributed more densely and widely in late antiquity than has previously been thought, but their very location may fall outside the scope of archaeological investigation as it has been practiced. Hostels, like markets and storehouses, are often indistinguishable from one another in the archaeological record without explicit epigraphic evidence.83 In Anatolia more widely, the traffic seen by an inn is described in most detail in the hagiographic source mentioned above. In the seventh century CE, a Vita was written for St Theodore of Sykeon, a saint who had been born the bastard son of a prostitute who                                                                                                                 80 Constable 2003: 1-10. 81 Constable 2003: 2. Kraynak (1984: 37) catalogues the textual and archaeological attestations of hostelries in ancient Greece, for which the testimonia “proves to be both more numerous and less informative than might be expected.” 82 Constable 2003: 11; Vita of Theodore of Sykeon. 83 Varınlıoğlu 2007: 297. Mango describes a Syrian pandocheion (in what is now eastern Turkey) known through inscriptions (1986); McDonald suggests that a building at Olynthus, commonly interpreted as a villa, may in fact have been a hostel (1951). Contra, Cahill argues that the rooms McDonald interprets as storage for guests were in fact the storage requirements for a residence over the course of the year (2000: 505-508). Kraynak, supporting McDonald, notes that “it is odd that others in Olynthus, many of whom must have had farms in the country, did not use their town houses to store produce, at least to the extent suggested by pithoi with 300 gallon capacities such as were found in the Villa of Good Fortune” (1984: 48).   204 provided more than just food and lodging to travellers at her inn at the crossroads of two major routes through the province of Galatia in north-central Anatolia.84 The father was a travelling circus performer. Theodore’s mother, Mary, was one of the women who ran the hostel that operated at the crossroads for passing travelers; his father, a star of the hippodrome, was on special business for the emperor himself.85 Theodore went on to become a holy man and eventually a bishop, one who went on many pilgrimages and journeys, some of which resulted in episodes that manifested the hospitality of monasteries at which he and his disciple(s) encountered along the way. Even the account of Theodore’s beginnings – his father, “having seen the beautiful Maria and being overcome with desire of her, slept with her. Having conceived, the woman saw in a dream an immense and bright star coming down from heaven into her womb…”86 – demonstrates some of the larger issues surrounding traveling and hospitality in the late antique and early medieval and Byzantine world. In the ancient world, hostels were often equated with brothels, and other forms of licentiousness. Indeed, it was one of the very reasons that Gregory of Nyssa, writing in the 4th century, argued against local Christians going on pilgrimage even to the Holy Land and Jerusalem.87 Unfortunately, there is a paucity of both written and archaeological evidence for these kinds of ‘in-between’ places. One of the few examples is located outside of Cilicia,                                                                                                                 84 An archaeological survey, the Tahirler Project, directed by Peter Brown out of Princeton University, is currently investigating the routes of the roads through Galatia in an attempt to locate the ancient village of Sykeon, which they have tentatively proposed as the Roman and Byzantine ruins at Kiliseler. See Walker (2001) and the project website: http://courses.washington.edu/tahirler/index.html. 85 Vié de Theodore de Sykéon 3: 6-14. Unless otherwise noted, all translations of this work are my own. 86 Vié de Theodore de Sykéon 3: 16-19. 87 Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 54.   205 a late Roman structure identified as an inn in southeastern Turkey, near Urfa.88 It was located on the road to Edessa, and was comprised of three caves of varying dimensions cut out of a concave rock face. The southern and central caves were probably used as stables for travellers’ animals (Fig. 5.14). The installations shown in the central cave were troughs for animals, likely fed by the water channel carved around the interior of the cave walls for collecting water seeping from the rock. The smaller cave to the north may have been for the travellers’ accommodation, though it is unclear in what manner. Nine ‘small’ alcoves were carved into the wall across from the cave’s entrance and a larger one immediately to the left of the opening. The scale on the sketch plan would indicate that most of these alcoves were much less than a meter wide.89 Cyril Mango, the only archaeologist to document the cave complex, has suggested that in front of the caves, a built wall delimited a platform that provided a roofed space for sleeping accommodations. A row of beam-holes carved into the concave rock face above the entrances to the caves would have supported the roof, and seats for guests were carved into the rock between the northern and central caves. Based on a bilingual inscription on the façade of the central cave, the whole installation has been dated to the latter half of the third century CE. The Latin inscription is heavily damaged, but the Greek inscription explicitly identifies the lodgings’ function: Αὐρ(ήλιος) Δάσιος ὁ διασηµό(τατος) ἔπαρχ[ος καὶ] ἡ[γε]µ(ὼν) Ὀσρ(οηνῆς) ὃτε την κατὰ Βάτνας τειχοποιείαν (ἀ)νοικοδόµησεν καῖ ἐν τούτω τῶ τόπω πανδοκεῖον καὶ φρ[έαρ καὶ] σπήλαια κατεσκεύασεν ἵνα οἱ δι ειόντες ἀναψυξ[ι]ν κ[αὶ ἀνά]λ[ηµ]ψιν ἔχωσιν.90                                                                                                                 88 Mango 1986. 89 Mango 1986: Fig. 2. 90 Transcribed by Mango 1986: 228.   206 Aurelius Das(s)ius, vir perfectissimus, prefect and governor of Osrhoene, at the time when he rebuilt the wall-works of Batnae made also in this place an inn, a well and caves so that travellers may enjoy refreshment and repose.91 The ‘well’ probably indicated the vaulted cistern across the modern road from the caves, which was filled by the seasonal stream that ran by the complex. There are many inhabited cave systems like this in Cilicia, none of which have been identified as inns. Recently, Jennifer Tobin has suggested that the site known as Küçük Burnaz could be identified as Catabolos, a mansio named in the Itinerarium Burdigalense and generally identified with Muttalıp Hüyük, near Mopsuestia.92 Tobin’s identification seems more strongly based on historical geography rather than archaeological remains, but the suggestion is a compelling one. Nearby, Sayar has equated the mansio Tardequeia with the Ottoman caravanserai at Kurtkulağı, though the currently identifiable structure was not constructed until the seventeenth century.93 Tombs and nekropoleis: passing by the dead It was a commonplace of Graeco-Roman practice in the Mediterranean to line roads with the resting places of the dead, commemorated with distinct architectural (though generally regionally specific) elements indicating that they were tombs, whether carved into the living rock or freestanding. This situation was not just the result of taboos and, indeed, legal ramifications of burying the dead within settlements, as discussed in Chapter 2, but also an ideological one. Burial in visible tombs along roads was a deliberate and widespread act that ensured the continued recognition of the dead by the                                                                                                                 91 Translated by Mango 1986: 228-229. 92 Tobin 2004: 90-91. Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 361-62; see also Sayar 2002: 460. 93 Sayar 2002: 458.   207 living, an act of memory and ancestral veneration.94 The most explicit instance of this phenomenon in Cilicia is at Korykos, where the via Sacra extra muros through the Roman nekropolis is lined with hundreds of sarcophagi, both pagan and Christian (Fig. 5.15).95 The three extramural churches of Korykos commonly associated with the via Sacra are not the only ones in the area. Gabriele Mietke has identified a mostly razed, but still recognizable, 5th-century martyrial church at Korykos immediately adjacent to what is now Yörük cemetery, northwest of the so-called Klosterkirche (Church J) (Fig. 5.16).96 Though the martyrial church is not located directly on the via Sacra, it would have relied upon traffic coming along the road. Though the plan provided by Mietke does not orient the church to the road or discuss means of access, its size is comparable to other large churches in the area (approximately 35 meters long, including the eastern passage). It is certainly likely that between its size and its martyrial function, it would have attracted quite a crowd. The main road leading north out of Diokaisareia also ran through the city’s nekropolis, and was another place where tombs were incorporated into a martyrial church.97 This mirrors the situation at Hagia Thekla, where the martyrial cave church was first established in Seleukeia’s Roman nekropolis. Tombs also lined roads outside of nekropoleis, as at Cambazlı, where the presence of tombs has helped to clarify the footprint of the old road. Though the modern road runs north-south along the east end of                                                                                                                 94 Witcher 1998: 64. 95 The most comprehensive description of the via Sacra and nekropoleis at Korykos is Machatschek 1967. 96 Mietke argued for its interpretation as a martyrial church based on new evidence for the tomb into which it was built (2009c: 130-131). 97 Mietke 2009c: 127-129.   208 the church precinct, so that most visitors enter through the now-demolished window in the eastern apse (Fig. 5.17), it is clear that in antiquity the approach was from the west, where a dirt track still passes tombs and remains of ancient structures (Fig. 5.18) to reach the gate in the precinct wall (Fig. 5.19) and the monumental entrance through the large narthex (Fig. 5.20). Tombs and particularly their associated epigraphic evidence contribute to the knowledge of movement of people in the ancient world because of their propensity to record where the deceased originated, if they died and were buried in a different place. Mark Handley has recently relied on this category of evidence to track the movement of over 600 individuals who moved around the western Mediterranean between the 3rd and 8th centuries CE.98 The same approach can be used to track pilgrims. At Germia in central Anatolia, inscriptions identified individuals who had travelled to the site of the largest pilgrimage church in Asia Minor, dedicated to the Archangel Michael, from as far as Constantinople and Apamea.99 These individuals were motivated beyond visitation to actual interment at the site of their devotion: as Leander of Seville’s mother wrote to him in the 6th century regarding her embrace of the role of pilgrim and traveller: “My sojourn [peregrinato] has given me to know God; I shall die a sojourner [peregrina], and I shall have my tomb where I found the knowledge of God.”100 The epigraphic evidence from the complex at Hagia Thekla does not provide any information regarding the origins of the people buried there.101 This does not mean that people from near or far did not seek ad sanctos near the saint’s shrine, simply that they did not record their place of origin. At                                                                                                                 98 Handley 2011. 99 Niewöhner et al. 2013: 98. 100 Quoted in Dietz 2004: 128. 101 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 19-22.   209 Korykos, the abundance of Christian tombs and funerary inscriptions lining the via Sacra (Fig. 5.15), which was in turn lined by potential martyria (refer to Table 4.1), demonstrates the propensity of devotees, no matter their origin, to memorialize both themselves and the saint at the site of the latter’s shrine. Harbors and sea travel The foregoing discussion has focused on terrestrial travel, but water was also an significant aid and obstacle in the movement of people and things in the ancient Mediterranean. Rivers were important to the Cilician travel network not as major modes of transport themselves, but as obstacles that needed to be crossed. The other major form of water-based travel in the ancient world, sea travel, was prominent in Cilicia, which boasted more than 600 kilometers of coastline full of harbors and bays, both large and small (Map 5.4). Most harbors along this stretch of coast are natural, though one of the most impressive extant harbors is at Soli-Pompeiopolis in eastern Cilicia, “where a spacious new basin was constructed in the second century C.E.”102 The moles are still visible today (Fig. 5.21). Many of the major harbors associated with urban centers were also associated with rivers, however: In the Late Roman period, sources describe the Cilician Plain sites of Mopsuestia/al-Massisa on the Pyramus River/Nahr Jayhan, Tarsus on the Cydnus River/Nahr al-Baradan, and Antioch/Antakiya on the Orontes River/Nahr al-Asi as riverine ports accessible from the sea. At some point, the rivers could no longer support shipping traffic due to silting of the riverbeds. This may already have been a concern in the fourth and fifth centuries, as indicated by evidence from a law appearing in the Theodosian Code mandating that a fleet be responsible for clearing the Orontes River of obstructions – whether natural silt accumulation or pirates is uncertain.103                                                                                                                 102 Vann 1997: 315. 103 Eger 2010: 50.   210 This mindset continued well into the medieval period in Cilicia, when the preference for port cities was far from river mouths that required dredging. Thus, Cilicia’s major harbors after the seventh century, at Korykos and Ayaş (in eastern Cilicia), were rather far from river mouths, while during the imperial Roman period a port city like Karadros was a typical and predictable site for a busy harbor.104 Harbors were not necessarily huge ports of call, and it was not necessarily the case that all coastal sites were booming cosmopolitan destinations. The harbor at the small town of Iotape in western Cilicia, for example, “was adequate for local trade but there is no reason to believe that it was ever anything more than a modest port that might be visited on the way from Coraceseum to Selinus.”105 Just as inns and way stations provided stops for punctuated movement along terrestrial routes, the small harbors of the Cilician coast provided a variety of harbors for punctuated movement along the maritime route. This has ramifications for the pilgrimage destinations along the coast, as at Aphrodisias, which boasted not one but two large natural harbors, where “the best anchorage is on the northeast, the same location as the early Christian church of St. Pantaleon.”106 This situation is not so different from that described above at Karakabaklı, where the road led travellers right into the basilica through the converted south tetrapylon. In the same way, travellers and pilgrims coming into Aphrodisias would have sailed almost directly into the church of St Pantalemon. That same situation, of the travel infrastructure facilitating the transport of pilgrims directly into the pilgrimage churches, has been discussed as a possibility for the                                                                                                                 104 On medieval Cilician harbors: Redford 2012: 297-301. On the predictability of Roman harbors on the Cilician coast during the Roman period: Vann 1997: 313, and passim. 105 Vann 1997: 312. 106 Vann 1997: 315. The church of St Pantelemon was published by Budde (1987).   211 proposed church at Hagios Theodoros just west of the Seleukeian harbor at Holmoi (modern Taşucu). Here, it has been suggested, pilgrims could approach both by land along the coast road from Holmoi, approximately three kilometers east, or could reach the sanctuary by ships coming to call in the small bay and reaching the church on the cliffside by rock-cut stairs.107 Travel Infrastructure in Cilicia Thus far throughout this chapter, I have outlined several categories of evidence that can be considered indicator phenomena of the paths through the region. These phenomena outline routes at both the large scale – such as the milestones marking the progression of a major traffic route proceeding from the Cilician Gates south toward Tarsos and beyond – as well as at the small scale, suggesting local travel, as indicated by the small stone bridge at Efrenk. These various phenomena also represent various scales of investment in the road network, from the imperial commission of the construction or maintenance of roads recorded in milestones, to the construction of rock-cut stairs facilitating passage into and out of the ravine at Efrenk, which was probably a project undertaken at the local level. The evidence presented also highlights the many options available to travelers, such as at the complex Hagios Theodoros, where travelers may have put in by boat at the small harbor or alternatively decided to dock instead at the larger port at Holmoi, and reach the complex by road. These issues of scale – in terms of community size, accessibility, and investment – as well the consideration of various options of travel form the underlying discussion of the second half of this chapter, which addresses those issues within the phenomenon of Christian travel in late antique Cilicia.                                                                                                                 107 Koch 2007: 263.   212 Identifying early Christian devotional travel in the material infrastructure In the saddle of the ridge that makes up the upper citadel of Anazarbos, the natural pass through the rock has been widened over time to facilitate travel through it to the east, towards Flaviopolis and Hierapolis Kastabala (Fig. 5.22). An inscription recorded the mid-6th century widening of the road. It was in turn destroyed in the 1980s by dynamite to widen the modern road for automobiles.108 The inscription began and ended, albeit formulaically, with a cross, by which not just the inscription but also the road it described became part of the devotional landscape, however implicitly. The road was probably blocked by the spill from earthquakes in the sixth century which required its clearing, as still seen in an inscription on the opposite wall from the record of its expansion. This second inscription, a cross within a circle, was accompanied by the first words Psalm 46: “God is our refuge and our strength.”109 The co-occurrence of the maintenance and improvement of travel infrastructure and the acknowledgment of a divine influence over it was an integral and familiar facet of movement through the landscape. In the second part of this chapter, I discuss the features and activities that travelers and pilgrims would have encountered in their movement through the Cilician landscape, whether or not for devotional purposes. The example just given illustrates how the devotional landscape cannot be separated from the various landscapes of movement that overlapped at sites large (like Anazarbos, a significant urban center) and small.                                                                                                                 108 Dagron and Feissel 1987: 167-168, #105; seen in the photograph in the accompanying Plate XLIII. 109 Dagron and Feissel cite the following lines of the same psalm – up through ‘though the earth trembles, though the mountains quake’ – as evidence for the apotropaic nature of the inscription (1987: 168).   213 Churches and processions Churches were often placed near the entrances of cities to announce to all travelers – not just pilgrims – the allegiances and dispositions of the sanctioned practices of Christianity in that particular place.110 So as in large centers around the Mediterranean, churches marked the entrances to cities, whether martyria or not. This makes sense given that settlements without churches clustered around those centers, and by definition Christians residing outside the centers would have had to travel to reach them. Processions centered around a martyrial church like the south basilica at Yanıkhan would have impacted the entirety of the settlement, where the north-south paved road through the village deviated to go through the church’s west atrium, where it was marked by a monumental gateway (see Fig. 4.6).111 This relationship between church and settlement, and movement through and towards each, can be seen throughout Cilicia. At Karakabaklı, for example, one small church was built within the village itself, while the larger complex – almost 2,000 m2 – was set apart from the center of the settlement, located almost 100 meters to the south. It was therefore the first and most easily visible monument on the approach from the coast, built directly upon the paved road and literally incorporated into the tetrapylon that marked the route of the road.112 A similar situation has been identified at Akören, where a monumental arch marks the main approach of the road from the south. Like the tetrapylon at Karakabaklı, this arch was incorporated into the church complex located immediately on the road and set somewhat apart from the main area of settlement for the village. As in many examples from around the Roman world, the infrastructure of                                                                                                                 110 See Bowes 2008b; Shepardson 2014; Mayer and Allen 2012. 111 Hill 1981: 27. 112 Varinlioglu 2008: 67.   214 movement and the church literally routed the approach to the city and emphasized the importance of the church’s role and physical presence in the religious and social changes occurring in the late antique eastern Mediterranean.113 The locations of churches both within and without settlements are significant because they were potential destinations for processions. At Öküzlü, procession from the town boundaries to the church would have solidified the prominence of the church in the minds of the processors, as well as the boundaries of the associated settlement and its relationship with the surrounding countryside.114 This processional relationship could also be maintained between various churches. As discussed in Chapter 2, the duplication of cults throughout the region could indicate a special relationship between various settlements, for example, between Korykos and Çaltı, both of which have evidence to support the existence of cults to St Zakarias. A similar relationship could be suggested from textual evidence between Hagia Thekla and Dalisandos, both of which were said to support cults to St Thekla. Comparison to other parts of the late antique eastern Mediterranean indicates that the duplication of cults is not the only potential link for what can be called ‘processional pilgrimage.’ Janet Trimbie (1998) provided on of the only explicit discussions of pilgrimage as a processional undertaking in the desert of Egypt by pilgrims honoring Apa Shenoute, from a text in the style of an itinerary outlining the various steps from the assembly of pilgrims to their movement between churches and the rituals undertaken at each.115 For my purposes, what is notable from this example is the fact that patron saints                                                                                                                 113 Wulf-Rheidt 2011: 201. 114 Eyice 1988: 19; 1982: 359. 115 See also Coleman and Elsner 1994 for a discussion of stational movements as part of the pilgrimage ritual at Sinai.   