Today (21 February 2020) marks the 2016th anniversary of the passing of Gaius Caesar. “Who?”—you ask? He was once the presumed heir to the throne of the new Roman Empire; now largely forgotten, much as his monumental cenotaph in Turkey. This brief remembrance of that structure is the latest in an apparently very occasional series on monuments to long-dead Romans and other figures of antiquity. But first, the backstory . . .
The first true Roman Emperor, Augustus (formerly Octavian), had a wildly successful reign (31 BC to AD 14) that transformed Rome forever (and for better or worse). But Augustus had no son, and succession was a major issue for him. His only daughter, Julia, produced three sons by Augustus’ right-hand man and son-in-law Marcus Agrippa, and the oldest was Gaius Caesar. Gaius and his three-year younger brother Lucius were adopted by Augustus and named as heirs and raised as such.
At the young age of 18, Gaius was commissioned by Augustus to deal with troubles in Syria with Parthia and Armenia. He was dispatched to the region with some advisors in 1 BC. The boy’s inexperience was questioned by some, but Augustus apparently praised him for not offering prayers (presumably to avoid offending Jewish sensibilities) when he visited Jerusalem (Suetonius, Augustus 93).
Peaceful negotiations with Parthia included a meeting between Gaius and the Parthian king Phraates on the Euphrates. But soon after Parthia incited rebellion against a new ruler of Armenia installed by Gaius. Military action ensued. Gaius, lured into a trap on promise of information, was wounded. The Romans prevailed, but Gaius struggled physically from the injury and in spirit over the next year. By the end of AD 3, he resigned his command and withdrew to Syria, announcing his desire to stay there and retire from public life (princes tiring of royal duty and family intrigue is not a new thing!).
At Augustus behest, he reluctantly agreed to return to Rome and took a trading ship to Lycia where he died suddenly at Limyra on 21 February AD 4 Velleius Paterculus, 2.101-102). His brother Lucius had also died at Massalia en route to military training in Spain the previous year, leaving Augustus and Rome with no heir apparent. Grief-stricken Augustus had a cenotaph erected to honor his grandson Gaius’ short life at the site of his death. Meanwhile, the brothers’ ashes were interred in the mausoleum prepared for Augustus in Rome (read about the Augustus Mausoleum here).
Like Gaius Caesar’s memory in popular Roman history, his cenotaph stands unnoticed in a marshy field at the edge of the ruins of Limyra; a nondescript hulk of ruined masonry. It’s former glory is hinted by the nice pavement surrounding the base. Visitors rarely go there; for the picturesque tombs, theater, and other ruins of Limyra are more attractive. But there is a better story and more mystery with the cenotaph. Even in ancient times, there was rumor of involvement by Livia, mother of the eventual heir Tiberius, in the deaths of Gaius and Lucius (Cassius Dio, Roman History 55.10-11).
What might have been? Augustus’ sorrow over his progeny may have been an omen for Rome’s future.
I have always been fascinated by monuments or memorials to the deceased and the psychology behind them, as well as the physical structures themselves. This post is triggered in part by the most recent of the all-too-familiar temporary memorials that appear at scenes of horrific mass shootings in my own country. But not to dwell on that depressing and unfortunately ubiquitous topic, I hereby initiate an occasional series on monuments to long-dead Romans and other figures of antiquity.
Trajan excelled in his 19-year reign and was highly regarded
in life, death, and by Renaissance and early modern historians. Already having
made significant military conquests in Dacia, in AD 114 he set out for
campaigns on the eastern frontier. The problem there was agitation by the
Parthian Empire (originating in Persia—modern Iran—another connection of this
story with contemporary events!). Trajan was incredibly successful in his initial
campaign, taking the Parthian capital Ctesiphon and gaining a foothold on the
Persian Gulf. But reduced success and troubles elsewhere in the Empire caused
him to return towards Rome in 117.
Our main source for Trajan’s last days is Cassius Dio.
Already suffering in health, which he attributed to poison, the Emperor
suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed. In early August he sailed
for Rome from Antioch. When Trajan’s health deteriorated the ship put in at the
nearest port, Selinus in Cilicia, where he “suddenly expired” (Cassius
Dio 68.33). Selinus was subsequently renamed Traianopolis in the Emperor’s
honor and memory. Details on the exact disposition of his body are not given,
but his “remains” were transported back to Seleucia, the port of Antioch, for
viewing by his successor, Hadrian, and then to Rome.
On the outskirts of the Turkish city Gazipaşa are the ruins of Selinus/Traianopolis, and on the landward outskirts of them stands a lonely structure known locally as the Şekerhane Köşkü, which refers to the building’s use as a hunting platform for elites during the Seljuk Period. Early western explorers of the area identified it as having a sepulchral function and likely built as a cenotaph (a tomb structure without the honored person’s actual remains) for Trajan. Trajan was the only personality of his magnitude known to have died there and a memorial to him is a logical outcome although the written sources do not mention such. The roof of the edifice was covered in soil and produced wheat and other crops that were grown around it. This layer was cleared in the early 2000s revealing the foundation outlines of a temple-like structure with a place for a cult statue. These and other details now make it likely that the building was not a cenotaph but rather a platform for a temple to the deified Emperor Trajan.
Coins issued in Selinus from the late 2nd-mid 3rd centuries featured a temple to Trajan on the reverse. There is no other suitable candidate for this temple in the extant remains apart from the Şekerhane Köşkü. Further, there are striking parallels to coins featuring the Temple of the Deified Julius Caesar (mentioned above) in Rome, which was situated at the spot of Caesar’s cremation. One of the walls of the Şekerhane Köşkü incorporates an earlier square structure, arguably the cremation pit where Trajan’s corpse was burned—an essential step in Apotheosis (elevation to divine status) for both Caesar and Trajan.
The Emperor’s ashes were eventually transported to Rome
where they were placed in a special chamber at the base of Trajan’s Column, a
magnificent and still-standing 30 meter (98 ft) high column depicting the
Emperor and his troops during the Dacian wars and showing painstaking detail of
the Roman army in action. Trajan’s Column anchors one end of the extensive
Forum of Trajan, the last of the Imperial Fora in Rome.
In addition to physical monuments, Trajan’s legacy includes other
honors. He was universally lauded by contemporary writers and posthumously declared
by the Senate optimus princeps, “the best ruler.” He was considered by
some Christian theologians to be a “virtuous pagan,” and Dante depicts him in
Jupiter’s Heaven in The Divine Comedy. Modern historians have sometimes
questioned Trajan’s accomplishments, and his successor Hadrian (who did
relinquish Trajan’s gains against Persia) now gets better press.
 This argument is effectively made by Michael Hoff, “The Şekerhane Köşkü at Selinus (Cilicia): The Temple of the Deified Trajan,” Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 10 (Sept 2016): 56-68 [this is a special issue also titled Ex Terra Scientia: Papers in Honor of David Soren, eds. R.H Wilkinson and P.P. Creasman]. For the nerds that read footnotes: I actually obtained this issue recently for a current research project and was pleased to find this article there. Ironically, Michael Hoff (the author) had graciously received my research colleague and I at his impressive excavation site within an hour of our most recent visit to the Trajan Temple site.
Hoff, “The Şekerhane Köşkü at Selinus (Cilicia): The Temple of the Deified
I am pretty unexcited about this evening’s “big game” between the bandwagon team of dubious integrity and the other guys that rammed their way in via an egregious no-call. Perhaps you, dear reader, need a diversion from the endless-but-not-timeless hype of the afternoon.