215 of each church do not appear to be the ‘tie that binds’ them into a cohesive itinerary for a stational pilgrimage. That is, they move from the church dedicated to Apa Shenoute to various others dedicated to the Virgin Mary and St George, among other topographical features like ‘the mountain’.116 Instead, their proximity and location along the route would seem to be decisive factors in their inclusion, though other factors no longer accessible must surely have played a part. In an urban context, Baldovin (1987) has discussed the different variables and goals that shaped the stational liturgies in three main urban centers in the early Christian world – Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem – and there is no one set framework that structured the routes of processions in each. Trimbie’s (1998) discussion of the stational pilgrimage revolving around Apa Shenoute in Egypt is a rural example, which I do not argue can be applied wholesale to Cilicia but instead can be taken as inspiration for thinking about the movement between various churches when considered as part of a larger, linked configuration. The duplication of cults and the possibility of a stational or itinerary-conceived pilgrimage on a regional scale is one way of stepping back from the inter-regional, long- distance scale of pilgrimage most often discussed in the ancient world. Though long- distance pilgrims to the Holy Land included stops at Constantinople, Rome and Edessa on their long-distance itineraries as presented in texts like those of the Bordeaux or Piacenza pilgrims, examination of distribution of churches throughout the Cilician countryside raises the possibility that a similar, local or regional stational pilgrimage may have existed in conjunction with the celebration of a major saint’s feast day, like that of St Thekla, who brought in pilgrims from far and wide.                                                                                                                 116 Trimbie 1998, esp. 418 and 440.   216 The most likely case for stational pilgrimage in Cilicia is at Korykos, where four of the five extra-mural churches along the via Sacra have been argued as possible martyria, as well as three churches inside the walls (see Table 4.1). This sacred way was marked at one end by the tetrapylon discussed above (pp. 193-195), and passed several churches as well as hundreds of tombs through the nekropolis towards the city walls (see Fig. 5.15). The map also indicates that the via Sacra was not one and the same with the coast road between Korykos and Elaiussa-Sebaste, the nearest city to the east. Therefore, movement along it must have been special, in the sense that the travelers who went along it were doing so for a specific purpose. The number of martyrial churches in such close proximity suggests that that almost certainly must have been for devotional purposes, stopping at each point to venerate the saints who were housed within, though the individual names are now lost. Though the entire length of the via Sacra is not known, it is possible that the road once continued along the line of tombs down to the gate located at the northeast corner of the city’s fortification walls. Alternatively, the tetrapylon marked a crossroads with the via Sacra, where a road, no longer extant, continued from the north from Demirciören to meet up with the coast road. This intersection of sacred way and a more comprehensive traffic corridor highlights the inseparable nature religious and everyday travel. On a larger scale than stational pilgrimage around a specific city such as Korykos – an event that, if similar to the stational pilgrimage celebrating Apa Shenoute in Egypt, took only one day – is the possible link between churches spread throughout the Cilician countryside through the duplication of cult as discussed first in Chapter 2, with regard to the travels between the various churches dedicated to St Thekla on the occasion of her   217 feast days, and again in Chapter 3 in the distribution of saints names in multiple points throughout Cilicia. In order to examine this type of connection and what it may have looked like on the ground, I used the spatial analysis capabilities of Geographic Information Systems (GIS) to run a least cost path analysis between Korykos, the city known to have an affiliation to St Zakarias, and the modern settlement at Çaltı (sometimes referred to as Çaltıbozkır), a village in the highlands where a reliquary to a saint of the same name was found.117 This analysis, a straightforward operation based on the cost of slope – that is, the relative difficulty of traversing the terrain based on the ease of going down or uphill – resulted in the predicted path as seen in Map 5.8. 118 Using a single variable such as slope to predict this path was a simplistic exercise but a pointedly illustrative one in two ways. First, it is a cautionary tale in that it highlights the problems inherent in attempting to calculate the nature of travel in the absence of pre-existing cultural variables. As seen in Map 5.8, the predicted route proceeds relatively directly northwest towards Çaltı, crossing the hills and, at one point, the steep ravine of a minor river valley just east of Çaltı. The only ancient bridge nearby is the one known in Seleukeia connecting the major coast road across the Kalykadnos river delta, however, which is too far west to be of use in this analysis, unless travelers opted to go follow the coast road west all the way to Seleukeia before proceeding north on the main Roman road towards Ikonion. Second, however, as argued throughout this chapter, the presence and potential availability of major routes does not discount the frequent use of branch roads for travel                                                                                                                 117 Korykos: Keil and Wilhelm 1931: 213 n. 782; Çaltı: Dagron and Feissel 1987: 24-25. 118 The ‘cost’ of travelling up slope was weighted to resemble human capacity – that is, any slope higher than 40 percent was deemed impassable while little or no slope was programmed as the preferable path.   218 at a local scale. If the coast road were to feature at all in the connection between Korykos and Çaltı, it would not be followed much farther than Korasion, before turning north on the Roman road known to be paved in sections near Karakabaklı and Işıkkale, thereby passing several more churches along the way. The potential for alternate, minor routes through the Isaurian foothills is raised as the second illustrative point of the solely slope-based least cost path analysis. Map 5.9 shows the same predicted path in the context of church distribution in the area, and points to a degree of correlation between churches and the route. It does, in fact, run directly past Korykion Antron, where some sections of ancient road are known, as well as three other churches nearby, two facts that lend credence to the possibility that a connection between the two sites did exist along this path. While the steepness of the minor river valley would have presented a considerable obstacle for smooth passage, it is possible that the path would have diverted to the north around the same valley, turning west at Keşlitürkmenli, a modern village where the remains of a church have been recorded (Map 5.10).119 This locality lies along a portion of the ancient road between Seleukeia and Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç), and the intersection of the predicted path from Korykos and the known road from the provincial capital – both civil and episcopal, as discussed below – hints at the many routes that may have been taken to move around the landscape, in all of its political, social, and ecclesiastical dimensions. The number of possibilities for directions and scales of travel, in a dedicated small-scale sense around Korykos’ via Sacra and between that same city and Çaltı, reinforce the argument that the integration of the devotional landscape with the wider infrastructure of local and regional movement is one that must be considered along with                                                                                                                 119 Hill 1996: 196.   219 the various forms and scales that Cilician devotion could take. Because there was no one route that travellers were required to take, the impacts of their journeys were made upon the entirety of the landscape. Bishops and Baptisms The integration of the churches into the wider Cilician landscape and the various scales of infrastructure that knitted both together raises the issue of the organization of the Cilician landscape in terms of jurisdiction in the region. As noted in the introduction, the footprint of ecclesiastical authority matched the civil administration in Cilicia almost exactly at the metropolitan level (see Map 1.2, 1.3). However, the duplication of cults discussed in the previous section does not seem to be obviously patterned by either civil or episcopal authority. That is, Thekla’s church said to be at Dalisandos belonged also, like her main cult at Hagia Thekla, to Isauria, and was thus under the purview of a bishop who presumably had a vested interest in prestige and operation of her cult. Dexianos, a bishop of Seleukeia, was, before his appointment, the primary custodian of the pilgrimage shrine at Hagia Thekla.120 As already explored, however, Zakarias’ cults in Korykos and Çaltı were located in different episcopal sees, though both answered to the metropolitan at Tarsos (Cilicia I). Therefore, if a relationship existed as discussed in the preceding section between Zakarias’ cults in Korykos and Çaltı, they overlapped with and expanded beyond ecclesiastical boundaries and authority. The relevance of the spatial scope of episcopal authority to this project is its relationship to the activities that went on at potential pilgrimage destinations. The possibility that various churches located throughout the Cilician devotional landscape                                                                                                                 120 Devreesse 1945: 145-146.   220 may have functioned as nodes in a stational pilgrimage itinerary raises issues regarding the particularities of devotional practice in the early Christian eastern Mediterranean. A condition of stational liturgy in the early Byzantine period is its leadership by a bishop.121 Thus it is intriguing that, in an area most likely to have inspired stational pilgrimages because of the relative abundance of churches, Isauria has such a density of bishops relative to Cilicia I and Cilicia II. In the mid-fifth century, there were 20 bishops in Isauria and 26 represented the province by the end of the 6th century CE,122 all under the administration of the patriarchate at Antiocheia. The status of each bishop was probably tied to the relative status of his urban seat, so that the bishop of Seleukeia was probably better off than his colleagues.123 Isauria had more than double the number of bishops than each of other two provinces, and more than the both of them combined (Map 1.3). While this may be a relic of the relatively late division Cilicia into Cilicia I and II (ca. 400 CE124), it is intriguing that there is such a density of sees in a region where there is also a density of martyrial churches, possibly receiving a larger flow of pilgrims than elsewhere.125 The preceding section discussed the potential for stational pilgrimage taking place in Cilicia and what form that stational liturgy may have taken. Another form of liturgy that is traditionally tied to episcopal authority in this period is the rite of baptism. Usually baptism was to have taken place at the episcopal cathedral under the direction of the                                                                                                                 121 Baldovin 1987: 36. 122 Elton 2007(b): 78. There were 23 named in the 5th century Notitia Antiochena (Devreesse 1945: 305). 123 One bishop complained that his yearly stipend was no greater than that of a common laborer (Elton 2007: 78). 124 Notitia Dignitatum; Hild and Hellenkemper (1990: 38-39) estimate that it was written in 408 CE. 125 For discussion of the number of clerics in the provinces as indicated by the epigraphic evidence from Korykos, see Trombley 1987: 18 and his statistical analysis.   221 bishop himself.126 However, the appearance of baptisteries not just at episcopal cathedrals (as at Anemurion) but also at pilgrimage complexes (Hagia Thekla), monasteries (Alahan), and even with churches in cities that already boasted an episcopal cathedral (also at Anemurion). Several baptisteries have been identified in Cilicia, most of them in Isauria. All are incorporated into associated churches in one way or another, and many are located in the side chambers.127 The only exception to incorporation is the baptistery at Alahan, the only free-standing baptistery in Cilicia, and a particularly compelling case study for this discussion because of the chronology of its construction: it was the final architectural element to be added to the complex,128 a step that suggests that the complex began to offer baptism as a service only after its function as a pilgrimage site had been established. The presence of baptisteries at pilgrimage sites has ramifications for understanding the integration of any given pilgrimage site into the wider devotional network and its place within the episcopal hierarchy. Cilicia’s own Theodore, bishop of Mopsuestia from 392-428 CE, provides a lens into the mechanisms behind these preparations for baptism in the region.129 His catechetical account indicates the lengths that were gone to in order for early Cilician Christians to become a part of the community that trod everyday the paths to and from the churches under study here. The pedagogical process required an investment over a substantial amount of time, varying from 40 days to three years130, in addition to the necessity of having a baptismal sponsor from the                                                                                                                 126 Schwartz 2013: 127 Hill 1996: 24 discussed the predominance of Cilician baptisteries in side-chambers. 128 Hill 1996: 82. 129 Schwartz 2013. 130 Schwartz 2013: 18.   222 community who could vouch for the initiate’s character and intentions.131 The time commitments involved in preparing for baptism would indicate, on first glance, that baptismal candidates, no matter the location of their baptism, would require local residence for a significant amount of time. While on pilgrimage in the Holy Land, for example, Egeria was told that specifically ‘local’ pilgrimage candidates would be immersed at a spring-fed pool where legend had it that John the Baptist performed baptisms and then process to the church by torchlight,132 a description that associates baptism not just with pilgrimage but with stational processions such as those described in the previous section. On the other hand, the example of the pilgrimage shrine excavated at Bir Ftouha near Carthage – which, like Hagia Thekla, was near a major urban center that could boast of an episcopal cathedral of its own – has led Jensen (2011) to conclude that “those seeking baptism in this site would be pilgrims, rather than local residents, given Bir Ftouha’s close proximity to the renowned cathedral of Carthage (and its baptistery), its largely Christian population, and its important, resident bishop.”133 The interpretation of the baptismal activities at Bir Ftouha and the geographical identities of the candidates would seem to fit the evidence at Hagia Thekla more closely than assuming all candidates were local catechumens, given its proximity to Seleukeia and the bishop there. It also raises the question whether there was more flexibility regarding catechism or the presiding of the bishop than indicated in the textual evidence such as that presented in the works of Theodore of Mopsuestia.134 The rites of baptism would have varied from time to time and place to place, certainly, and the local varieties                                                                                                                 131 Schwartz 2013: 2. 132 Jensen 2008: 95. 133 Jensen 2011: 1679. 134 Jensen 2008: 96.   223 of not just the types of baptism (e.g., adult or infant; full submersion or the sprinkling of water) but also the places in which they could have taken place must be taken into account here.135 Jensen has argued that the baptismal fonts, particularly those located at pilgrimage sites, may not have been singularly for baptism, but could have served as the site of a purificatory ritual for pilgrims who had already been baptized, which is also a possibility that must be considered for pilgrims flocking to Hagia Thekla or other pilgrimage destinations in Cilicia.136 The fact that it is the Cupola Church at Hagia Thekla, not the saint’s basilica and cave church, that possesses the baptistery, suggests the possibility that the whole complex of churches, like the via Sacra at Korykos, could have served as the site of a stational pilgrimage procession, complete with baptism or purificatory ritual by water during the liturgical celebrations. Its proximity to Seleukeia, the seat of the metropolitan of Isauria, via the rock-cut road, certainly presents the possibility that the bishop of Seleukeia could have presided over baptisms there as well as at the episcopal cathedral. My purpose here is not to argue that all baptismal candidates coming to the various baptisteries known at pilgrimage shrines in Cilicia were exclusively local or long- distance pilgrims. It may very well be the case that there were strong, symbolic associations between baptism and martyrdom and the perceived benefits of saints’ patronage may have encouraged some early Christians to travel significant distances to special shrines or to monasteries to seek baptism at certain holy places or the tombs of holy men or women (ad sanctos) for themselves or their children rather than receiving the sacrament within their own community and under the supervision of their local bishop.137 However, it is more compelling in this dissertation’s larger discussion of different scales                                                                                                                 135  See  Jensen  2012.     136  Jensen  2008:  109.     137  Jensen  2008:  94.       224 of devotional movement within a region dense with potential pilgrimage destinations of various sizes and appeal to conceive of the intermingling of both kinds of baptismal candidates or already-baptized Christians who wished to undergo a sort of purificatory ritual to commemorate their visit to the site. The combination of pilgrimage with baptism, particularly on the occasion of the saint’s feast day, would also solidify the community of believers on a social level, particularly if they were inhabitants who had gone through the catechetical process locally, with a sponsor. Along with the accompanying periodic markets, which are discussed more below, the annual feast days of the saints were opportunities for coming together at moments of community self-definition. At the other end of the scalar spectrum, the baptismal or purificatory rite would have added even more weight to their visit, especially if they acquired a pilgrimage souvenir in the process. Any souvenir that they subsequently attained would be the material token of the moment in which they officially became a part of the Christian community. Eulogia: tokens and ampullae The most personal material evidence for far-flung (or even local) pilgrimage is the pilgrim’s souvenir, the eulogium. Pilgrims were sometimes identified with the Magi, the gift-bearing strangers who traveled to the Holy Land to worship the Christ child in the story of the Nativity. They were Christianity’s archetypal pilgrims, upon whom later pilgrims based their own journeys. These wise men were guided and guarded pilgrims themselves – the canonical story of the Magi relates that God told them to return to their foreign homelands by way of another route, rather than going back to Herod and reporting what they had seen: “And having been warned in a dream not to return to   225 Herod, they left for their own country by another road.”138 Thus with divine intervention they returned home safely, and later pilgrims all hoped that it would work out that way for them, too. They would entrust their safety to apotropaic objects, which they believed provided them with protection on their journeys. The eulogia functioned not just as protection along the journey but also as a way for a pilgrim to extend his or her physical and emotional experience at the site of devotion once they had returned home.139 Ampullae, ceramic flasks used to carry water and typically impressed with Christian iconography, provide some of the best evidence for pilgrimage. Some pilgrimage flasks held water, while others held sacred oil. It appears to be the case that Menas flasks, from the eponymous saint’s shrine in Egypt, for example, held oil from a large alabaster pot set beneath the altar in the saint’s church.140 Whether it was water or oil, they could carry the liquid home with them. Sometimes the flasks were tied on strings to be worn by the pilgrims, with the notion that if the liquid, which was associated with the saint, was touching the pilgrim’s body, than the saint would be even more likely to protect and/or heal the pilgrim. Some would even drink the liquid in order to be cured or gain protection or power. While most analysis on pilgrimage ampullae has taken place at the iconological level, it is coming more and more to be treated as a category of ceramic evidence in and of itself, with production, distribution, and even petrographic analysis coming into play.141 The ‘evangelist ampullae’ – as in, St John the Evangelist – or ‘Asia Minor type’ ampullae have been found widely throughout Anatolia, at least, some as far away as                                                                                                                 138 Vikan 2010: 59; Matthew 2.12, translated in the New Oxford Annotated Bible (3rd ed.), 2001. 139 della Dora 2009: 230. 140 Anderson 2007; Bangert 2010. 141 Vikan 2010; Anderson 2004, 2007.   226 Antioch. Some of these ampullae have been subjected to extensive mineralogical analyses.142 Using petrographic analysis, it has been possible to attribute them to Ephesos, which corroborates the interpretation made on the basis of the iconological elements that led to that tentative attribution in the first place.143 These mould-made ampullae are smaller and more oval-shaped than the North African Menas flasks with which they are often compared. Unlike the Menas flasks, which have handles that span the body and neck, the ‘Asia Minor type’ has two holes bored into the shoulders of the vessel.144 While the resulting shape of the smaller ampullae with the bored holes creates a quite striking mimesis of the Menas flask form, the way they were used was very different: the ‘Evangelist’ type were meant to be worn or suspended. The production of ampullae elsewhere at pilgrimage sites around the Mediterranean suggests that these were items that would likely have been produced in Cilicia, almost certainly around Hagia Thekla, and possibly at a smaller scale at lesser-known pilgrimage sites like Yanıkhan or Alahan. These finds are all too rare, often come without context, and, unfortunately, very few are known from Cilicia: a base and fragments from Alahan, and a stamped base from Tarsus, of a third, fusiform type identified by Hayes (1971).145 The iconography of a woman between two lions’ heads may represent Saint Thekla at the arena during her attempted martyrdom, but the identification is not secure.146 Named appearances of Thekla on ampullae often occur in conjunction with that of St Menas, whose cult site in                                                                                                                 142 Anderson 2004: 80. 143 Duncan-Flowers 1990; Ladstätter and Pülz 2007: 428. 144 Anderson 2004: 79; Fig. 7. See also Weitzmann 1979: 577-79 for a more detailed discussion of the iconography. 145 Hayes 1971. 146 Anderson 2007a: 20.   