This week, the question came up in conversation (I don’t even remember with who), “what happened to the Georgia Dome?” [For the uninformed, Super Bowl LIII will be played in the new Mercedes-Benz Stadium which has replaced the former as Atlanta’s main sports venue.] The answer: it was “blowed up” (video here) and removed from existence to make way for the great hood ornament stadium (here is a time lapse of the transition). Apparently Atlanta has some recycling issues (as here). Rather than go on about our “throw-away society,” I offer the contrast of stadiums that have endured to tell about their culture in a way the Georgia Dome never will. Today’s Pic(s) Of The Day:
We begin with the well-preserved stadium at Aphrodisias, in Asia Minor (present-day Turkey). It is fairly typical in construction, but has semi-circles of seats at both ends, creating a closed oblong shape.
There are several nicely-preserved stadia in Turkey, including the recently-exposed huge example at Magnesia-on-the-Meander. It is difficult to capture without a panoramic view:
This example is open on one end, which is more typical. It also has some trappings found in other ancient stadiums that we would find familiar, such as reserved sections (as the regular bench seats with inscribed group names at left).
The Magnesia-on-the-Meander stadium also sports some luxury features
that, coupled with its huge size, make it something of the Mercedes-Benz
Stadium of Roman Asia. Premium seating is found down low, in a ring
pictured below, and in apparent box-seat sections at the end. No
retractable roof, though, but with a view and weather like this who
Finally, a couple of views of the best-preserved stadium in Greece; the one at the high point of the remains of ancient Delphi; home of the famous Oracle of Apollo:
As you can see, the Delphi stadium is on the side of a mountain (Mt Parnassus), and the lower (south) side has a significant retaining wall. In that wall, on the east end, is an inscription also having a modern echo. It places limitations on wine brought in or out of the stadium:
You may be wondering why I have not included famous structures like the Colosseum in Rome. That is because the Colosseum is actually an amphitheater, not a stadium. An amphitheater is like a theater in structure, but the seats go all the way around in an oval. Our modern “stadiums” are actually built more like Roman amphitheaters than Greek or Roman stadiums. Modern structures that many people call amphitheaters are really just theaters . . . confusing; but amphitheaters will have to wait for a different post.
Some of the best “derelict aircraft” discoveries are serendipitous. This post’s subject is such a case. It was during a research trip in Turkey in late May of 2011. My former student and then colleague Mark Nicovich and I had been dogged by a nasty Anatolian spring thunderstorm all day. The storm caught us on the unprotected plateau of “Midas City” and, apparently making up for an earlier near miss, hit us with an unmerciful downpour and then pelted us with hail for about 20 minutes. The glories of the site (a future post, no doubt) made the assault quite worth it, even though the Canon SLR I borrowed from my daughter Rachel, was killed by the soaking.
We returned to our rental Skoda and headed along a parallel path with the storm, intent on beating it to Gordion, the ancient Phrygian capital, some distance away. After a brief stop at Amorium, we were driving rather speedily northward when I spied two planes off to the right, near a major interchange: an old biplane of some kind and an unmistakable F-4E Phantom jet. Despite the race with the storm, the unidentified biplane dictated a stop. We took the ramp of the interchange, pulled over on the side of the highway, got out, and crossed the access road by foot to what now was obviously a monument display. Thankfully, I had my small backup Sony camera in my pocket.
The plane of interest (nothing against the F-4E, but they are common) proved to be a Breguet 14, a World War I French bomber/scout plane mounted on concrete pedestals! A century-old largely wood and fabric airframe would never be appropriate to mount on an all-weather permanent display, so I was not surprised (but a little sad) to find that the Breguet 14 was a replica (but a well-done one, and thus deemed fit for this series).
The Breguet 14 was a French designed and built World War I workhorse, operating as a two-seat scout plane and bomber. Its incorporation of comparatively large amounts of metal in the airframe was innovative and made it one of the most durable planes of the war. Consequently, it continued in production after the war and was used in a number of airforces into the 1930s. That included Turkey. Which brings us to this particular memorialized plane.
Translation of the signage reveals that during the Turkish War of Independence the people of the Sivrihisar district of Eskişehir Province (where the monument is located) raised money and bought the plane for the nascent Turkish Air Force as a contribution to the war effort. In gratitude for the patriotic act, the Breguet was named Sivrihisar Uçağı, meaning “Sivrihisar aircraft.”
A little extra research revealed that the donation was raised by Sivrihisar residents after their occupation and then liberation in the Battle of Sakarya, one of the pivotal campaigns of the Turkish War of Independence. During that battle, a Greek Air Force Breguet was captured by forced landing, put into service by Turkey, and named Sakarya Uçağı (see here for that info in Turkish). I surmise that the utility of that plane was the inspiration for the purchase of the Sivrihisar Uçağı, and it provided the precedent for naming the latter. So the storm of conflict brought out Turkish resolve.
Speaking of Turkish resolve . . . immediately after our visit to the monument and pulling back on the highway, we were flagged down by a waiting Turkish policeman. Unlike many before him on our journey, he spoke excellent English and explained that we were speeding. As we had not even gotten up to speed when he pulled me over, I protested briefly. He calmly explained that he had detected our speed from the other side of the other highway before we had exited. He thought we had tried to avoid apprehension by doing so and was waiting for us, but I explained that we saw the biplane and turned to investigate. He understood and we had a nice talk about the history of the airplane. Then he issued my summons and gave friendly instructions on how to pay. We parted as friends, Mark and I admiring his Turkish sense of duty and patriotism, and the officer appreciative of our interest in his history.
In the end, we beat the storm (barely) to Gordion, where we had a nice visit and another reminder of the good things that can emerge from storms:
With the conflict between Turkey and POTUS in the news this week, I felt prompted to feature an unusual and unappreciated site in the former, long on my list of potential “You Don’t Get This on the Bus Tour” and/or “Pic of the Day” posts.
Adada (lat/long = 37.572972, 30.984000): the city has an unusual but melodic name, probably Pisidian in origin (modern uses of the term, however applicable to my thoughts below, may not be fit for a family-oriented post). The name first appears in the now lost writings of the geographer Artimidorus of Ephesus (2nd century BC), quoted by the later geographer Strabo (Strabo 12. 570).
The site of Adada in the mountainous region Pisidia of Asia Minor (modern Turkey) is an underappreciated delight where encountering other human beings is a rarity. There is a nicely paved agora/Roman forum and adjacent Acropolis reached by well-preserved steps.
Looking NNE from the acropolis, the remains of several buildings preserved to roof height can be discerned between the scattered oak trees a few hundred meters away.
The closest building is the Bouleuterion (city council house), but I am more fascinated with the three between it and the small theater. They are ruins of temples dedicated to the Roman Emperor Trajan, the Roman Emperors (presumably collectively), and the Emperors in conjunction with Zeus-Serapis.
Of the former, there is not much left aside from a single wall. The Temple of Zeus Megistros Serapis and the Emperors is better preserved, but with the roof and entrance scattered about on the surrounding ground.
The Temple of the Emperors is the most photogenic, with entrance door frame standing, two walls fully intact, and the part of the rear cornice in place.
Aside from the aesthetic quality of Adada’s remains (I love good ruins in deserted locations!), the site evokes thoughts on the nature of Roman Emperor worship. Why did the ancients occasionally deify their rulers and, in the case of Rome, build temples to them? Was it genuine conviction that the rulers were gods, or was it mere political expediency? Or (as I rather suspect) was it a fair dose of the latter, carried forward by the human nature to adore heroes, align ourselves to alpha-leaders, and idolize celebrities (of all kinds) who make perceived contributions to our lives while ignoring their foibles (especially after their death)?
Emperor Worship was a tool of the Imperial Roman government since (before?) its inception. Asia Minor (modern Turkey) led the way in institutionalizing this practice—no doubt initially for political ends. Perhaps to encourage local acceptance of the practice, or maybe as a natural religious evolution—both possibilities are disturbing—in many places Emperors were identified with popular local cults; particularly as Zeus who was equated with pre-Roman (and even pre-Hellenistic) local deities.