227 Egypt, now known as Abu Mina, was famous in antiquity.147 Though it is tempting to suggest that pilgrims brought ampullae with Thekla back from Cilicia to Egypt, it is more likely that the frequent pairings indicate a relationship between Abu Mina and Thekla’s cult center there.148 In Cilicia there is, however, an eulogia mold for an ampulla dedicated to the archangel Raphael in Anemurion.149 The mold is of the same type as a lamp production center identified in one of the city’s baths, and it is tempting to suggest that that the same workshop producing lamps had a sideline in pilgrimage souvenirs.150 Lamps were often used as votive objects, and may have satisfied the desires of patrons in two ways: first, by providing lamps to be ritually deposited as votives at a pilgrimage site, and ampullae to be taken away as mementos of the site itself.151 Though discovered singly in a household context, rather than in the workshop itself, it is unlikely that the Anemurion mold traveled far from its place of production. In the same context as the mold were excavated 20 coins dated between 589 and 656 CE, which provide a terminus post quem for the abandonment of the house in which they were found. Aside from ampullae, eulogia could manifest in many forms, from jewelry to amulets to boxes.152 Thekla appears as an orant (that is, in the position of prayer with hands raised) flanked by crosses on a 7th century ring thought to have been found in Constantinople.153 Though the ring was not necessarily a souvenir from a pilgrimage – by the 7th century, Thekla’s cult was just as popular in Constantinople as in Cilicia or Egypt                                                                                                                 147 On the archaeology of Abu Mina specifically as a pilgrimage complex, see Bangert 2010. 148 Davis 2001. 149 Russell 1995: 47. 150 Williams and Taylor 1975: 77. 151 Anderson 2007a: 17. 152 See Vikan 2010 for a detailed discussion of the various forms of pilgrimage souvenirs. 153 Weitzmann 1979: 326-327.   228 – its iconography of the saint is identical to that found on the back of a silver reliquary dedicated to Konon in Çırga.154 This visual pairing of Thekla with Konon in Cilicia echoes her iconographical juxtaposition with Menas in Egypt. Pilgrimage tokens, hand-molded balls of clay roughly shaped and stamped with an image associated with the pilgrimage shrine and its saint, were also often taken home as pilgrimage souvenirs. Keeping in mind that each pilgrimage shrine was a locus sanctus, a holy place, what made them meaningful was that they were made from the earth around the shrine itself, mixed with water and perhaps oil into a paste, and then stamped. This production method explains how they were able to be produced on such a massive scale that they are found throughout the Mediterranean world. We can discern the manner of production partly because of the backs of the seals, which even to this day show the palm print of the person who rolled up the paste and held it in his palm while he stamped it.155 While no tokens or ampullae from Cilicia or with iconography of identifiably Cilician saints have been found, the bodily imprint on the portable souvenir emphasizes the material embodiment of the practice of pilgrimage and its impact on the fluid configuration of the devotional landscape. All of the objects described above were meant to be worn on the body or carried while traveling, as the ‘Asia Minor type’ described above indicate. While the ampullae may have been too large to be comfortably suspended around the neck at all times, the tokens were small enough to fit into a pocket, and a ring like that described above could have been treated as an ordinary piece of jewelry. These                                                                                                                 154 Gough 1958 suggested that the figure be identified as the Blessed Virgin; see also Buschhausen 1962-1963. 155 Vikan 2010: 56-57.   229 objects are no less points in the configuration of the devotional landscape than church buildings or crosses found carved on the lintels of domestic structures. Indeed, pendant crosses also unearthed at Anemurion indicate the mobile nature of early Christian devotion in Cilicia.156 Made up of a variety of materials, ranging from bronze and silver to gold, these crosses configure a devotional landscape that is anything but static in its arrangement. They, like the ampullae, tokens and rings, moved back and forth across the landscape with their wearers for activities both mundane as well as extraordinary, whether going to their fields to work on a daily basis or participating in an annual procession or festival honoring a saint. It is to the extraordinary activities, the annual feasts and markets associated with a saint’s celebration, to which I turn next. Feasts and Festivals Markets and fairs – panegyreis – held in conjunction with saints’ days at Christian shrines, contribute to a more complex picture of pilgrimage and its impacts on the community. The panegyris, whether associated with a saint’s feast day or simply a regional market,157 was most commonly a “highly-localised phenomenon,”158 and thus supports the notion of a regionally diverse practice of pilgrimage in terms of who was coming together, where, and when. In the context of pilgrimage, the multifunctional nature of these gatherings – part religious affair, part economic meeting – brought in large crowds of both producers and consumers, each to a varying degree also a                                                                                                                 156 Russell 1982: 137, Fig. 4.42. 157 Fairs and markets had a long history in the eastern Mediterranean in both urban and rural contexts long before the arrival of Christianity and the celebration of saints’ feast days (de Ligt 1993: 64). 158 Haldon 1997: 39; Vryonis 1981: 198.   230 devotee.159 These periodic markets tied the practice of pilgrimage and the configuration of the devotional landscape inextricably into the wider social, political and economic landscape of late antique Cilicia. Like the study of pilgrimage itself, the scholarly focus on economy and trade in the late antique centuries of the eastern Mediterranean has traditionally focused on long- distance, inter-regional movement of goods and people.160 But scholars have begun to more fully explore the evidence that most exchange occurred within regions rather than across them.161 This would have necessitated movement more on a regional scale than long-distance. Thus, while importation of fine wares began on a major scale in the 5th-7th centuries CE in Cilicia, an increasing number of pottery kilns are being identified in the region, in association with finds that indicate that ceramics were also being produced locally for local and regional consumption.162 At Elaiussa-Sebaste, on the other hand, where evidence of pottery production has yet to be found, the excavated ceramics indicate that most pottery was being produced and consumed on a regional rather than interregional scale, with few imports coming from Italian or North African centers.163 These trends hold ramifications for the movement of producers, consumers and middlemen at a time when the association of markets with saint’s feast days is a strong one.                                                                                                                 159 de Ligt 1993: 92. 160 Walmsley 2012: 311. 161 Wickham 2005: 707. 162 For the importation of Roman fine wares, see Zoroğlu 2005; for kilns and a potter’s workshop at Astra, Zoroğlu 2000. For transport vessels, see Rauh and Slane 2000 for possible amphora kilns in western Cilicia. 163 Ferrazzoli and Ricci 2013: 210-215. As in the preceding 1st-3rd centuries, from the 4th century onwards the city saw a steady stream of imports from the Aegean.   231 From the Miracles of Thekla come accounts of people traveling to and from Hagia Thekla – including the saint herself – not just for visits to the saint’s shrine, most of which seem to have been undertaken for healing, but also for the various panegyreis, the annual festivals, dedicated to the saint. These festivals did not take place just at the pilgrimage complex, but are attested in the various communities around Seleukeia, including Dalisandos.164 The economic ramifications of these festivals were therefore not limited to Hagia Thekla, but reached out into the surrounding communities as well. Pilgrims are attested from Tarsos, from Olba, from Eirenoupolis, and from even farther afield. There are limits to what can and cannot be elucidated from archaeological material in the quest to flesh out a picture of the marketplace in late antiquity and Byzantium: In the overwhelming majority of cases the contents of a commercial space have not been conserved in the archaeological deposits that we can recover, not only because the commercial material itself may well have been perishable, but also because once any commercial property has been abandoned, its stock is rarely left lying idle in the empty shops.165 More permanent commercial spaces have been identified and studied in Byzantine Anatolia, as in the street of shops at Sardis.166 However, most annually held markets in honor of saints were likely to use more makeshift, and less permanent, accommodations. Hill (1996) noted that there was “apparently a central market place with a three-storeyed building on its north side” at Yanıkhan, the site of the martyrion to saints George, Christopher and Konon, but the possibility has not been explored through excavation or,                                                                                                                 164 Mir. 26. 165 Zanini 2006: 386; Pitarakis 2012: 400. 166 See Crawford 1990.   232 as far as I can find, detailed architectural recording.167 Therefore, throughout Cilicia, most of the evidence for these occasions has been textual. As noted in Chapter 2, there are several references to panegyreis celebrating various saints, including Thekla but also referring to Paul’s festival at Tarsos and ‘satellite’ or duplicate festivals in honor of Thekla. The implications of the several panegyreis held around the region in honor of St Thekla have not only economic implications. Scholars have suggested that there was “a connection between the martyr's panegyris and a city's sense of identity, as [had previously been] attested in pagan cults."168 This opens up the possibility that while the central Basilica of Thekla itself may have been the sole destination for long-distance pilgrims like Egeria or those in dire need as described in the Life of Miracles of Thekla, the impacts of the phenomenon of pilgrimage could be felt to reverberate through the countryside: a region linked through the infrastructure that made it possible to get to Thekla in the first place. In Cilicia, a potential connection between commercial markets and the celebration of a feast day comes from a 6th century pilgrim’s account of a market in Aigaiai. Theodosios reported that “in the province of Cilicia is a town called Aegea (sic), the site of tax-free trade for a period of 40 days; if it is found that someone is trading after these 40 days, he pays taxes.”169 While Theodosios guidebook is intended for pilgrims, it is unclear from the confused state of the extant text170 whether the market was in any way associated with a dedicated pilgrimage to the city and its churches or if it is simply an                                                                                                                 167 Hill 1996: 256. 168 Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 37. 169 Translated in de Ligt 1993: 69; cf. translation by Wilkinson 2002: 116. 170 Wilkinson 2002: 9-10.   233 observation he made during his travels to and from the Holy Land. The entry on Tarsos is one of only two in the entire collection that did not explicitly mention a holy place and describe the events that occurred there. Therefore, it can remain only speculation that Theodosios came to Aigaiai on a dedicated stop on his pilgrimage route for devotional rather than simply logistical purposes. A letter from Theodoret of Cyrrhus to the bishop Eustathios of Aigaiai dating to the 440s CE, however, mentioned that a multitude of merchants from the West would be coming ‘for the fair (panêgyris) that is now being celebrated at your town.’171 The verb translated as “celebrate,” ἐπιτελέω, is one connoted as discharging a religious duty,172 and so it can be argued that the market may have been held in conjunction with the celebration of one or more of the city’s many saints.173 If, as Liebeschuetz (1972) proposed, the fair was firmly established in the pre-Christian period by its association with the temple of Asklepios in Aigaiai, that practical link between saint and market may have survived for centuries after the destruction of said temple by Constantine.174 The scoldings of several contemporary writers demonstrate that the motivations behind attendance at these festivals consisted of more than just a sense of piety towards the saint: Basil of Caesarea “ordered the monks not to engage in commercial activities on these occasions… [saying that] ‘instead of praying, many used the place and the occasion to conduct business, to set up fairs.’”175 Not all contemporary accounts are so cynical, but most do indicate that activities at these festivals were not just devotional in nature. John                                                                                                                 171 de Ligt 1993: 69. 172 Online Liddell-Scott-Jones English-Greek Lexicon, accessed through the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae database 19 January 2015. 173 Maraval 1985. 174 Liebeschuetz 1972: 77; de Ligt 1993: 69 n. 60. 175 Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 38.   234 Chrysostom, preaching in Antioch in honor of the bishop Philogonius, described one such associated market: I mean that it’s not usual to celebrate for any other reason than that a great number of people have been gathered together and that there’s an abundant supply of goods for sale, when wheat and barley and miscellaneous produce of every kind, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, clothing and other wares are brought (into town). Some are vendors, some are buyers.176 Thus, while celebration of the saint’s feast may have held center stage at these annual gatherings, the coming together of crowds of people for various reasons demonstrate that the development of a particularly Christian configuration of the landscape is not only a result of the acts of the saints and subsequently the associated clergy, but also of local economies.177 In addition to the participation of the attendees, who could have counted themselves pilgrims as well as profit-makers, the clergy could have benefited from the intersection of the economic and religious strands that came together at panegyreis. In Korykos, for example, an inscription names a monk who was also a tavern-keeper.178 The materiality of an early Christian pilgrimage industry established particular shrines not just as destinations for pilgrims seeking sanctity or spiritual renewal through proximity to a saint, but also as places “charged with economic and social activity of a multitude of kinds.”179 Pilgrimage and trade were, in the late antique Christian Mediterranean, major motivators behind why people traveled, both within their daily catchment areas as well as beyond, and this ties the two phenomena inextricably. This, in turn, created a pilgrimage                                                                                                                 176 John Chrysostom, Concerning Blessed Philogonius (PG 48, 747.47-52), trans. Mayer and Allen 1999: 186-187). 177 See Bowes 2008b: 609. 178 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: No. 406 179 Stopford 1994: 60.   235 industry of sorts;180 and thus it is clear that pilgrims in the ancient world negotiated not just the spiritual realm, but also the contemporary political, economic, and historical world in which it took place, which in turn grew up around the practice of pilgrimage itself. Monasteries and xenodochia The inn near Urfa described in the first part of this chapter is an example of a place of lodging where any traveler, including Christian pilgrims, could have stayed. A niche carved into the rock just north of the cave complex could have been religious in nature, though too few remains are extant to indicate whether pagan or Christian.181 But there are also examples of places especially dedicated to Christian travelers, like the guesthouse at the Alahan monastery seventy-five kilometers to the northeast of Seleukeia and its shrine at Hagia Thekla, and which we can think of as one node of punctuated movement along the pilgrim’s route to the shrine. This monastic complex and its capacity to house travelers, described in detail both in Chapter 4 as well as below in the context of punctuated movement through western Cilicia, adds another dimension to the infrastructure of accommodation in Cilicia (as already noted regarding inns and way stations, pp. 198-203 above), and places it firmly within the travel network as well as the devotional landscape. Hospitality figured predominantly in the landscape of monasticism. It is a commonplace that “one of the duties of a monastic house was the provision of                                                                                                                 180 Stopford 1994: 57. 181 Mango 1986: 226, Fig. 6.   236 accommodation for travellers,”182 and verses from the Christian Gospels regarding the care of the less fortunate are taken as the point of departure for the impetus for monastic hospitality from its earliest origins.183 There are, of course, many precedents for the duties of hospitality in pre-Christian traditions, back to Homer and the Jewish tradition at the very least; the popularity of the ‘Hospitality of Abraham’ scene in both Byzantine and western Medieval art demonstrates the knowledge of that tradition.184 It could also take various forms: Theodore of Sykeon, having stopped at the Druinoi monastery in Galatia (a province in central Anatolia, northwest of Cilicia), was fed by the monks at the monastery, but did not even have a mat to sleep on for the evening.185 Sometimes accommodation for travelers did not involve just provisions for food and drink, but for the protection of their very lives: the 6th-century account of the Piacenza Pilgrim, indeed, does specify that the ‘guesthouse’ of St George is in fact a fort, which speaks to the infrastructure put in place to defend travelers, much like the massive walls encircling the                                                                                                                 182 Greene 1992: 154. 183 See especially Matthew 25:34-36; Kerr 2007: 24. 184 Kerr 2007. 185 “When they arrived first in the region of Galatia at the monastery of Druinoi, he [Theodore] asked that they [his disciples] not say anything about him; for there they [the monks of Druinoi] were unaware of him; and he came into the aforesaid monastery to find relief from the journey… But because they had been invited and entertained at table, the holy one said: ‘In truth, children, we have eaten as Galatians.’ When, after a little while, he had said this word again, the xenodokos [literally, one who receives guests, or guestmaster], named Aniketos, fell into a doubtful attitude about him, curious about who he ought to be. The saint had laid down to sleep on the ground in the usual way; and after the monks at the monastery had discovered his true identity, they entreated him to stay with them for many days, that he might find refreshment from his weariness from the road and bless them very much; but he asked them to give him a function while he would stay with them. They did not wish this, but deeming it worthy he made them accept this, he pronounced that he would service the beds of the brothers, and having prepared them every evening, making them every morning,” Vié de Theodore de Sykéon 64. This particular monastery is unattested in both archaeological and other textual evidence, and it does not appear that it has been sought out as a reality in any scholarship of the modern period.   237 contemporary monastic complex of St Catherine at Sinai.186 In Cilicia, the same type of defensive fortifications can be identified at Hagia Thekla in the temenos walls whose foundations are still extant, and which are mentioned by Egeria during her pilgrimage to the monastic complex in the late fourth century.187 Detailed investigation of the organization and scale, and the variety of manifestations of monastic hospitality have great potential for enhancing our understanding not just of the phenomenon of travel but the larger workings of monasteries in their variously scaled landscapes.188 The Piacenza pilgrim’s account of his travels in the Holy Land records that he stayed the night in one of two guesthouses at a monastery dedicated to St John the Baptist near the Jordan River.189 Recent archaeology of the Ma’aleh Adummim monastery corroborates the existence of monastic guesthouses for the accommodation of travelers, complete with dormitories and stables for transport animals. A chapel dedicated to travellers’ use also forms part of the monastic complex.190 The reproachful passage of Gregory of Nyssa noted above (p. 201) indicates a certain tension within devotional travel. Clearly, travel and lodging were fraught notions in the ancient Christian worlds of Byzantium and the western Mediterranean. The surprisingly detailed description of Theodore of Sykeon’s conception, related above (pp.                                                                                                                 186 Trans. by Wilkinson 2002: 145: “Twenty miles on [from Elusa] is a fort, the guest-house of Saint George which provides something of a refuge for passers-by and gives food for hermits.” For the fortifications of the monastery of St Catherine in Sinai, see Coleman and Elsner 1994. 187 Travels 23.4, trans. by Wilkinson 1999: 141. 188 Bangert 2010: 318-19. 189 Trans. by Wilkinson 2002: 137: “By the Jordan, not far from where the Lord was baptized, is the very large Monastery of Saint John, which has two guest-houses.” The next section in the account also records a guesthouse in “the area of the city” of Jericho. 190 Dietz 2005: 148-9 and n. 172. The guesthouse is referred to specifically as a xenodocheion, which, like a pandocheion, was a place for accommodating travelers but carried particularly religious overtones in its philanthropic mission to care for the poor and the sick, as well. See Thomas 1987 and Constable 2003: 35-38.   238 200-201), belies the notion that good Christian travellers would avoid such ‘dens of iniquity’, but it is clear that it was a matter of course and that his good Christian father, even while dreaming of his son’s becoming a bishop, was not planning to create a family out of Theodore’s birth: “the man said to her: ‘Guard yourself, that perhaps God might watch (you), woman, and give you a son worthy of the rank of bishop.’ And having said these things, leaving early in the morning, he went on his way.”191 As is clear from the story of St Theodore of Sykeon, the location of his mother’s inn at the crossroads of two major routes – what is indicated in the notion of configuration as a ‘hub’ – played a critical role in the ‘hospitality’ provided by Mary. Likewise, the monastery at Alahan was located along what was once the main road from Ikonion (Konya) – one of the major cities of late Roman and early Byzantine Asia Minor – to the Mediterranean coast, namely, to Seleukeia. The monastery, which has been suggested as a possible destination in its own right for pilgrimage and healing, would also have provided a convenient stopping point on the land journey from central Anatolia towards the coast and perhaps even farther beyond to the Holy Land. In fact, the complex boasts a building that has tentatively been interpreted as a hospice for guests on account of epigraphic evidence. Crosses were cut into the rock near holes that the excavators suggested may have been “intended to hold ties for tents erected during large influxes of pilgrims at the time of festivals.”192 Alahan thus presents an unprecedented opportunity to study the traffic and accommodation for pilgrimage in the region surrounding the major site of Ayatekla. Recent archaeological work has identified the nature of the settlement at the bottom of the mountain as a textually unattested late-                                                                                                                 191 Vié de Theodore de Sykéon 3: 24-25. 192 Bakker 1985: 139-140.   239 Roman urban center that conforms to expectations for fifth- and sixth-century Cilicia and Isauria.193 Its relationship to the monastic complex / pilgrimage site supports the notion that pilgrims and travelers may have been able to seek accommodation both within the monastic complex and without, raising questions about choices, opportunities, and eligibility of travelers / pilgrims for different lodging – whether or not the site was a pilgrimage site in and of itself. Conclusion: Moving Through Cilicia at Different Scales Throughout this chapter, I have discussed the various elements that make up the general travel infrastructure of Cilicia as well as those elements that not only help to define the travel network but also the configuration of the devotional landscape. In this final section, I hope to demonstrate how all of these elements can be brought together to examine devotional movement in Cilicia at different scales. To do so, I focus on two sites, the two in the region most definitively known as martyria: the shrine of St Thekla at Hagia Thekla, and the martyrion of Sts George, Christopher and Konon at Yanıkhan. The fırst major point of comparison between the two churches is their context within the travel infrastructure. When viewed at the resolution of the provincial scale, the distribution of churches does appear to align very closely to the major road network provided by the Barrington Atlas (Map 5.5). There are few churches that do not line the physical paths of the travel infrastructure, and there is also no discernible correlation regarding the placement of potential martyria, specifically, within the major road network. A closer look at the sub-region of Seleukeia’s hinterland, however, shows that many of the churches are not, in fact, located along the main roads but instead must be                                                                                                                 193 Elton et al. 2006.   240 connected by branch roads to the larger highways (Map 5.6). Without a systematic survey of the surface remains of all travel infrastructure throughout Cilicia it is impossible to precisely reconstruct the smaller-scale branch roads in their exact lines. There is, however, a concentration of churches in the area northwest of Seleukeia, extending up to the Roman road that leads north to Tetrapyrgia, a stop outlined on one of the major routes from Ikonion to Soli-Pompeiopolis (see Maps 3.1-3.2, 5.2). Off the main road, however, is the martyrion located outside the major road network at Yanıkhan, the only epigraphically known martyrion in the whole of Cilicia. It was under the ecclesiastical administration of the suffragan at Elaiussa-Sebaste, which reported to the metropolitan bishop of Cilicia I at Tarsos. Thus, it is possible that devotional traffic coming to and from Yanıkhan would have looked to the east, rather than west towards Seleukeia and its patron Thekla. However, Yanıkhan is located on the western side of the Lamos River, in whose vicinity only two late Roman bridges are known, one to the north at Efrenk and one to the south, at the major coastal road. The major north-south road lay instead to the east of the Lamos River gorge, practically unreachable in any efficient way from Yanıkhan. The major east-west road along the coast was less than 20 kilometers away, but at hours by foot. This would have made travel to the east difficult. No major monuments or milestones have been identified to indicate that any major infrastructural construction took place outside the settlement itself to facilitate travel to the martyrion there. The paved road – which was remarkably well made and remains to this day well preserved194 – leads through the settlement, through the monumental gate attached to the atrium of the martyrion in the center of the village, and ends directly at the narthex to the cemetery church (Fig. 5.23). Thus, traffic would have                                                                                                                 194 Eyice 1981: 207.   241 had to proceed along the coast road until heading north on an (as-yet-undetermined) length of road to reach the settlement at Yanıkhan, or cross over the Lamos at Efrenk before proceeding south along its west bank. Indeed, it does seem likely that the martyrion at Yanıkhan did not service an international cast of visitors like Hagia Thekla, but rather remained a locally significant pilgrimage site facilitated by local infrastructure. The fact that it contained a potential permanent market building of more than three stories, but no baptistery, suggests that the coming together of pilgrims to worship there had more to do with the economic side of the periodic markets, panegyreis, associated with the patron saint’s feast day, than with the gathering of large crowds for baptismal or purification rituals under the administration of a bishop. The comparative size of the two churches certainly does suggest that Yanıkhan was not constructed to receive crowds of pilgrims on the scale of Hagia Thekla (Fig. 5.24). It is possible that most of Yanıkhan’s devotional traffic was local, coming from the various villages in the densely inhabited region between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers. Only a systematic survey of ancient infrastructural remains can clarify the relationships between these various settlements, but it is clear that in terms of travel connections, Yanıkhan was not on a major route through Cilicia. It was a martyrion, probably to locally-produced and regionally–known saints, and almost certainly the destination of related devotional travel, but given its relatively remote place within the travel infrastructure, one would be hard-pressed to suggest that it saw the large-scale pilgrimage of nearby sites like Hagia Thekla. Hagia Thekla, being located just outside Seleukeia, was strategically positioned at the junction of several major land routes and harbors to receive to ships, a prime location   242 in the flourishing eastern Mediterranean of late antiquity. The complex’s location in the nekropolis of the Roman city was able to take advantage of the proximity of Seleukeia, especially at its convenient location between the city proper and the harbor at Holmoi (modern Taşucu), though it is unclear whether the road from the harbor through the pilgrimage complex came into existence before or after the establishment of the cult of St Thekla. Hild and Hellenkemper do identify the road from the port at Holmoi as a wahrscheinlicher byz. Straßenverlauf, a ‘likely Byzantine road.’ Indeed, it does not follow what they posit as the major road (Fernverkehrsstraße) from the port to Seleukeia, which would indicate that that particular connection was constructed after the popularity of Thekla’s cult began to attract travelers, and thus became one alternative by which to reach the city. Certainly, its existence indicates that it may have become more highly trafficked after the fourth century, by individual pilgrims but also by the traders that the annual panegyreis in her honor would have attracted. The presence of a baptistery in the complex’s so-called ‘Cupola Church’ suggests the coming together of large crowds for purposes of procession and possibly baptism. The same issue of whether the road or the complex came first applies to the rock- cut road between the city and the pilgrimage complex (Fig. 5.25). Though there is no epigraphic evidence to attest to its construction or maintenance after Hagia Thekla’s establishment, it was clearly a busy place, with installations cut into the bedrock on the east side (Fig. 5.26) alongside the remains of small stone structures (Fig. 5.27), while additional blocks were used to shore up the wall as it proceeded north towards Seleukeia (Fig. 5.28). These were not the only indicators that point towards heightened traffic and productive use of this hill after the establishment of the pilgrimage complex: the southern   243 hillside, below the church buildings and their associated cisterns, is covered with rock-cut channels and basin installations, possibly used for production activities associated with the monastery (Fig. 5.29). This contrast between Hagia Thekla and Yanıkhan, of major-minor and rural- urban, brings the discussion back around to the universalizing and localizing elements of destinations of devotional travel, and the scales at which the various sites of potential pilgrimage must be examined. The description above of the various indicator phenomena of the travel network has attempted to show the relationships between the Cilician churches and the wider infrastructure of movement, thereby tying together the devotional landscape with its concomitant activities such as processions. There are material indicators of the travel network that have long been looked to for anchoring it in the physical landscape – tetrapyla, milestones, and of course the actual paved remnants of the roads themselves. But outside the cities, which were themselves transport hubs, the churches can also be thought of as anchors in the road network: their location in the landscape is a place to which Cilician Christians necessarily would have come and gone. The scale of this movement need not have been large – the movement between churches and farmsteads, for example – but it would have been a reality of fifth and sixth century life for the region’s Christians and those who inhabited the landscape with them. Punctuated devotional movement, then, could include stops at various pilgrimage churches along the coast, stopping perhaps first at Aphrodisias to venerate at the church of St. Pantalemon, at the churches on Boğsak Adası, the church of St Theodore and then continuing either by boat or foot the last few kilometers to the port at Holmoi, and proceeding up to the major complex at Hagia Thekla. While that route is conjectural, it is   244 certainly a possibility. Pilgrimage could be a flexible undertaking, depending on circumstances. The configuration as we see it mapped onto the Cilician landscape would have been experienced processionally, and sometimes literally so. That is, though there exists no textual description of stational movement between churches in Cilicia as at Sinai or the White Monastery in Egypt,195 the density of churches and the availability of bishops to lead stational processions does indicate that at one scale, the local, the very real possibility that the churches of the Isaurian highlands were part of one itinerary of pilgrimage practice in the region. The journeys between settlements and churches in Cilicia would have been experienced in real time. If people had to travel from their own village to worship at a Christian structure – assuming they felt the need to do so – then a simple question of scale does not define pilgrimage as an undertaking. In a socially and materially well- connected region like Cilicia, Christian devotion could take many forms over a relatively widespread area with dispersed settlements. On a different time scale, stational procession between different churches could have functioned as yet another rhythm to that established by that of the periodic regional markets associated with the celebration of saints’ feast days over the course of the year.                                                                                                                 195 For discussion of the stational pilgrimage at Sinai, see Coleman and Elsner 1994; for the White Monastery, Trimbie 1998.   245 CHAPTER 6 CONFIGURATION OF THE CILICIAN LANDSCAPE In the preceding chapters, I described the configuration of the devotional landscape of Cilicia over the course of a few centuries. That reality on the ground was manifested in the construction and (re)use of material culture. In these centuries, the Christian additions to the devotional texture of the landscape were most visible in a monumental building sense, seen through the extensive construction of churches throughout the region. On a smaller scale, the new and visibly Christian configuration was also anchored outside the church buildings themselves. Identifiably Christian signs, such as the cross, appeared on the doorways of domestic buildings, on tombs, and on individual tombstones. Taken together, all of these various elements added up to the texture of the landscape itself, of which a materially Christian commitment was an inextricable part by the fifth and sixth centuries CE. The notion of a landscape’s configuration is both constitutive of and constituted by the movement of people through it, and it is thus in Cilicia that the material stamp of the devotional landscape shows up not just in its nodes – the churches as destinations, the houses as origin points, and the tombs as the inevitable end of people coming and going – but in the very infrastructure which they used to move between those nodes. This is demonstrated within the urban as well as the rural spheres. At the provincial capital and urban center at Anazarbos in eastern Cilicia, as discussed in Chapter 5, the widening of the rock-cut road passage into the city was commemorated with an inscription that explicitly carried a cross and with it, both imperial and religious authority for the work itself, as well as its benefit to passersby. At Karakabaklı, a village-sized settlement in the   246 highlands of Isauria, this was manifested in the transformation of freestanding monuments to the imperial road network – the tetrapyla, the monumental gates marking the approach to the settlement – into Christian chapels, and one of them even into the monumental entrance to a major basilica complex. Thus it can be seen that the material, devotional landscape of early Christian Cilicia was not rooted exclusively in the pre-existing distribution of sacred spaces, but it was routed in the configuration of those places through the travel infrastructure. As has been argued for road networks before, “people usually revert to the alignments and routes of the past,” while modifying it to suit the specifics of their own purposes.1 The Cilician disinclination to adhere exactly to the physical configuration of the pagan devotional landscape demonstrates that the Christian nodes, as indicated by the churches, shifted in terms of precise location but not necessarily within the larger context of the travel infrastructure.2 In that sense the location of churches drew upon the authority of tradition by building upon some locations or structures but not others. At the same time, the authority of those locations simultaneously drew upon as well as inverted traditional notions of spatial authority by placing some churches, especially martyria, within cemeteries, where the presence of the dead had long created a sense of taboo, but which have also long provided the context for the (often monumental) approaches to settlements. In this conclusion, I return to some of the main points that have been raised in this dissertation. The first is the relationship of Christian pilgrimage sites to the wider settlement context, particularly as it relates to issues of urban and rural devotional                                                                                                                 1 Avramea 2002: 58. 2 These reconfigurations can be attributed to a number of factors, not least of which are the changing practices and belief systems particular to Christianity in this region.   247 infrastructure. Following closely upon the heels of that discussion is the notion of localizing versus universalizing influences of the various cults in the Cilician landscape. A major issue that has arisen is the approach of thinking of pilgrim churches, sites, and context in terms of topography and scale. Finally, I examine how those influences and scales both reflected and shaped the nature of devotional movement throughout early Christian Cilicia. I argue that ‘pilgrimage,’ as an extraordinary form of devotional travel, cannot be considered a discrete phenomenon defined against a ‘non-pilgrimage’ or ordinary form of devotional travel. Rather, the two exist along a continuum of devotional travel - from the local to the interregional, considering the traveler’s origin as well as the destination’s attraction – the various forms of which overlap in scale but are never truly distinct from one another. The disparate forms of evidence compiled to visualize that landscape also demonstrate different strategies of appropriation and authority. As noted, this can be seen most explicitly in the location and forms of the churches themselves. Outside the churches, and often in settlements without churches, the inscription of crosses on the exterior lintels of domestic doorways exhibit another way that Cilicians of some degree of Christian commitment expressed their affiliation when a church structure did not indicate the presence of a Christian community in the settlement. Also present, however, is a sense of competing authority between episcopal claims, both theological and spatial. This is seen not only at the levels of interaction among the pilgrims themselves, and between the pilgrims and the institutional authorities, which is a form of contestation that Turner and Turner argued in 1978,3 but also between the upper echelons of the Christian episcopal authority. There is also room for discussing the different                                                                                                                 3 I outline the Turners’ argument in more detail in the Introduction (p. 14).   248 manifestations of local pride, especially in those communities often spatially removed from easy access to the urban centers and the authority of the bishops seated there. In what follows, I synthesize discussions from across the dissertation to summarily address these points, before turning to the future directions that might address further questions raised in the preceding analysis. Breaking down the urban priority for pilgrimage In Chapter 3 I discussed the distribution of churches across the wider settlement context within the broadly conceived categories of urban, rural and isolated. I noted that the frequency of churches was much higher in settlements assigned a rural context than either of the other categories, an observation that is perhaps not surprising at a time of a predominantly rurally populated Mediterranean. Yet the traditional study of Christianity is focused on its urban centers, which were a natural point of convergence for the early Christian community for various reasons, including the cities’ status as the seats of early Christian bishops.4 The urban focus of early Christianity is based on the premise that Christians would thus have flocked to the cities physically, as well as looked to the bishops seated there as the authoritative centers, both geographically and conceptually, of the devotional landscape. Indeed, urban centers may be considered as the pivots of ancient Christian religious life, and the unifying element of the configuration of the devotional landscape. The city is where most processions began: for example, in the Life of Konon, one of the few times a city is mentioned is in connection with the gathering of                                                                                                                 4 Christie 2013: 99. On the late antique bishop, see Rapp 2005.   249 worshippers about to embark on a procession to the cave of Apollo.5 The distinctive nature and volume of the spatial data available in Cilicia highlights the sometimes neglected role of Christianity in the late antique countryside outside the urban centers and its impact on the relationship between town and country.6 I have demonstrated that there was a much higher density of rural Christian material remains. This is not an attempt to contest the priority of the urban centers in terms of ideological authority and operational hierarchy. But the distribution, and thus possibly the accessibility, of Christian churches on a daily basis was, on the whole, much denser outside the city than within it (aside from exceptional cases such as Korykos, with its fourteen churches). Indeed, Rauh and others have used the same pre-Christian predominance of cities in the religious landscape cited above to argue the opposite development for the spread of Christianity, namely, that it took hold earlier and more strongly in the rocky hinterlands of western Cilicia than in its coastal urban centers.7 It is indisputable that the churches in the urban and rural spheres were connected along a physical and conceptual infrastructure that linked the two inextricably. The intermediary role of the churches marking the approach to settlements feature prominently in this configuration, where the siting of churches just outside urban spaces in funerary contexts played a formative role in the establishment of the martyria that eventually attracted devotional travelers. These churches eventually came to dominate the funneling of traffic in and out of settlements of varying sizes, as with the tetrapylon at Korykos and its relationship to the first of the extramural basilicas marking the northern                                                                                                                 5 Ch. 5; ed. Halkin 1985: 9. This ritual and its route was then followed by the community to venerate the saint, his triumph over the demon, and his appropriation of the cave sanctuary for his own shrine. 6 Jost 1992: 238. 7 Rauh et al. 2009: 299. See especially their note 195 for further references.   250 approach to the urban area, or basilicas that presided over the approach to the settlements at Karakabaklı and Akören.8 Sweetman has argued for late antique Greece that “the siting of churches and cemeteries on the edge of the urban space indicates a communal traverse of the city space that reinforced the sense of ownership of the town.”9 By this, Sweetman means that the ritual enactment of processions from central cathedral locations facilitated and underlined the presence of Christianity in these cities to the inhabitants who witnessed them. The same occurrence has been argued for major late antique cities like Antioch.10 Similar processional reinforcement probably went on in major Cilician cities like Anazarbos and Seleukeia, where the archaeological remains of large churches have been identified in the center of these cities, and, at Anazarbos at least, within easy access of the major thoroughfares running through the city and its gates. However, the urban-focused traversal was often complemented or perhaps even overshadowed by the prominence of the extramural churches, as with the major complex of Hagia Thekla just outside Seleukeia. The location of numerous churches in rural contexts turned the processional perspective towards the devotional landscape outward from the urban centers. This was not unidirectional, however, in that those processions – or at least their participants – often returned to the city, whether formally or on their own after the celebrations were completed. This back-and-forth movement reinforced the interconnection of the two spheres, urban and rural, at all levels of settlement. This back-and-forth was mirrored even at smaller settlements throughout the rural landscape. There, it was commonplace that churches were located near the edges of the                                                                                                                 8 Discussed in detail in Chapter 5, pp. 193-195. 9 Sweetman 2010: 224. 10 Mayer and Allen 2011; Shepardson 2014.   