Adada’s temples provide us with a spectrum of this phenomena. It may not be too far-fetched to suggest that the same dynamics of politics, religion, and human nature can be seen in our own times. It might be worth noting that refusing to give the Emperor the honors due him, in the eyes of Rome or its local agents, was tantamount to rebellion (as for the Jews of Jerusalem in AD 66) or disloyalty (as for early Christians that refused to worship him). Perhaps the lesson is this: there is a potential cost for attempting to rise above humanity’s baser instincts.
“Santa is dead; I have been to all three of his tombs!” That tongue-in-cheek potential presentation title is the idea of beloved former student, now-former colleague, and fine scholar, J Mark Nicovich. The conundrum of three tombs (plus many other claimed relics) arises from the traditions that St. Nicholas, bishop of Myra in Asia Minor (now Demre in Turkey), was buried in that city but his remains were stolen on two different occasions and taken (ahem, . . . “translated”) to Bari in southern Italy in 1087 and Venice, in northern Italy in 1101. Thus, there are Churches of St. Nicholas in all three locations, each claiming to enshrine the resting place for the inspiration and namesake of Santa Claus. See Part 1 of this Trilogy on “St. Nick’s Not-So-Final Resting Place?” here (and Part 2 here).
So, which church/city possesses the real relics of St. Nicholas? As it happens, recent months have seen some significant developments in this question.
In early October of 2017 Cemil Karabayram, Director of Surveying and Monuments for the region in which Myra/Demre is located (Antalya), claimed in an interview that CT and radar scans had revealed an intact “temple” beneath the St. Nicholas Church. The exact location is not revealed by the article, but he indicated that the find is currently inaccessible “because experts have to first work on the mosaics.”1
Karabayram speculated, “maybe we will find the untouched body of St. Nicholas.” How can this be, given the two accounts of the “translation” of the Saint’s relics to Bari and Venice? “Traders in Bari took the bones. But it is said that these bones did not belong to St. Nicholas but to another priest,” he said, adding. “Professor Yıldız Ötüken . . . says that St Nicholas is kept in a special section.” “We claim that St. Nicholas has been kept in this temple without any damage. . . . If we get the results, Antalya’s tourism will gain big momentum.”2
The claim that Nicholas’ body has remained in Myra/Demre is significant; and the note that tourism would be boosted if it is found is telling. Are city status and tourist revenues a motivation? Bari and Venice surely took note . . .
On 6 December (significantly, the date of St. Nicholas’ death and Feast Day), articles announced that relics of St. Nicholas subjected to Carbon 14 analysis by the Oxford Relics Cluster at Keble College’s Advanced Studies Centre dated to the fourth century; i.e., consistent with the AD 343 death of the historical bishop. Careful sifting of the published info reveals that the single bone tested is owned by an American priest in Morton Grove Illinois, who says he obtained the relic from Lyon in France.3 By inference, the Oxford University news release suggests that the bones in Bari and Venice therefore could date to the fourth century as well. There is no solid connection between the American relic and those in the Italian churches. But the Bari relics of St. Nicholas are missing part of the pelvis, of which the tested bone apparently comes.
During restorations at Bari’s Basilica di San Nicola in the early 1950s, the tomb of St. Nicholas was opened for the first time since it was sealed by Pope Urban II in 1089. The bones were examined by Luigi Martino, Professor of Anatomy at the University of Bari, who found the skeleton was incomplete. A complete skull, however, allowed reconstruction of the ancient face—that of Nicholas, if the bones are authentic.4 In 1992, Martino was asked to examine the relics in Venice. The latter were all broken into smaller pieces, but he concluded that the Venice fragments were complementary to the bones in Bari and they are from the skeleton of the same man. A narrative that the Bari sailors in 1087 hurriedly absconded with the skeleton and left pieces behind to be found in 1099 by the Venetian raiders is thus possible.5 So, in a spirit of ecumenical peace, the Bari and Venice claims can coexist and they can share the reconstructed image of the Saint adored in both places. The logical—but unlikely—next step is to use DNA analysis to connect the bones of Bari and Venice, and either radiocarbon date them or include the Illinois fragment in the DNA analysis. This, however, would spoil the remaining mystery.