251 densely inhabited areas. This location would have placed them squarely at the focal points of the infrastructure of movement into and out of the settlement, whether a city or a small town. At places like Korykos, the presence of not only several churches but a dedicated via Sacra outside the city walls most likely encouraged stational processions between intramural and extramural churches, reinforcing relationships between the urban and extramural populations.11 While there is almost certainly a degree of bias in the archaeological record because of the continued inhabitation of cities like Seleukeia and Tarsos, there are proportionally many more churches in the rural areas of Cilicia than in the cities, even though some cities – such as Korykos or Anemurion – could often boast of having many within their respective limits. As I argued in Chapters 4 and 5, the same uneven distribution of urban and rural churches is observable in the pattern of potentially martyrial churches in the region. The absence of major roads in the immediate vicinity of most of them (aside from Hagia Thekla) could indicate that access was on a scale suited to short-distance travel. The local scale of accessibility could have had the effect of tightly knitting communities that moved frequently between and amongst each other for festivals, covering social, economic and religious aspects of their lives, as opposed to the many paths – international, local, coastal – crossing at the larger pilgrimage centers like Hagia Thekla. The overlap lies in the occasional movement of the local and regional populations to the festival at Hagia Thekla, an event that was replicated on a local scale at martyria like Yanıkhan, but probably did not receive the diverse masses that Thekla’s panegyris would have attracted.                                                                                                                 11 Shepardson 2014 has focused at length on the rhetorical device of ‘urban/rural divide’ exploited by Antiochene writers (see esp. her Chapter 4, “Transformative Transgressions”).   252 The scales of impact that revolved around the churches located in urban and rural context were thus related to the communities that participated in and witnessed the movement to and from them. As has been noted more widely in the construction of late antique communities, This context of mobility forces us to expand our perspective beyond the boundaries of the village, hamlet, or estate, and embrace the notion of the rural community as a regional phenomenon. Certainly, individual members of a village or hamlet maintained links with other communities through tribal affiliations, kinship bonds, and economic connections.12 To those links we can add the bonds maintained through worship practices such as institutionalized processions or spontaneous acts of pilgrimage. One way to reconstruct those links is through the demonstrated doubling of cult sites. The cult of a certain St Zakarias replicated in numerous churches across Cilicia may indicate a relationship between the cities and smaller settlements in which they were located, as well as networks based upon individual saints within the larger configuration of the Cilician devotional landscape.13 This is supported in the textual evidence from the Miracles of Thekla, which, for example, describe the saint’s – and thus her cult’s – relationship with other communities such as Dalisandos.14 This relationship was not singular, as the discussion in Chapter 5 demonstrates, but – like the number of options for direction and scale of routes between the settlements – could take a variety of forms. Just as ancient Christian writers used rhetorical discourse to “establish a community’s identity and borders over and against others,”15 the Christian community of the late Roman Cilician landscape negotiated with traditions of authority both pre-                                                                                                                 12 Grey 2011: 54-55. 13 See Ch. 5, pp. 213-216. 14 Mir. of Thekla Ch. 26, trans. Johnson 2012: 103-107. 15 Nasrallah 2003: 198   253 existing and present through the built environment and their (often controlled) movement within it. Location, orientation, decoration and ritual established boundaries that may have overlapped but were still visible – for example, the positively framed but clearly described tension between the bishops of Tarsos and Seleukeia – directly impacted the practice of devotional travel with regard to the festivals of the two cities’ patron saints, Paul and Thekla, respectively.16 While much more is known about the metropolitan bishops in these provincial capitals and their territorial and congregational skirmishes than the episcopal sees scattered throughout the Cilician highlands, further work that examines more closely the roles and spatial relationships between the bishops under the same metropolitan, and their respective positions of authority within the productive landscape, could do much to illuminate the picture of a mostly rural Christianity and its integration into the workings of the late antique landscape.17 The decisions that people made in order to move themselves for the purposes of devotional travel did not necessarily map as a mirror for the movement of goods throughout the region, and the comparison of the churches’ placement in the productive landscape against their situation in the travel network may help to better understand the dynamics of the communities that were being served. Patterns of production and settlement were, after all, inextricably a part of the settlement landscape. The roles of the churches can fit variably within the different scales of any given productive landscapes. Within settlements, for example, there is no need to look outward from the villages to consider the productive landscapes over which the church structures, and their patrons, presided. Archaeological documentation of villages in southeastern Isauria indicates that                                                                                                                 16 Miracle 29, trans. Johnson 2012: 121. 17 Details of what this research would look like is described more below, pp. 257ff.   254 while these settlements demonstrated a unified built environment, they were made up largely of “groups of structures... separated by empty spaces, which might have been occupied by gardens, small fields, or temporary structures.”18 ‘Productive landscapes’ does not refer exclusively to agricultural production, however, as there is widespread evidence for ceramic production alongside the skill of the native stonemasons, who traveled far and wide.19 While olive and grape presses and ceramic production centers have been documented across Cilicia, the more challenging difficulty lies in the reconstruction of the demarcation of boundaries within the productive landscapes of late antiquity, which varied across the mountains in the west and the plain in the east, as well as across the intervening centuries. Extensive research into pre-modern productive landscapes could not be undertaken within the scope of this project, though some resources such as the detailed topographical descriptions given in the British Naval Handbooks, published in the early 20th century, may assist in such an endeavor. While the modern patterning cannot stand as a one to one proxy for ancient exploitation of agricultural land, as has been argued in the past, the careful analysis of the relationship between settlement and field patterns, as far as they can be identified, has the potential to illuminate the influence of the devotional landscape within the wider region.20 No systematic study has been undertaken across the entirety of the region to record the variations in footprint of the                                                                                                                 18 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 39. 19 Iacomi 2010: 23, esp. notes 17 and 20; Rauh et al. 2006. 20 Mitchell 2005 has noted that Louis Robert worked on the wholesale assumption that exploitation patterns had not changed very much since antiquity, an assumption that has since been questioned and overturned by more recent archaeological and anthropological studies, which take into account changing cultural and climatic conditions (90-91, and note 40). See ibid. 98-99 for discussion of the circumstances that facilitated an expansion of olive oil production in late antiquity.   255 diverse uses of agricultural land over the last several millennia in Cilicia, though work in western Rough Cilicia on the traces of viticulture since antiquity holds promise for future work provided that imagery of an appropriate resolution is at hand.21 This is partially an issue of recovery, because although they were an important product of much of the ancient world, agricultural products like grain leave “a frustratingly small imprint on the archaeological record.”22 More recent archaeological work has focused on the production of wine and olive oil, suggesting that these two products played a large part in the region’s economy. There is abundant evidence for intensive olive cultivation in Cilicia in antiquity, particularly in the late Roman period, even though production had decreased dramatically by the time Fischer noted, at the beginning of the 20th century, that it was “kein Land der Olivenzucht.”23 Since then, however, increased archaeological activity in the region has identified extensive remains of installations used for the cultivation and processing of olives, as well as grain and grapes.24 The region, especially the limestone hill country, was well suited to growing such crops, and a large amount of epigraphic evidence supports a reading of the evidence as producing both grapes and olives.25 Their organization varied along processing lines, with increasing evidence for dedicated olive processing structures within the settlements themselves, while wine processing installations are more commonly located outside settlement contexts next to the vineyards. However, it is not exactly clear whether and how the investigators were                                                                                                                 21 Varınlıoğlu 2008: 43; for the method of viticulture footprint, see Rauh et al. 2006. 22 Mitchell 2005: 83. 23 Fischer 1904, quoted in Mitchell 2005: 86. 24 Varınlıoğlu 2011: 179. Cf. Decker 2005 for a discussion of the wine trade. 25 Iacomi 2010; but see Dagron and Feissel 1987: #108, a tariff stone found near Anazarbos which lists extensively the goods that would be taxed but does not include the olive.   256 differentiating between the two types of installations, since evidence elsewhere has suggested that most presses could be used for both.26 Accordingly, it appears that the production of olive oil was more closely tied into the nucleated settlements than was wine.27 This is not to say that oil production and trade far surpassed that of wine; in Korykos, for example, the huge corpus of inscriptions name fifteen wine traders against only four oil traders, leaving the matter of which industry dominated one for another day.28 The production organization of a region dependent upon animal husbandry, timber production and both oleoculture and viticulture heavily influenced the shape of the settlement pattern, which in turn supported the network of the early Christian devotional landscape, and thereby impacted the dynamics of late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicia regarding the location of its religious monuments. Authority, local pride and universal appeal in the Christian landscape In Chapter 3, I explored the distribution of churches across the urban and rural spheres as a way to bring the church’s associated settlements into a larger picture of the Cilician landscape in the fifth and sixth centuries CE. In Chapter 4, the investigation narrowed to examine the churches that have been argued to be martyria – that is, churches where the remains of saints would have drawn pilgrims – and their locational characteristics that featured prominently across the category. Caves and sinkholes, especially, as those ‘rocky places’ that stand out in several Cilician church complexes,                                                                                                                 26 For archaeological evidence of presses being used for both grape and olive processing, see Brun 1993; Frankel 1997; Varınlıoğlu 2011: 179. For the olive oil facilities in Rough Cilicia, see Aydınoğlu 2010: 1, and passim; for grape processing, Aydınoğlu and Alkaç 2008: 279. Cf. also Baratta 1999 (in Equini Schneider 1999 on Elauissa Sebaste). 27 Aydınoğlu 2010. 28 Iacomi 2010: 19; cf. Varınlıoğlu 2011: 186 and passim for statistical breakdown of wine and oil sellers within the larger food industry in Korykos. See Commito 2014: 192-193 for the distinction between olive oil and wine production based on amphora manufacture.   257 were a way of connecting the newly authorized Christian present to the long tradition of Cilician sacred spaces. The patterning of that occurrence, however, cannot be relegated simply to date or to settlement context: the sinkhole in Kanytellis was spatially central to that city, while inhabitation at Cennet Cehennem was limited to the late Roman period. The ‘cave’ at Kadirli was an anthropogenic construction under a church in the ancient city (likely Flavias), while the caves incorporated into churches at Mazılık and Alahan were natural features incorporated (somewhat awkwardly) into church structures removed from, but still associated with, small urban centers whose names are now lost. The comparison of the contexts of the churches demonstrates that Christian communities of Cilicia manifested their commitment to Christianity in a number of ways and by a variety of strategies of appropriation and authorization. This can be seen, first and foremost, through the construction of churches, as monumental markers of their commitment. The strategies of appropriation and authorization that lay behind the location were not uniform across Cilicia, whether architecturally or topographically. Some churches were associated with and physically incorporated tombs and natural cave systems, as in the Cemetery Church at Diokaisareia or the Basilica at Mazılık. Even more famously, some were associated with sinkholes, either by being located inside them or immediately proximate, as with Church 4 at Kanytellis. Others, like Yanıkhan, focused on the eastern passage and the likely placement of a saint’s relics there, while others may have accommodated the ritual focus of movement through the church on the side chambers located north and south of the eastern apse, as in the church at Korykos located in the Yörük cemetery west of the via Sacra.29                                                                                                                 29 Cemetery church: Mietke 2009c, esp. Fig. 7. See my Fig. 5.16. This layout has comparisons outside the province, as well, such as at Asarcık in Lycia, identified as possibly being the   258 These last two examples really highlight the prominence of the body in early Christianity. Ritual movement around the church, as the culmination of the movement that fundamentally and literally embodied the undertaking of pilgrimage, involved the body not only of the pilgrim but also of the saint. The motivations behind pilgrimage were often of immediate concern to the pilgrim’s body: long before the arrival of Christianity in the eastern Mediterranean, devotees had undertaken pilgrimage for the purposes of healing.30 The descriptions of the physical journeys that have been preserved in texts tell us something of the treatment and experience of the pilgrims’ bodies. A prominent bodily concern was the availability of water, and the archaeological remains of water infrastructure along the routes they took still emphasize their significance to the journey. At Hagia Thekla, the remains of several large water cisterns points to the prominent role that this very basic need of the physical body played in the successful operation of the pilgrimage destination. Even the focal points of devotional movement were very material and bodily intersections with the holy: the tangible reality of the saint’s relics. In some cases the remains of the reliquaries demonstrate very clearly the authority claimed and celebrated by the church monument: in these cases, such as in the churches that would have contained the reliquaries attributed to Çırga or Caltı, the physical presence of the saint via their bodily relics lent their authority.31 The authoritative intersection between the body of the saint and the holiness of the church as the site of his or her final resting place has ramifications particularly at                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           martyrial-monastic church dedicated to St Nicholas of Sion (Harrison 1963, especially Fig. 11; cf. Severin and Grossman 2003: 99-101, and Fig. 21). 30 See Petsalis-Diomidis 2005 for discussion of the bodily experience of Greco-Roman healing pilgrimages. There is a huge amount of literature on ‘the body’ in early Christianity; see, among others, Brown 1988; Miller 2009; Shaw 1998. 31 See Table 3.4.   259 Hagia Thekla, where the largest pilgrimage complex in Cilicia had no saintly bodily relics to offer to pilgrims. The particular shape of the martyrion implies the presence of relics, but as the primary texts themselves state, the martyrion at Hagia Thekla could not claim the saint’s human body. Still, the church exhibited the features associated with the architectural celebration of the physical body of the saint, namely, a centralizing structure known as a ciborium over the central altar.32 The strategy of authority utilized in that physical complex was not the saint’s actual body but the architectural setting and the text that celebrated her life and miracles. The narrative of the fourth-century pilgrim Egeria, for example, records that her worship at the church of St Thekla involved reading the accounts of the saint’s life and miraculous undertakings, rather than interacting with relics. This was emphasized even more by the structure’s incorporation of the cave that was to have been the site of her final disappearance into the ground: authority of this site stemmed from the miraculous event itself, instead of from the presence of her physical remains.33 Those churches that incorporated pre-existing tombs, on the other hand, as at Diokasareia or Korykos, drew their authority from the physical incorporation of the saint’s relics into the very structure of the building. The interplay between the authority derived from text and monument and that of the cave also drew upon the long pre-Christian tradition of juxtaposing sacred structures within or immediately next to caves and sinkholes, described as ‘rocky places’ in Chapter 4. It would seem to be the case in Cilicia that there was rarely the motivation for ‘desolation’ – that is, razing a pre-Christian structure and claiming its site for a new                                                                                                                 32 For the presence of a ciborium in the basilica of Thekla, see Hill 1996: 31 and Johnson 2012: xi-xii; for the significance of the ciborium as a structure in a church, see Yasin 2009: 174. Elsewhere in Cilicia, the ciborium in its various forms often marked the fonts of baptisteries, as at Alahan and Anemurion. 33 On the underground cave church as the site of a second martyrion, see Hill 1996: 32.   260 church – as a strategy of appropriation and authorization, as seen in the canonical ‘Desolation of the Temple Mount’ in the transformation of Jerusalem in fourth century.34 Instead, the primary strategies involved the incorporation of standing buildings or ex novo building in specific locations. Çatıören is a prime example of the community’s conscious positioning of the church against the temple across the small valley, in whose case the community felt no need to raze the temple in the name of Christian triumph. It is difficult to access a specific sense or manifestation of local pride in churches and saints in the material record, especially given the lack of explicit epigraphic and iconographic evidence both inside and outside the churches. Rather, the local affiliation to Christianity shows up across the landscape in the form of inscribed crosses on funerary, domestic and travel contexts, as well as in many instances of deceased Cilicians’ explicit devotion to individual, named saints on the tombstones themselves (see Table 3.4). However, along with the material presence of the urban-rural continuum of cult devotion discussed above, the agendas of those promoting the various early Christian cults of Cilicia can be seen in the textual evidence. These universalizing and localizing influences were discussed at length in Chapter 2 in the context of the Miracles of St Thekla and the Life of St Konon. The configuration within which the author of each text was operating in turn shaped each saint’s cult in a different way, where the universalizing tendencies of Thekla’s cult and accompanying text played against but also in tandem with the celebration of the local in Konon’s Life.35 The material manifestation of these localizing and universalizing influences can be seen in the comparison of the locations of two Cilician cult sites, Hagia Thekla outside                                                                                                                 34 Drijvers 2013: 323-324. 35 See Ch. 2, pp. 87-90 and Wood 2009.   261 Seleukeia and Yanıkhan, the epigraphically identified martyrion located northeast of Seleukeia, inland on the west bank of the Lamos River gorge. As noted in the discussion at the end of Chapter 5, because of its location within the regional travel infrastructure, the martyrion at Yanıkhan did not service an international cast of visitors like Hagia Thekla, but rather remained a locally-produced and regionally visited pilgrimage site facilitated by local infrastructure. The saints named in the dedicatory inscription at Yanıkhan are thought to have been of local origin. It is not possible to definitively correlate the Konon of the 6th century Life with the Konon named in the Yanıkhan inscription, but it is possible to place the martyrion within the same localizing influences. The cult of these particular saints did not extend far, if at all, beyond the borders of Cilicia. Unlike Thekla’s cult, which attracted pilgrims from around the Mediterranean world, the appeal of the Life of Konon, along with the martyrion dedicated to Konon, George and Christopher at Yanıkhan, was to a local audience. Especially visible at Yanıkhan is the prominence of the church and the marketplace, and their seeming inseparability (as described negatively in reproachful texts like those of Basil of Caesarea and Asterios of Amaseia, and more positively regarding the fair at Aigaiai in Theodoret of Cyrrhus’ letter to Eustathios, the bishop of Aigaiai36), as indicators of the intertwining of local and economic practice at a village-level settlement whose local church drew pilgrims to venerate their native saints. This is not to place Thekla and Konon’s cults in a direct struggle for primacy with each other. These saints were just two of many celebrated in Cilicia. As discussed in Chapter 2, the structure of the religious calendar supports the notion that the various                                                                                                                 36 On Basil and Asterios, Bitton-Ashkelony 2005: 37-38; on Theodoret and Eusthathios, de Ligt 1993: 69; see also my discussion in Chapter 5, pp. 226-231.   262 Cilician saints were parts of a larger corpus, each of whom functioned differently within the local operations of the devotional landscape. Their cults were meant to complement each other, though the occasional contest inevitably arose. What is clear, is that the various churches appealed to distinct but overlapping local, regional and international audiences at different times and places, and that the travel infrastructure facilitated a site’s access and concomitantly its attraction of pilgrims. The nature and scale of devotional movement in Cilicia The churches, as place-anchored pieces of the devotional network, give a picture of an overall configuration that is part and parcel of the ‘general’ travel network. As discussed already, while the travel infrastructure did change in certain key ways – such as the addition of a direct road connecting the pilgrimage complex at Hagia Thekla with Seleukeia’s port at Holmoi – it does not appear that any major transformations of the material makeup of the road system occurred between the late Roman and early Byzantine periods in Cilicia in order to accommodate an increase in Christian pilgrimage travel. What did change, initially, was the precise choice and placement of some, but not all, sacred spaces with the arrival of Christianity, a choice that remained largely determined by the existing travel network. The replication, duplication, and above all multiplication of sacred spaces in the form of built churches did not necessarily change the physical paths of the travel infrastructure or even the way that people moved along them, but it would certainly have changed the experience of that travel. And so I return to the question posed at the beginning of this dissertation: how do we talk about the act of   263 pilgrimage on a local or regional scale, an act that did not reach the proportions of the more typically discussed, long-distance, and famous pilgrimages of those travelers such as Egeria or the Bordeaux pilgrim? In the Introduction, I discussed my working definition of ‘pilgrimage’ and its use as an heuristic tool. In doing so, I defined it as extraordinary travel, undertaken for devotional purposes, without assigning it any particular scale. That is, local women coming to pray for healing at Hagia Thekla are considered no more or less as pilgrims than Egeria, coming from as far away as Spain to undertake the exercise of reading the saint’s Miracles at her own shrine. This definition is useful for including local accounts and archaeological remains in a discussion of devotional movement throughout the region, thus participating in what many scholars have agreed is the primary form of devotional travel in the early Christian world: regional pilgrimage.37 However, defining regional pilgrimage as the most frequent form of extraordinary movement simultaneously raises the question of discerning between ordinary and extraordinary movement. The Miracles of Thekla describe several incidents of regional (and spontaneous) pilgrimage, where a devotee from a nearby city – such as Olba or even Seleukeia – came to the pilgrimage complex for healing, sanctuary, or the celebration of the saint’s festival. These journeys could have been undertaken in a single day, though some describe incubation afterwards, and it has been proposed that there must have been accommodations for pilgrims on site. But archaeological investigation at Yanıkhan, the only epigraphically attested site for a martyrion in Cilicia, indicates no such facilities. Of course, investigation there has been limited to architectural survey, coupled with the fact that buildings like hostels are notoriously difficult to identify as such in the                                                                                                                 37 Brown 2012: 198, with references.   264 archaeological record. But if Yanıkhan did not in fact have facilities to accommodate pilgrims, the suggestion remains that pilgrims coming to venerate the relics of saints George, Christopher and Konon were undertaking devotional travel almost exclusively on a local scale. If pilgrimage travel cannot be defined by the scale at which it is undertaken or by the scale at which it receives and is equipped to accommodate pilgrims, then it must be defined by the specific purpose behind each individual traveler. These purposes are extremely challenging to access solely from material remains. The hagiographical texts give some indication of individual purposes – healing, vengeance, sanctuary – but cannot be taken wholesale to account for all pilgrims. Without an abundance of known pilgrimage souvenirs from the region in either production or consumption, it is difficult to reconstruct patterns of pilgrimage within Cilicia. The distribution patterns of churches – whether martyria or not – within the travel infrastructure demonstrate that we can only contextualize the phenomenon of pilgrimage within the larger network of travel in the late Roman world. It is not possible to say “This is how pilgrims traveled,” though texts do occasionally present an opportunity to say “This is how one pilgrim traveled.” What is more directly accessible is to identify the scale of pilgrimage that any one destination received, as at Yanıkhan. The abundance of martyria in the area between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers hints that within this region, a good deal of the pilgrimage traffic was local. Map 4.1 indicates that more than 30 of a total of 40 martyria modeled after the main basilica at Hagia Thekla were located between those rivers, over an area of only approximately 1500 square kilometers – a pattern that mirrors the wider distribution of churches. Many were only 10 kilometers   265 apart. If martyria were built specifically to attract pilgrims, why would such a density be necessary here? Though the identification of martyria in Cilicia may change with more detailed archaeological investigation in the future, I would argue at this point that the distribution indicates that more martyrial churches cropped up in an area that did not see the same amount of long-distance traffic along the coast or up to the major inland cities at Ikonion or Kaisareia. The appeal of locally significant martyrial churches did not necessarily extend to extra-regional pilgrims, though it does not preclude them either. The (micro)regional tendency to ‘claim’ the bodies of saints through a particular type of architectural form was perhaps yet another strategy of claiming authority, by emulating the nearby model of Hagia Thekla and its success as a pilgrimage destination. Not only was it a central place within the Isaurian network of churches, it could claim appeal to pilgrims from all over the Mediterranean world. This microregion’s density of martyrial churches, consciously showcasing saints’ relics, may have been a manifestation of both a particular strategy of claiming authority as well as the expression of local pride in what natives may have conceived as a particularly pious place, where such piety was manifested in the sacrifices made by the saints as well as the movement of later inhabitants to venerate at their shrines. This is not to argue that Christians living in the area between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers by definition did not travel beyond to visit pilgrimage sites at Selinous or Anazarbos, or even as far as the Holy Land, “for it would be quite wrong to suppose that such people are confined within a particular place, or that their experience is   266 circumscribed by the restricted horizons of a life lived only there.”38 Those pilgrimage experiences beyond the borders of their immediate region and even Cilicia almost certainly impacted the way that the veneration of relics was enacted once they had returned home, even if only a few ever ventured beyond the provincial boundaries. Comparison can be made between the churches in Cilicia and those in other areas of the east Roman empire in an attempt to reconstruct liturgies and specific practices, but ultimately the apprehension of a particularly Cilician Christian way of approaching pilgrimage practice can only be identified through more detailed investigation and analysis of the Cilician sites themselves. At a small scale, the infrastructure indicates a special-purpose, dedicated infrastructure for devotional movement: the rock-cut road at Hagia Thekla facilitating travel between Seleukeia and the pilgrimage complex, or the via Sacra at Korykos facilitating stational pilgrimage into and out of the city and its nekropolis. Larger scale travel, such as a regional journey undertaken between Korykos and Calti, required that travelers make use of the equally medium-scale infrastructure like the roads into the highlands aimed towards the small but urban centers there, as with the ancient road known to have existed between Seleukeia and Diokaisareia. Even larger scale travel, particularly that of interregional travelers like Egeria coming from the Levant via Tarsos, or the pilgrims coming to Holmoi by merchant ship from Cyprus recorded in the Miracles of Thekla, used infrastructure that was constructed on an imperial scale: both the major harbors along the coast, as well as the major roads that connected the coast with the Anatolian plateau through the Cilician Gates or the Kalykadnos valley. These scales overlapped in a fluid, almost messy way, so that distinguishing between them is not only                                                                                                                 38 Ingold 2011: 149.   267 difficult but perhaps also beside the point. The integration of scales, like the integration of the devotional configuration of Cilicia within the wider infrastructure, points towards a busy Cilician landscape where pilgrims coming to worship at sites like Hagia Thekla encountered locals coming to do the same, in a way that blurred the lines defining both. Directions for the future This dissertation discussed the distribution of churches and roads on a regional scale in Cilicia. Thus the configuration I described dealt, on a practical spatial level, with point data (church location) and line data (road networks) in order to create a picture of early Christian Cilicia and the manner of devotional movement within it. Analyzing this rich data on such a broad regional scale did raise several fruitful avenues for future research on the nature of early Christian pilgrimage. One is to examine the distribution of churches at a finer resolution vis-à-vis the wider settlement pattern in order to further examine the place of Christianity at the level of daily life in late Roman and early Byzantine Cilicia. Church locations were plotted in the GIS according to their associated urban designation, rather than the specifics of their location within their respective cities (or relative to each other within them). Further detailed plotting of those churches with regard to the settlement pattern would lend itself nicely to the notion of buffer analysis, in which combinations of certain variables – such as proximity to other churches, accessibility to the major road network, or density of settlement – define an area around a feature such as a church. Potential research questions include: in what ways does the placement of churches indicate the boundaries negotiated between various communities, identified as such not through their religious affiliations but other relationships? Is the   268 clustering of settlements around one settlement with a church a function of distributed community relationships, such that those settlements have closer ties than others around them, or is it simply a result of which patrons decided where to construct churches? Such an approach could be especially useful in mapping network analysis onto the ground, anchored in the travel network but drawing upon multiple lines of evidence, both textual and material. On the textual side, the application of social network analysis through the appearance of saints’ names may profitably produce results about the duplication of cult sites through inscriptions and visual culture discussed in Chapter 3. Looking beyond the bounds of this dissertation project, that sort of network analysis could lead to a more refined understanding of those saints that did or did not receive veneration outside of Cilicia, and conversely, those whose cults were imported into the region. This sort of analysis could go beyond simply saints’ names, and be weighted against occurrence of those same names throughout the region to look for the ‘catchment area’ for any given saint.39 If it is the case that “it is the men and women we do not know well, those at the periphery of our social sphere, that make our larger social networks well connected,”40 then Cilicia is set up perfectly as the ‘bridge’ between Anatolia and the greater Near East, to analyze networks that arose from the vast movements of goods and people who made their way through the region and how they may have operated in conjunction with intraregional networks. This could include, for example, the Constantinopolitan brickmasons exporting bricks from Seleukeia to Beirut after their commission for Zeno’s votive church construction at Hagia Thekla, the movement of Isaurian builders around                                                                                                                 39 The monumental work of Balzat et al. in the compilation of names on the southern coast of Asia Minor at this time would be foundational for this type of study. 40 Ruffini 2008: 11.   269 the eastern Mediterranean, or the wine traders from the region attested in literary and epigraphic sources.41 On the more material side, network analysis could lead to productive correlation of the travel network with the economic network as it can be traced in the movement of pottery and other indicators of trade.42 The last decades have seen an explosion of work on late Roman pottery and its production in Cilicia, and the archaeology of the productive landscape in Cilicia has seen compelling work including but not limited to the production of ceramics.43 From the deforestation of Cilicia’s celebrated cedar forests to estate-based agricultural production of wine and olive oil, the results of several different lines of archaeological investigation are available for spatial comparison with church distribution.44 The association of sacred places with productive landscapes predates the arrival of Christianity, and has not only to do with propitiation but also possession by both individuals as well as communities.45 In the Christian period, it has been shown that proximity of churches to productive land “subconsciously connected the church with ownership of that land and its wealth.”46 At Hagia Thekla, for example, the presence of                                                                                                                 41 See, for example, Varınlıoğlu 2008: Appendices 1-3 for a compilation of epigraphically attested trades in the region. 42 See Brughmans 2010 for network analysis based on Roman table wares. 43 E.g., Ferrazzoli and Ricci 2013 on late Roman pottery at Elaiussa-Sebaste; Zoroğlu 2000 on a potter’s workshop at Astra; Zoroğlu 2005 on Roman fine wares in Cilicia; Rauh and Slane 2000 on possible amphora kilns in western Rough Cilicia. 44 On deforestation, Akkemik et al. 2012. For estate-based agriculture in Cilicia, see Mitchell 2005; Aydınoğlu 2010. For the olive oil facilities in Rough Cilicia, see Aydınoğlu 2008; for grape processing, Aydınoğlu and Alkaç 2008: 279. See also Rauh et al. 2006 (esp. p. 50 and n. 3) for a discussion of the difficulties of distinguishing between presses for processing grapes and olives. For the use of epigraphic sources on reconstructing production in late antique Cilicia, see Iacomi 2010. See also the compilation mission of KAAM, the Research Center for Cilician Archaeology at Mersin University (http://kaam.mersin.edu.tr/eng.html). 45 Alcock 1994: 256. 46 Sweetman 2010: 229. See also Horden and Purcell 2000: 403-460.   270 multiple rock-cut productive installations on its south slope and the numerous large cisterns and open-air reservoirs suggest not only the accommodation of pilgrims but the productive capacity of the larger monastic complex. The juxtaposition of religious complex and productive facility ties into issues of community identity in addition to ownership, so that borders and extents of private or public land were marked by churches and the roads that connect them. There is also potential for correlating the location of specifically pilgrimage churches within the productive landscape, where they have elsewhere been demonstrated to act, through the occasion of panegyreis, as “a mechanism for exchange between two more or less complementary areas of production.”47 The continued efforts to place a visible and material Christianity within the wider workings of the political and economic sphere can only further illuminate the constitutive role that each played in the shifting configuration of the landscape in the late Roman and early Byzantine periods. Though much work has been dedicated to the religious practices of the non-elite ‘masses’ in recent decades (as opposed to the often textually described individual lives of the secular and religious elite), such an investigation at the landscape level presents the opportunity to pursue the contours of the individual, if unnamed, lives of Christians in late antiquity, and how those two worlds intersected across status and space. While most archaeological projects do note the presence of travel infrastructure when encountered, the intentional and systematic recording of indicator phenomena has not widely taken hold.48 Though the archaeology of movement and mobility has seen a                                                                                                                 47 De Ligt 1993: 79. 48 Gibson 2007 presents an early attempt to systematically record the road network in Cyprus as it was encountered in surface survey in Cyprus. For a foundational approach to the archaeology of movement in the New World, see Snead et al. (eds.) 2009. See also the special issue of World   271 surge, especially since the publication of Horden and Purcell’s (2000) The Corrupting Sea, this has had more play in the realm of theorization of past movement than widespread practical application in traditional survey environments.49 The implementation of systematic, intensive surface survey coverage of certain areas of the Cilician landscape could result in a fuller picture of the road network and holds the potential to substantiate or completely overturn the conclusions presented in this dissertation regarding the accessibility and scale of early Christian pilgrimage. Either outcome would result in a more contextualized understanding not only of the nature of devotional movement in the past, but also of the general flows of daily movement. It would also present the opportunity to carefully trace the shifting patterns of movement over the long term through comparison of different roads and their datable indicator phenomena over time, recognition of which could even more fully contextualize the nature of early Christian devotional movement in a particular place and time. In the same sense it is an exercise in learning a landscape beyond the modern travel infrastructural system. Systematic, intensive survey shapes archaeological thought in so fundamentally a different way than archaeological landscape seen only from the modern road: by going beyond the beaten path, the archaeologist's encounter with the landscape is no longer structured by the contemporary travel infrastructure. Though the mental image of the landscape garnered through the systematic crossing of it is still shaped by the modern roads, tracks and field boundaries that more often than not structure survey                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Archaeology (Reynolds (ed.) 2011) and the contributions to the volume Highways, Byways, and Road Systems in the Pre-Modern World (Alcock, Bodel and Talbert [eds.] 2012). 49 Cf. however in Egypt, Gates-Foster 2006; and combined with sophisticated GIS analysis in the Mediterranean in Bevan and Conolly 2013.   272 unit boundaries and provide access to them, it is a landscape – albeit a modern one – much less superficially contoured by those routes still accessible today. A diachronic approach to the travel of infrastructure has the potential to illuminate even further the complexities of the shifting configurations of Cilicia in their various iterations. Redford has noted the surge in Christian pilgrimages to the region after the eleventh-century reconquest of Cilicia, a development that he argued helped to spur the increased production of olive oil and wine and contributed to the financial stability of the reigning Norman principality.50 Certainly, the earlier Byzantine reconquest of Cilicia in the ninth century would also likely have contributed to an ideologically-motivated renewal of Christian sacred places and visits to them. But some of the places surely operated to some degree during and after the various Arab conquests of the region. Comparison of the pilgrimage circuits in their later, medieval configurations would be a productive way to trace the impact and development of religious spaces and the devotional movement they inspired over time, in a region that saw countless numbers of moving people as a key ‘bridge’ between Asia Minor and Syria and the Levant for millennia. A synchronously and geographically comparative approach to this landscape also holds much potential for future work. As noted in the Introduction to this dissertation, while Cilicia has numerous churches still extant in the archaeological record, it is not unique compared to other regions along the southern coast of Anatolia. Rather than reducing the value of this study, however, that similarity opens up the possibility for critical evaluation of a number of discrete landscapes of late antiquity in a comparative                                                                                                                 50 Redford 2012: 304.   273 analysis of how different but interrelated regions utilized the various strategies of appropriation and claims of authority that have been outlined throughout this dissertation. CONCLUSION: DEVOTIONAL MOVEMENT IN CILICIA AFTER THE 6TH CENTURY     This study has focused on the devotional movement in the three provinces comprising the region known as Cilicia in the fifth and sixth centuries CE. In the seventh century, the context of travel in the region changed considerably as part of the inhabited frontier of the Islamic-Byzantine border, which extended up to the Lamos River at the foot of the Tauros Mountains. In this sense the Islamic holdings encompassed the Cilician plain and those areas defined in Chapter 1 as Cilicia I and II; the westernmost site identified within the Islamic frontier is Elaiussa-Sebaste, which was occupied until the end of the seventh century.51 It is unlikely that the Christian sites immediately ceased functioning as such under the administration of their new Islamic rulers, or that Christians ceased practicing their religious commitments under their rule. It is equally unlikely that all travel between the two regions halted dramatically. Recent archaeological and theoretical work has demonstrated the porosity of borderlands, and it is likely that during this period the Arab-occupied Cilician plain and Byzantine-occupied Isauria were in continued communication.52 That communication would have included all varieties of movement, including local devotional movement as well as longer-distance regional and interregional pilgrimage. While the continuity of devotional movement and pilgrimage must have been maintained to some degree, the changes brought about by the arrival of Islam to the                                                                                                                 51 Eger 2013: 35-36; for the most recent discussion of the archaeology of the site, see Equini- Schneider 2003. See also my Introduction, pp. 6-14. 52 Eger 2013: 2.   274 region meant that this travel was taking place in a fundamentally different context. That change does not apply to Arab-occupied Cilicia alone, but also to Byzantine-occupied Isauria, though its administration remained nominally the same.53 On both sides of this border, a heightened awareness of religious changes and differences lent a new connotation to the nature of the inhabitants’ devotional commitments, and therefore their practices. At Elaiussa-Sebaste, for example, some Islamic geographers report the piety of those occupying the fort there, a piety notable because of the fort’s proximity to ‘enemy lines.’54 This heightened consciousness of rival religious practice so nearby would also have affected the Byzantine, and Christian, highlands of Isauria. Thus, while Christian devotional travel may have continued across the whole of Cilicia at that time, it is with the early seventh century that this study concludes, when political, military, social and religious changes across the region fundamentally altered the configuration of the devotional landscape. I have attempted to demonstrate that the fluid configuration of the devotional landscape was both routed and rooted in the travel infrastructure. At the same time, I have explored the various scales of that movement, and in doing so have attempted to question the definition of pilgrimage as an early Christian phenomenon. Instead of applying it as an encyclopedic term for all religiously motivated travel, I have placed it on one end of a continuum of devotional movement, ranging from the ordinary to the extraordinary. That is, ‘pilgrimage’ cannot be sharply delineated against the daily or weekly routines of Christian practice, nor defined simply in terms of geographical distance, singular activities or pious intentions. Whether the traveler was like Egeria, moving across the whole of the Mediterranean; the woman from Olba,                                                                                                                 53 Note, however, that it is in this period that Isauria is named interchangeably as part of the Antiochene and Constantinopolitan patriarchate (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 38-39). 54 Eger 2013: 36.   275 seeking healing for her charge at nearby Hagia Thekla; or an unknown individual from Anemurion wearing a pendant cross or belt buckle during their ordinary movements across the landscape, these forms of travel and their impacts overlapped as various and changing accumulations of nodes – people, places, and things – in the configuration of the early Christian Cilician landscape. By integrating but also looking outside the churches themselves, there exists the possibility to investigate it as a landscape in a more holistic sense, rather than just a network of specifically built structures: throughout Cilicia, instances of Christian commitment show up in domestic, funerary, and imperial (travel) spheres. As a fundamentally physical undertaking from origin to destination, early Christianity was a very material and bodily practice, and thus devotional travel in general embedded not just the churches and practitioners but also the material practices themselves into the landscape.   276 TABLE 2.1 THEKLA’S DESTINATIONS Destination Modern Name Miracle # Mount Kokysion Unknown 2 Tarsos Tarsus 29 Seleukeia Silifke 5, 7, 11, 14, 35 Iconium Konya 6 Aigai Yumurtalık 9 Claudioupolis Mut 14 Dalisandos Sinabıç? 26 Selinous (near) Gazipaşa 27 Constantinoupolis Istanbul 9 Holmoi* Taşucu 15 Table 2.1. The various destinations to which Thekla is reported to have gone to work her miracles (see Map 2.1). Based on the 5th- century Miracles translated by Scott F. Johnson (2012). * Miracle 15 does not specify the port at Holmoi by name. However, because this was the port most proximate to the shrine and Seleukeia, from which a road led to the city via the shrine, it has been named here. It is possible that the author intended to indicate a different - or even non-specific –     277 TABLE 2.2. JOURNEYS IN THE MIRACLES OF THEKLA Miracle Origin Modern Destination Modern Traveller Name Name 2 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Mount Unknown Thekla Kokysion 4 Tarsos Tarsus Seleukeia Silifke the Tarsians 4 Seleukeia Silifke Tarsos Tarsus the Seleukeians 5 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Seleukeia Silifke Thekla 5 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Seleukeia Silifke the Hagarenes 6 Seleukeia Silifke Ikonion Konya Thekla 7 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Seleukeia Silifke Thekla 9 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Aigaiai Yumurtalık Thekla 9 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Constantino- Istanbul Thekla polis 11 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Seleukeia Silifke Thekla 12 Seleukeia Silifke Hagia Thekal Meryemlik author of the Miracles 12 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Seleukeia Silifke Thekla 14 Klaudiopolis Mut Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Hypsistos’ pious wife 14 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Klaudiopolis Mut Thekla 15 Cyprus Cyprus Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Cypriot noble and his retinue 15 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Holmoi Taşucu Thekla 17 Antioch Hatay Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Leontios the craftsman 18 Tarsos Tarsus Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Tigriane 18 Seleukeia Silifke Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Aba the pagan 19 Ketis (region) Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Bassiane 23 Seleukeia Silifke Myrsineon Unknown Pausikakos 24 Olba Ura Hagia Thekla Meryemlik wetnurse and her charge 25 Seleukeia Silifke Hagia Thekla Meryemlik the Seleukeians 26 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Dalisandos Sinabıç Thekla 27 Hagia Thekla Meryemik Selinous (near) Thekla Gazipaşa 28 Laistrygonia Lamotis Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Laistrygonians region 29 Hagia Thekla Meryemlik Tarsos Tarsus festival-goers 33 Eirenopolis near Hagia Thekla Meryemlik two men from Kazancı Eirenopolis 34 Eirenopolis near Hagia Thekla Meryemlik two men from Kazancı Eirenopolis   278 TABLE 3.1 TYPICAL ELEMENTS OF CILICIAN CHURCHES   Eyice 1988 Hellenkemper 1994 well-cut limestone blocks straight line wall enclosure on east box-shaped appearance no windows on the blind north façade north façade narthex with access to narthex access through the nave through a triple arch tripartite arcade apses with small twin windows side chambers (ambienti square pastophoria laterali) flanking the apse galleries common galleries over the aisles local style capitals horseshoe shape eastern passage   280 TABLE 3.2 CHURCHES IN CILICIA This table indicates the 250 churches included in the general distribution of churches (see Map 3.1), along with their status in the settlement pattern (see Maps 3.7-3.11 and discussion on pp. 117-122 in Chapter 5. Churches that I have added on top of the 170 provided in Hill’s (1996) catalogue of early Christian basilicas in Cilicia are footnoted, which provide the reasoning behind their addition as well as relevant bibliography. SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION Adrassos/Balabolu 4 Urban Akdam 1 Rural Akören 4 Rural Akyaka/Mandane 1 Rural Al Oda1 1 Rural Alahan 4 Urban Alahan village2 4 Urban Alakilise 1 Rural Anazarbos/Anavarza3 6 Urban Anemurion/Anemur 5 Urban Antiocheia ad Kragos/Güney Kalesi 3 Urban Aphrodisias/Ovacık 1 Urban Araplar4 1 Isolated Arsinoe/Maras Harabeleri 3 Urban Attepe5 1 Rural Baka 1 Rural Batısandal 1 Rural Bey Ören 1 Isolated                                                                                                                 1 Hild and Hellenkemper, tentatively following Gough (1957), identified Al Oda as a monastic cave site with a single-aisled, apsed cave church. They cite the irregular floor plan and the state of the remains as two obstacles to identify it as a church with absolute certainty (1990: 173). 2 These churches are inferred from the nature of the remains rather than as standing structures (Elton et al. 2006; Elton 2013). 3 Recent geophysical surveys in Anazarbos have identified three churches to add to the three already known from earlier investigations, bringing the number up to six in total. One of these, the triconch church located just outside the northern circuit of the early Byzantine walls, has been tentatively identified as a martyrion, possibly dedicated to St Menas (Posamentir and Sayar 2006; Posamentir 2011). The investigators have also attributed a Christian function to an earlier temple associated with a cave (di Georgi and Eger (in prep.)). 4 H&H 196; Alkim 1959 5 Elton 2013: 233, 239.   281 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION Biçkici Kalesi 1 Urban Binguç 1 Rural Burun Mahallesi6 1 Rural Cacık 3 Rural Cafarlı 2 Rural Çaltı7 1 Rural Cambazlı 3 Rural Çarıklar8 1 Rural Catikören 1 Isolated Civikli 1 Isolated Çırga 1 Rural Crionario9 1 Rural Çukur 1 Rural Çukurkeslik 1 Rural Çukurören10 1 Rural Cumurlu11 1 Isolated Dağ Pazarı 4 Urban Deleli 2 Isolated Demirciören 2 Rural Demirtaş 1 Rural Devecili 1 Rural Dikilitaş 1 Isolated Diokaisareia/ Uzuncaburç 4 Urban Efrenk12 1 Rural                                                                                                                 6 Elton 2013: 233, 241. 7 Gough 1958; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 222. The silver reliquary that was found here is thought to have come from a church located nearby. 8 Hild and Hellenkemper observed the remains of an early Byzantine galleried basilica, of which the north wall, four windows and part of an apse still stand (1990: 224). 9 Hild and Hellenkemper record an early Byzantine church on the south side of the ruins, with a rounded apse and some marble columnar elements (1990: 230). 10 Identified by an early Byzantine capital (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 231). 11 Near individual farms were recorded the remains of an early Byzantine basilica later converted into a single-nave church. Nearby, on a limestone block, a likely associated inscription named the founders of the church of Peter (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 232). 12 Sayar 2004: 223.   282 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION 13 Elaiussa-Sebaste 4 Urban Elbeyli 1 Rural Emirzeli 3 Rural Epiphaneia/Erzin 1 Urban Erçeli 1 Rural Kalanthia/Erdemli 1 Rural Ergenusağı 1 Rural Etekli14 1 Rural Ezvendi 1 Rural Ferhatlı 1 Rural Gedikdağı15 1 Isolated Göçük16 1 Rural Göreken Yayla 2 Rural Görmel 1 Isolated Gözenek17 1 Isolated Gülcihan18 1 Isolated Güvercin Adasi 1 Isolated Güvercinlik 2 1 Rural Güvercinlik 4 1 Rural Haciömerli 1 Rural Hacıhamzalı19 1 Rural Hacılar20 1 Isolated Hagia Thekla/Meryemlik 5 Urban                                                                                                                 13 Since 2011, excavations at Elauissa-Sebaste have confirmed that the Great Baths and the Agora, both located in the monumental city center, were transformed into Christian churches. Both can be dated to the early Byzantine period, and bring the total number of churches archaeologically known for the city up to four. Mietke proposed a fifth century date for the Church on the Agora (2009c: 126); Iacomi confirmed her proposal based on the excavations that have taken place in the intervening period (2013: 314). 14 Dagron and Feissel recorded a votive inscription of one Presbyter Stephanos, which almost certainly belonged to a church (1987: 108; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 253). 15 Churches located north of the ruins at Çadırlı (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 220). 16 Like other examples in Cilicia, this church was built incorporating a pre-existing Roman tomb (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 259). 17 Elton 2013: 233, 244 18 On the road between Rhossos and Gülcihan, the traces of an early Byzantine church on the west side of a hill (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 383). 19 Elements of an early Byzantine church were incorporated into the modern village (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 265). 20 Mosaics are still visible in the foundations of the early Byzantine church (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 265).   283 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION 21 Hagios Theodoros 1 Rural Hagios Theodosios22 1 Rural Halbur23 1 Rural Halil Limani 1 Rural Hasanaliler 1 Rural Hierapolis Kastabala/Bodrum 2 Urban Hotamişalanı/Otanada 1 Rural Imamlı 1 Rural Iotape24 1 Urban Işıkkale 1 Rural Kadirli 2 Urban Kanytellis/ Kanlıdivane 5 Rural Karabağ25 1 Rural Karabağ Yaylası26 1 Rural Karaboculu 1 Rural Karacaağaç27 1 Rural Karacauşağı28 1 Isolated Karadedeli 3 Rural Karakabaklı 2 Rural Karakilise 1 Rural Karatepe-Hasancıklı29 1 Rural                                                                                                                 21 Whether or not Koch’s identification of the ruins on the roadside west of Taşucu as Hagios Theodoros are correct, the site definitely includes remains of an early Byzantine church complex (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 444; Eichner 2011: 318-319; Koch 2007). 22 The spoliated architectural blocks – including column bases, capitals, architraves and window features – that Hild and Hellenkemper associated with the church at Hagios Theodosios, are located at the site of Kala (Kale) just north of Antioch (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 444). The monastery of Hagios Theodosios at Skopelos is also known through literary sources. 23 In a ditch on the east side of the road, a stone block – probably a lintel – preserves a two-line inscription of a church (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 267). 24 Rosenbaum et al. recorded Building 7 at Iotape, which they do not explicitly interpret as a church (1967: 42). They do, however, note the presence of an apse at the east of the end of the building with preserved springers. Though they do not cross-reference it with Rosenbaum’s publication, Hild and Hellenkemper interpreted one structure in the center of town as a church, dating it to “probably the early Byzantine period,” and I follow their identification here (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 275-276). 25 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 241). 26 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 241). 27 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 241). 28 On a slope above the modern settlement can be seen the partially spilled remains of what was once a three-aisled basilica (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 289). 29 The church’s identification was based on substantial in situ ashlar masonry walls, some preseved to a height of 5 meters (Rossiter and Freed 1991: 169).   284 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION 30 Karatepe-Sarıdüz 1 Rural Karlık 1 Rural Kastalawn 1 Isolated Kavaklı Çunur31 1 Rural Kelenderis/Aydıncık 1 Urban Keşli 1 Rural Keşliturkmenli 1 Rural Kilise Deresi / Kuzucubelen32 1 Isolated Kilise Tepe33 1 Isolated Kilise Tepe34 1 Rural Kızılaliler 1 Rural Kızılbağ35 1 Rural Kızıldağ36 1 Rural Klaudiopolis/Mut 3 Urban Korasion/Susanoğlu 2 Urban Korykion Antron/Cennet Cehennem 2 Rural Korykos/Kızkalesi37 12 Urban Köşkerli 2 Rural Kurudere38 1 Rural Magarsos/Dört Direkli 1 Rural Mahras Dağı 1 Isolated                                                                                                                 30 At Karatepe-Sarıdüz an almost complete mosaic floor corroborates the identification of the collapse as a church (Rossiter and Freed 1991: 169-170). 31 The church’s identifications was based on pieces of mosaic pavement (Rossiter and Freed 1991: 169. 32 3 km southwest of Kuzucubelen are the remains of an early Byzantine monastery (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 327). 33 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 239-240). 34 A Byzantine church has long been a focus of the excavations at Kilise Tepe (Jackson 2013: 222-224). 35 Eyice identified the remains as a monastery, but Hild and Hellenkemper record only the basilica (Eyice 1988: 22; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 303). 36 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 243). 37 Though the bustling port city of Korykos could already boast of thirteen known churches, Mietke has reported that investigations undertaken by a Mersin University-led team out of the Cilician Archaeology Center documented yet another church, this one located in the city’s necropolis. The style of the Corinthian columns has led Mietke to assign the church a fifth century construction date, and she has argued for its designation as a martyrial church (Mietke 2009c: 130-131). 38 In surveys carried out between 2003 and 2007, Günder Varınlıoğlu recorded the church located at the summit of the monastic site at Kurudere, whose function is attested through in situ epigraphic evidence (Varınlıoğlu 2008: 49).   285 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION Manas/Manaz 1 Rural Manastir 1 Rural Mazılık 1 Isolated Mercin39 1 Rural Meydankale40 1 Rural Misis/Mopsuestia 1 Urban Mucuk41 1 Rural Mylai/Manastir 2 Rural Nesulion/Boğsak Adası42 6 Rural Nuruköy43 1 Rural Öküzlü 2 Rural Olba/Ura 3 Urban Phacratze44 1 Rural Philadelphia/Imsiören 1 Urban Pinarözü45 1 Isolated Pityussa/Dana Adası46 1 Rural                                                                                                                 39 Hild and Hellenkemper record a church along with a late Roman-early Byzantine settlement (1990: 348). 40 In surveys carried out between 2003 and 2007, Günder Varınlıoğlu recorded the church at Meydankale, undocumented by both Bent and Hild and Hellenkemper and not included in Hill’s catalogue, at a site previously investigated archaeologically in the 1980s and published only in Turkish by K. Levent Zoroğlu (Bent recorded the site, but not the church, over several days in his unsuccessful search for inscriptions (1891: 222-224). Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 348-349. Hill 1996 does not include the site or either of its churches. Zoroğlu 1988 (AST 1988: “Doğu Dağlık Kilikya 1987 Yılı Araştırmaları”, 393-406, VI. volume) does not mention the presence of a church. The site is also known as Sivri Kale in some Turkish sources). 41 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 239). 42 Günder Varınlıoğlu’s recent work at Boğsak Adası has added six additional churches to the total number known in the region, in an area of only seven hectares. 43 Roman and Byzantine ruins with a church 30 km north of Seleukeia (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 368). 44 A village church with a building inscription on its doorway (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 377). 45 The remains of the church reported at Pınarözü are the same as that of the three-aisled basilica reported by Hild and Hellenkemper (and subsequently by Hill) at Çerçioğlu, less than one kilometer southeast of Domuztepe (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 242; Hill 1996: 163; Rossiter and Freed 1991: 167; Çambel 1986: 203). Limited ceramic evidence and an inscription point towards occupation between the fifth and sixth centuries, and the construction of the church to either the fifth or sixth centuries (Rossiter and Freed 1991: 167-168, and note 34. The inscription is translated into Turkish in Çambel 1983: 158). 46 Hild and Hellenkemper identify the remains of a heavily damaged early Byzantine basilica (probably three-aisled) amongst the Roman and early Byzantine settlement (1990: 380).   286 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION 47 Platanus 1 Isolated Saha 1 Rural Salihiye48 1 Isolated Sarıveliler49 1 Urban Selinus/Gazipaşa 2 Urban Sertavul50 1 Rural Sibyla/Yıldız51 1 Urban Silifke 1 Urban Sinobuç52 1 Urban Sivastı53 1 Rural Sıraköy54 1 Rural Sömek 1 Rural Tagai55 1 Isolated Takkadın 1 Rural Tapureli 5 Rural Tatik Hüyük56 1 Isolated Telemeci57 1 Isolated Tetrapyrgia58 1 Isolated Titiupolis/Kalinören 1 Urban Topakli59 1 Rural Üç Tepe 2 Rural Viranköy 1 Rural Yanıkhan 2 Rural                                                                                                                 47 Hild and Hellenkemper record the remains of a 6th-century church near the ruins of an Ottoman han (1990: 381). 48 A chancel from an early Byzantine church, whose precise location is unknown (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 394). 49 Early Byzantine graffiti still covers the apse of the church located on the summit of the hill settlement southwest of the modern village (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 398). 50 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 241). 51 Identified on the discovery of two column capitals that must have come from an early Byzantine church (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 410). 52 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233, 240). 53 A small church built into an imperial-period exedra (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 417). 54 The church was part of a small Roman-early Byzantine settlement (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 413). 55 The remains of the monastery en Tagais lay five minutes from a large sinkhole, on top of the ruins of the former temple dedicated to Athena en Tagais (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 424). 56 Identified on the basis of mosaic remains (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 439). 57 A large, three-aisled basilica with galleries (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 440). 58 Individual elements, including column capitals with crosses, are evidence for at least one early Byzantine church building (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 441). 59 A church among the rock-cut tombs north of Tarsos (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 450).   287 SITE CHURCHES DESIGNATION 60 Yapıntı 1 Rural Yapısıgüzel61 2 Rural Yazlamazlı62 1 Isolated Yelbis Kalesi63 2 Isolated Yemiskum 2 Rural Yeniyurt Kale 1 Rural                                                                                                                 60 Elements of a church were recorded during the GAP survey (Elton 2013: 233). 61 A three-aisled basilica of the late fifth/early sixth century with a heavily damaged apse (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 459-460; Eichner 2011: 32-35). 62 The mosaic dates the three-aisled basilica to the 6th century (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 460). 63 The monastic complex had two churches, one large with mosaics and a narthex, the other a small one (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: 460-461).   288 TABLE 3.3 1 TEMPLE CONVERSIONS IN CILICIA Temple-Churches Site Temple of Zeus Olbios Diokaisareia Temple of Zeus Silifke Temple-Church Elauissa-Sebaste Clifftop Temple Korykion Antron Chapel of St Mary Korykion Antron Clifftop Temple Kanytellis Pit Sanctuary Kanytellis Temple of Hermes Çatiören Temple Meryemlik Church in the Precinct Cambazlı Basilica Dagpazarı Domed Church Dağpazarı Town Church Olba Temple-Church Epiphania North Church Castabala South Church Castabala Church of the Apostles Anazarbos Decastyle Temple Anazarbos Alacami Flavias/Kadirli Monastery en Tagais Tagai                                                                                                                 1 Documented in Bayliss 2004.   289 TABLE 3.4 SAINTS IN CILICIA Distribution of saints’ names attested in the epigraphic record* of Cilicia, sorted by modern place name (refer to Map 3.14). *Abbreviations: AS = Anatolian Studies JHS = Journal of Hellenic Studies KW = Keil and Wilhelm (1931) ETAM =Ergänzungsbände zu den Tituli Asiae Minoris SEG = Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum CIG = Corpus Inscriptionum Graecorum LBW = Le Bas and Waddington, Voyage Archaeologique MAMA = Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua   Modern Saint Site Inscription Reference Name Dagron - John the Feissel 1987, Acemli Mietke 2009 Evangelist 198-200 Nr. 118 AS 7 (1957) Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Theotokos Unknown Al Oda p. 160 25 Conon unknown Alahan Gough No. 4 Elton et al 2006: 311 Dagron-Feissel 1987: Theotokos Anazarbos Anavarza SEG 28.1260 192-193 Archangel Dagron-Feissel 1987: Anazarbos Anavarza SEG 28.1261 s 195-196 Menas Anazarbos Anavarza SEG 12.545a Sayar 2000: 50 Raphael Anemurion Anemur SEG 39.1425 ICilicie9; Dagron and Feissel 1987: Zacharias Çaltı-Bozkir SEG 37.1330 24-25 Korykion Cennet MAMA III Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Thekla (?) Antron Cehennem Nr. 189 175-176 JHS 12 Korykion Cennet Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Mary (1891) 242, Antron Cehennem 191 25 Thekla Unknown Çırga Gough 1958 Gough 1958 Konon unknown Çırga Gough 1958 Gough 1958: 248 ETAM 21 Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Theotokos Dağpazarı Nr. 45 63 Antiocheia ETAM 3 Nr. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Andrew Güney Kalesi ad Kragos 39 100 Thomas Antiocheia Güney Kalesi ETAM 3 Nr. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998:   290 ad Kragos 39 100 Antiocheia ETAM 3 Nr. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: John Güney Kalesi ad Kragos 39 100 ETAM 3 Nr. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Unnamed Philadelphia Imsiören 248c 118 ETAM 3 Nr. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Thekla Philadelphia Imsiören 250 118 MAMA III Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Theotokos Korykos Kızkalesi Nr. 779 299 MAMA III Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Theotokos Korykos Kızkalesi Nr. 780a 244 Keil und Wilhelm 1931: Zakarias Korykos Kızkalesi KW 460 168 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Zakarias Korykos Kızkalesi KW 712 202 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Zakarias Korykos Kızkalesi KW 782 213 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Elias Korykos Kızkalesi KW 590 186 Theoatros Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Korykos Kızkalesi KW 737 (?) 206 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Konon Korykos Kızkalesi KW 783 213 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Konon Korykos Kızkalesi KW 784 213 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Konon Korykos Kızkalesi KW 785 213 Mamas and Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Korykos Kızkalesi KW 786 Makedoni 213 os Menodoro Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Korykos Kızkalesi KW 786 s 213 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Charitina Korykos Kızkalesi KW 580a 184 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Charitina Korykos Kızkalesi KW 638 191 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Charitina Korykos Kızkalesi KW 788 213 MAMA III Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Andrew Korykos Kızkalesi Nr. 781 214 MAMA III Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Andrew Korykos Kızkalesi Nr. 577b 270 JHS 12 Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Konon Lamos Limonlu (1891), p. 314 261, Nr. 38 MAMA III p. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Basileos Lamos Limonlu 91 313 John the Lamos Limonlu MAMA III p. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998:   291 Theologia 91 313 n Gregory the MAMA III p. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Lamos Limonlu Theologia 91 313 n John MAMA III p. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Chrysosto Lamos Limonlu 91 313 m MAMA III p. Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Nikolaos Lamos Limonlu 91 313 Hagia Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Thekla Meryemlik KW 45 Thekla 22 SEG Adana Dagron and Feissel 1987: Zacharias unknown 37.1364; Musem 104-105 Icilicie 60 Cosmas Adana Dagron and Feissel 1987: and unknown Icilicie 53 Museum 98-99 Damien Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Thekla Seleukeia Silifke CIG IV. 9209 378 SEG 40: Unnamed Seleukeia Silifke 1311 George Tarsos Tarsus -- Aydin 2011 Packard Humanities Unnamed Tarsos Tarsus LBW 1483 Database Konon Olba Ura JHS 12 (1891) 261, 38 Olba/Diokai Ura/Uzuncabu Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: John unpublished sareia rç 330 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Thekla Diokaisareia Uzuncaburç KW 102 79; Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: 338 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: John Diokaisareia Uzuncaburç KW 88 76 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Luke Diokaisareia Uzuncaburç KW 75 72 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Sergios Diokaisareia Uzuncaburç KW 99 77 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Basileos Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 91 f. 90-92 Gregory Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 91 f. Nazianzos 90-92 John the Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Theologia Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 91 90-92 n John Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Chrysosto Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 92 90-92 m Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Nicholas Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 92 90-92   292 Keil and Wilhelm 1931: Stephanos Ören köy Viranköy KW S. 92 90-92 Hill 1981; Conon unknown Yanıkhan Hill 1981 SEG 40.1313 Hill 1981; Giorgios unknown Yanıkhan Hill 1981 SEG 40.1313 Christoph Hill 1981; unknown Yanıkhan Hill 1981 oros SEG 40.1313 Pantelemo Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Aphrodisias SEG 37.1293 n 45 Hagel-Tomaschitz 1998: Kyriakos Iotape Iot 17 129   293 TABLE 4.1 POTENTIAL MARTYRIA IN CILICIA Churches in Cilicia that have been suggested as martyria based on the presence of an eastern passage or the intentional incorporation of a pre-existing tomb into the church’s structure. Except where noted, measurements from Hill 1996. See Map 4.1 for a visual comparison. MEASUREMENT MARTYRION SITE (in meters) Necropolis Church Adrassos 29 x 17 Ambulatory Church Akören II 28 x 15.5 Church of the Apostles Anazarbos 56 x 22 III 10 C Anemurion 21 x 11 III 13 C Anemurion 31 x 17.5 Church of Pantelemon Aphrodisias 28.4 x 13.5 Basilica1 Arsinoe 21 x 12 Basilica Çatıören 35 x 15 Basilica Dağ Pazarı 50 x 16.5 Cemetery Church Diokaisareia 30 x 19 Church on the Agora2 Elaiussa-Sebaste -- Church 1 Emirzeli -- Cupola Church Hagia Thekla 78 x 35 Basilica of St Thekla Hagia Thekla 81 x 43 Basilica Hasanaliler 28.5 x 18.5 Basilica Imamli 25 x 11 Basilica Işıkkale -- Alacamii Kadirli -- Church 2 Kanlıdivane 41 x 18.6 Church 4 Kanlıdivane 45 x 15.5 Town Church Korasion 32 x 16 Cemetery Church Korasion 25 x 17 Temple-Church Korykion Antron 39 x 23 Cemetery Church3 Korykos 35 x 20                                                                                                                   1 One of three basilicas at the site; not distinguished spatially from the other two (Hill 1996: 202- 203; see Hellenkemper 1994: Fig. 4 for a plan of the basilica indicated here). 2 Iacomi 2013: 314 and n. 11. 3 Identified by Mietke (2009: 130-131). Not synonymous with Korykos ‘Tomb Church Extra Muros’ or Church H (Hill 1996: 131-136), also identified here as a possible martyrion.   294 MEASUREMENT MARTYRION SITE (in meters) Church B4 Korykos ca. 20 x 50 Church D Korykos -- Church G Korykos 60 x 20 Church H Korykos 80 x 30 Church I Korykos -- Basilica Mazılık 32 x 17 Basilica5 Mylae 33 x 14.5 North Church Öküzlü 32 x 17.5 Town Church Olba 36 x 19 Basilica Şaha 39 x 17 Temple-Church6 Seleukeia 40 x 22 Basilica Takkadın -- South Church7 Yanıkhan 30 x 15 Church 2 Yemişkum 22 x 12                                                                                                                     4 The measurements of this church based upon the spread of associated rubble rather than exact tracing of the walls (Hill 1996: 120). 5 One of two basilicas at the site; not distinguished spatially, and only one described (Hill 1996: 201). 6 The measurements given reflect the dimensions of the temple platform on top of which the church was later built, which Hill concluded covered the entire platform (1996: 241). 7 The dimensions given do not include the 20 x 10 meter atrium (longer on its north-south axis) recorded to the west of the narthex (Hill 1996: 257).   295 Fig. 1.1. The Tauros Mountains. 296 Fig. 1.2. Tauros Mountains. South approach to the Cilician Gates. 297 Fig. 1.3. Tauros Mountains. Modern highway near the Cilician Gates. 298 Fig. 1.4. Plan of Hagia Thekla (adapted from Davis 2001: Fig. 4; Hill 1996 Fig. 45; and Guyer and Herzfeld 1930: Abb. 2). 299 Fig. 1.5. Hagia Thekla. Cistern just north of the basilica built into the interior of the temenos wall. 300 Fig. 1.6. Hagia Thekla. Remnants of the temenos wall north of the basilica and east of the cistern seen in Fig. 1.5. 301 Fig. 2.1. Hagia Thekla. Installations cut into the rock northwest of the temenos. 302 Fig. 2.2. Hagia Thekla. Structures built onto the hillside northwest of the open-air reservoirs. 303 Fig. 2.3. Hagia Thekla. Piece of mosaic seen on the surface at the structures seen in Fig. 2.2. 304 ! Fig. 3.1. Anazarbos. Plan of the Church of the Apostles, a typical three-aisled basilica with an apse at the east (Hill 1996: Figure 5). 305 ! Fig. 3.2. Kadirli (ancient Flaviopolis). Reconstruction of the first phase of the Alacami, showing the three aisles, galleries over the wings, side chambers enveloping the apse, and a narthex (Bayliss 2004: Plate XVI). 306 Fig. 3.3. Hierapolis-Kastabala. Plan of the South Church (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 13). 307 ! Fig. 3.4. Alahan. Plan of the East Church (Gough 1985: Figure 44). 308 Fig. 3.5. Cambazlı. Plan of the basilica (29 x 22 meters) (adapted from Hill 1996: Figure 14). 309 ! Fig. 3.6. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the northwest, looking into the narthex and the second story of galleries preserved above the south aisle. 310 ! Fig. 3.7. Cambazlı. Square east façade of the basilica, where the broken apse window now serves as an entrance from the modern road. 311 ! Fig. 3.8. Cambazlı. View inside the basilica towards the apse in the east. 312 ! Fig. 3.9. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the northeast, showing the blind north wall. 313 ! Fig. 3.10. Cambazlı. View of the basilica from the south. 314 ! Fig. 3.11. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Limestone quarry northwest of the modern town. Photo: Candace Rice. 315 ! Fig. 3.12. Tabula Imperii Byzantini Map 2 (Hild and Hellenkemper 1990). 316 Fig. 3.13. Karakabaklı. Cross carved in lintel in doorway to south basilica . 317 ! Fig. 3.14. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane). Church 4 from the southwest. 318 ! Fig. 3.15. Anazarbos. The citadel on the ridge above surrounding agricultural fields (at the far left, a anthropogenic cut in the saddle of the ridge still provides a roadway). 319 ! Fig. 3.16. Sketch of the reliquary found at Çırga (Gough 1958: Plate 2). 320 Fig. 4.1. Ephesos. The so-called church of St. Luke converted from a monopteros fountain (Pülz 2012: Fig. 12). 321 Fig. 4.2. Hagia Thekla. Plan of the basilica, showing the eastern passage around the apse and the relationship to the crypt entrance. The darker shade indicates the plan of the original cave church. (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 43). 322 Fig. 4.3. Hagia Thekla. Part of the apse of the basilica, seen here from the exterior (east-northeast). 323 Fig. 4.4. Hagia Thekla. Entrance to the cave church under the basilica on the southeast side of the church. 324 Fig. 4.5. Yanıkhan. Lintel of the South Church, dedicating the martyrion to Sts George, Christopher and Konon (Hill 1985: Plate XII) and its transcription (Hill 1985: 96). 325 Fig. 4.6. Yanıkhan. Plan of the South Church, measuring 30 x 15 meters (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 59). 326 Fig. 4.7. Anazarbos. Plan of the Church of the Holy Apostles adapted from the geophysical prospection results indicating the wide and rounded eastern passage (Cf. Posamentir and Sayar 2006: Abb. 18 and Gough 1952: Fig. 7). 327 Fig. 4.8. Diokasareia (modern Uzuncaburç). Cemetery Church. The light grey indicates where the structure was cut into the living rock (adapted from Mietke 2009c: Fig. 4). 328 Fig. 4.9. Comparative size of potential martyria in Cilicia (see table 4.1). 329 Fig. 4.10. Çatıören. In the foreground is the west façade of the basilica. Behind it can be seen what remains of the Temple of Hermes across the ravine, with the remains of houses to the left (photo: Klaus-Peter Simon, reproduced here under the Creative Commons License 3.0). 330 Fig. 4.11. Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç). Temple dedicated to Olbian Zeus, later converted into a Byzantine church. 331 Fig. 4.12. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Satellite imagery showing the relationship between the two sinkholes. 332 Fig. 4.13. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). 333 Fig. 4.14. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Plan of the site (adapted from Bayliss 2004: Fig. 108) 334 Fig. 4.15. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Staircase descending from the Chapel of St Mary, at the far southern end of the depression ‘Heaven’ (Cennet) into the cave. 335 Fig. 4.16. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View into the inaccessible eastern sinkhole, known as ‘Hell’ (Cehennem). 336 Fig. 4.17. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Exterior of the apse of the temple-basilica at the western edge of the depression of Cennet/Heaven, from the east. 337 Fig. 4.18. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Exterior of northern wall of the temple-basilica. 338 Fig. 4.19. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Interior of apse of the temple- basilica. 339 Fig. 4.20. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Plan of the Temple-Church (adapted from Bayliss 1996: Fig. 110). 340 Fig. 4.21. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Part of the steps leading down into the depression Cennet/Heaven can be seen in the foreground. 341 Fig. 4.22. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem).View of steps to the top of Cennet/Heaven from the Chapel of Mary. 342 Fig. 4.23. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). Approach to the Chapel of Saint Mary, which stands at the opening to the cave itself (view from the stairs as seen in Figure 4.21). 343 Fig. 4.24. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View of the Chapel of Saint Mary at the opening of the cave. 344 Fig. 4.25. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View of Chapel of Saint Mary from the interior of the cave at the bottom of the south end of Cennet (Heaven). 345 Fig. 4.26. Korykion Antron (modern Cennet Cehennem). View towards the small settlement of late Roman houses, from the basilica at the edge of the depression Cennet/Heaven. 346 Fig. 4.27. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane). Church 4, from across the depression. 347 Fig. 4.28. Kanytellis (modern Kanlıdivane), Church 4. The dedicatory inscription of Papylos is now difficult to discern, but runs across the lintel of the door leading from the narthex into the central nave. (Transcribed in Dagron and Feissel 1987: Planche XI, no. 21). 348 Fig. 4.29. Kadirli. Plan of the Alacami in its iteration as a Christian church (adapted from Bayliss 1997: Fig. 2). 349 Fig. 4.30. Mazılık. Plan of the basilica (adapted from Edwards 1982: Fig. 2). Precise location and exact dimensions of the entrance to the underground network of caves are uncertain. 350 Fig. 4.31. Alahan. View along the terrace from the west. 351 Fig. 4.32. Alahan. Plan of the terrace (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig 1). 352 Fig. 4.33. Alahan. Ceremonial walkway at edge of terrace on which the monastic complex is situated; view from the East Church. 353 Fig. 5.1. South of Karakabaklı. The dirt track from the modern paved road has shifted over time from the course of the paved Roman road. 354 Fig. 5.2. Near Karadedeli. An ancient road in southeastern Isauria which runs parallel to the modern road (to the left). 355 Fig. 5.3. West of Taşucu (ancient Holmoi). The old coast road has been blocked by the construction of the new highway (above). 356 Fig. 5.4. Diokaisareia (modern Uzuncaburç). The monumental gate. 357 Fig. 5.5. The paved Roman road north of Tarsos on the via Tauri, at the monumental arch (near modern Sağlıklı), with visible paving stones and kerbs. 358 Fig. 5.6. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Remnants of the tetrapylon on the via Sacra north of the city. 359 Fig. 5.7. Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). The relationship between the tetrapylon (left) and the first (easternmost) basilica along the via Sacra (right). 360 Fig. 5.8. Karakabaklı. Remains of the north tetrapylon. 361 Fig. 5.9. Karakabaklı. The southern tetrapylon was converted into the monumental entrance of the basilica complex while also being transformed into a chapel through the addition of a small apse to the west (adapted from Aydınoğlu and Çakmak 2011: Fig. 11a). 362 Fig. 5.10. Karakabaklı. The north tetrapylon, converted into a chapel when an apse was added to the east side (adapted from Aydınoğlu and Çakmak 2011: Fig. 9b). 363 Fig. 5.11. The bridge at Tarsos (cf. Hild and Hellenkemper 1990: Abb. 378, which shows the visible part of the bridge before the alluvium was cleared). 364 Fig. 5.12. The bridge at Misis (“MisisBrücke,” photo by Klaus-Peter Simon, reproduced here under Creative Commons License 3.0). 365 Fig. 5.13. Misis (Mopsuestia) in the late 19th century, the Ottoman caranvasaray visible on the right bank (Davis 1879: 109). 366 Fig. 5.14. Cave complex adapted as an inn near Urfa (adapted from Mango 1986: Fig. 2). 367 5.15 Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Plan of via Sacra, showing the abundance of sarcophagi lining the road (adapted from Herzfeld and Guyer 1930; Hill 1996: Figs. 18-21; and Miekte 2009c: Fig. 7). 368 5.16 Korykos (modern Kızkalesi). Plan of the martyrial ‘Cemetery Church’ church north of the via Sacra (Mietke 2009c: Fig. 7). 369 Fig. 5.17. Cambazlı. A truck is visible passing on the modern road east of the broken window in the apse of the basilica. 370 Fig. 5.18. Cambazlı. Remains of tombs and ancient structures lining the road west of the basilica entrance. 371 Fig. 5.19. Cambazlı. The western (main) gate in the church precinct. 372 5.20. Cambazlı. The narthex of the church from the west. 373 Fig. 5.21. Soli-Pompeiopolis. Western mole of the ancient harbor. 374 Fig. 5.22. Anazarbos. The rock-cut road. 375 Fig. 5.23. Yanıkhan, ancient paved road through the village to the north church (the cemetery church), visible in background. 376 Fig. 5.24. Comparative footprints of the basilica at Hagia Thekla and the South Church at Yanıkhan (adapted from Hill 1996: Fig. 43, Fig. 59). 377 Fig. 5.25. Hagia Thekla. The rock-cut road to the north of the complex. 378 Fig. 5.26. Hagia Thekla. Installations cut into the rock-cut road north of the complex. 379 Fig. 5.27. Hagia Thekla. Remains of small stone structures on the east side of the rock-cut road north of Hagia Thekla. 380 Fig. 5.28. Hagia Thekla. Additional blocks used to shore up the continuing walls of the rock-cut road north of the complex towards Seleukeia. 381 Fig. 5.29. Hagia Thekla. Channels and basins cut into the hillside south of the complex indicating productive activity associated with the site. 382 Map 1.1. Cilicia in the context of Asia Minor and the eastern Mediterranean. 383 Map 1.2. Cilicia: 5th-century provincial boundaries and capitals and topographical designations. 384 Isaurian Suffragans Cilicia I Suffragans Cilicia II Suffragans Dometiopolis Meloe Phlabias Zenono- Sbide Sibyla Anazarbos "Eirenopolis polis Neapolis Adrassos Dalisandos Augusta " " Germanikopolis Philadelphia Klaudiopolis " KASTABALA Adana Tarsos " Mopsuestia " EPIPHANEIA Zephyrion Mallos " Aigaiai Pompeiopolis Olba " Musbada Diokaisareia Korykos Alexandreia Eirenopolis Elaiussa-Sebaste Rhossos " Seleukeia Kelenderis Titiopolis Antiocheia Anemurion Iotape Selinus Lamos Kestroi Iuliosebaste Antiocheia Nephelion ad Kragos Kilometers 0 25 50 100 Map 1.3. Cilicia. 5th-century episcopal seats and divisions according to the metropolitan capitals at Seleukeia (Isauria), Tarsos (Cilicia I), and Anazarbos (Cilicia II), all of whom answered to the patriarchate at Antiocheia. 385 Map 1.1. Context of Cilicia in the wider eastern Mediterranean. 386 Map 2.1. Cilicia. Places to which the Miracles of Thekla record the saint’s movement. 387 Map 2.2. Journeys recorded in the Miracles of Thekla (see Table 2.2). 388 Map 3.1. General distribution of churches in Cilicia, weighted by number attributed to each site (see Table 3.2). 389 Map 3.2. Distribution of churches around Seleukeia. 390 Map 3.3. Distribution of churches around Anazarbos. 391 Map 3.4. Distribution of temple conversions. 392 Map 3.5. Distribution of temple conversions within larger church distribution. 393 Map 3.6. Detail of the distribution of temple conversions within church distribution between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers. 394 Map 3.7. Distribution of churches by status designation (see Table 3.2). 395 Map 3.8. Distribution of churches with isolated status (see Table 3.2). 396 Map 3.9. Distribution of churches with rural status (see Table 3.2). 397 Map 3.10. Detail of Map 3.9, distribution of churches with rural status (see Table 3.2) between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers. 1) Karaboculu 2) Çukur 3) Güvercinlik 4) İmamlı 5) Meydankale 6) Çaltı 7) Keşlitürkmenli 8) Takkadın 9) Işıkkale 10) Karakabaklı 11) Karadedeli 12) Kurudere 13) Keşli 14) Hasanaliler 15) Korykion Antron 16) Demirciören 17) Yemişkum 18) Kızılbağ 19) Çatıören 20) Kanytellis 21) Devecili 22) Emirzeli 23) Cambazlı 24) Öküzlü 25) Haciömerli 26) Somek 27) Efrenk 28) Tapureli 29) Viranköy 30) Hotamişalanı 31) Elbeyli 32) Yeniyurt Kale 33) Yanıkhan 34) Batısandal 35) Köşkerli 36) Üçtepe 37) Yapısıgüzel 38) Şaha 39) Kalanthia. 398 Map 3.11. Distribution of churches with urban status (see Table 3.2). 399 Map 3.12. Churches (weighted by number) within the overall settlement pattern (see Map 3.13 for detail). Settlement spatial data (pplaces_out.shp) downloaded from the Ancient World Mapping Center and used here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC 3.0) License. 400 Map 3.13. Churches (weighted by number) within the overall settlement pattern (detail of Map 3.12). Settlement spatial data (pplaces_out.shp) downloaded from the Ancient World Mapping Center and used here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC 3.0) License. 401 Map 3.14. Distribution of saints’ names attested in the epigraphic record of Cilicia (refer to Table 3.4). 402 Map 4.1. Distribution of potential martyria in Cilicia. 403 Map 4.2. Distribution of potential martyria within the wider church distribution. 404 Map 4.3. Intersection of temple conversions with potential martyria. 405 Map 4.4. Detail of Map 4.3. 406 Map 4.5. Sites discussed as ‘Rocky Geographies.’ 407 Map 5.1. The Roman road network as outlined by the Barrington Atlas. The roads shapefile (ba_roads.shp) was downloaded from the Ancient World Mapping Center and used here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC 3.0) License. 408 Map 5.2. Schematic of major routes through Cilicia.Plotted from description in Sayar (2002) and Hild and Hellenkemper (1990). 409 Map 5.3. Distribution of milestones aligned with the Roman roads. * The roads shapefile (ba_roads.shp) was downloaded from the Ancient World Mapping Center and used here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC 3.0) License. The spatial information for the bridges is adapted from one originally compiled by Michele Massa. 410 Map 5.4. The harbors of western Cilicia (adapted from Vann 1997: Fig. 1). 411 Map 5.5. Distribution of churches against the major routes of the travel infrastructure provided by the Barrington Atlas. The roads shapefile (ba_roads.shp) was downloaded from the Ancient World Mapping Center and used here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported (CC BY-NC 3.0) License. 412 Map 5.6. Detail of Map 5.5, showing the distribution of churches against the road network around Seleukeia. 413 Map 5.7. Detail of the distribution of Roman milestones within the road network between the Kalykadnos and Lamos Rivers. 414 Map 5.8. Least-cost path analysis run between Korykos and Çaltı. (ASTER GDEM is a product of METI and NASA). 415 Map 5.9. Least-cost path analysis between Korykos and Çaltı in the context of church distribution. (ASTER GDEM is a product of METI and NASA). 416 Map 5.10. Least-cost path analysis between Korykos and Çaltı in the context of church distribution, modified to circumvent the river valley (ASTER GDEM is a product of METI and NASA). 417 BIBLIOGRAPHY Ainsworth, William Francis. 1854. “Introductory Preface,” to The Birthland of St. Paul. 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