Meanwhile, back at Demre/Myra, we await further archaeological explorations in the Church of St. Nicholas. As for the image of St. Nicholas there, there is already some controversy, as the city has displayed four different images of the Saint in the last 35 years.6 From 1981 to 2000, the only public image was a statue of a Father Christmas-like figure with a bag over his shoulder and children huddled around him, as if seeking protection. It still stands in the courtyard in front of St. Nicholas Church. In my mind, this is the most appropriate one, given the controversy that followed (it might be noted that moving/replacing statues is not a new thing):
In 2000, a Russian sculptor and the mayor of Moscow presented Demre with a bronze statue of St. Nicholas in Orthodox style, which was placed atop a large globe on a pedestal in the town square, a block or so in front of the church.
In 2005, however, the Orthodox Christian St. Nicholas was replaced by the town council with a red-suited Santa Claus statue made of Bakelite (as I never saw the Santa statue in place, you can view a pic here). Demre’s mayor, explained “this is the one everyone knows;” plus, it was also less offensive to the city’s Muslim population.7 Nevertheless, complains were made, primarily by Russian interests, as St. Nicholas is the patron saint of Russia. Finally (for now), and perhaps in response to protests, a compromised was reached on Christmas Day 2008, when the current statue atop the pedestal was unveiled:
It is a fiberglass “Turkish Santa” with a heroic stance and victorious mien, holding a small child on his shoulder and another by the hand, each raising a wrapped gift. Controversy aside; I like it.
Actually, I like them all. The changing images (and names) of St. Nicholas are a commentary on social roles of hero figures, cultural appropriation, tribalism . . . and really on human nature. Most Americans of recent generations experienced an evolution (or revolution) in their own concepts of Santa Claus while maturing, not so unlike the changes of statues in Demre. And as for the question of the travels (or not) of Nicholas’ bones; I am taken back to the catalyst for this series of posts: the NORAD tracking of Santa on Christmas Eve, mentioned in Part 1. While the notion that government technology could track his sleigh is exciting, and the website is visually impressive (and educational), I cant help feeling that it robs something from that childhood wonder at the mysterious how and unknown when of Santa’s anticipated arrival. Then I realized the technology and presentation didn’t really answer anything—there is always more mystery and wonder. So, that is why I rather suspect (and perhaps secretly hope) that the true fate of Nicholas’ remains will remain similarly unknown. Life is just more interesting that way.
This is a brief intermediate follow-up to “Part 1 of St. Nick’s Not-So-Final-Resting-Place,” before we get to the conclusion in Part 3 (that will make it a trilogy!). Here I will focus on the city where St. Nicholas (Santa Claus) was bishop and what can be seen there.
Ancient Myra was a typical Greco-Roman city of some regional importance. About 5 km away lie the ruins of Myra’s Mediterranean harbor town, Andriake. An ancient synagogue, identified by a menorah decoration and inscription, is of special interest.
The site of Andriake, recently opened to the public, also includes fine harbor buildings, restored monuments, a huge cistern, and ancient boat replicas. Given his reputation among sailors, Nicholas no doubt was familiar with Andriake.
Myra is located in Lycia, where the most visually unique ancient remains are tombs, with several types carved in the ubiquitous rock cliffs of the region. Not far from the Church of Nicholas, a nice array of such tombs can be seen above the ancient theater of the city.
The theater with its backdrop of tombs is a major stop for the buses full of cruise-ship borne tourists:
The Russian tourists I mentioned in Part 1, free from the religious atmosphere of the Church St. Nicholas, now typically indulge in over-the-top photo ops at the theater (NOTE: I did not obtain permission from any of these people to take/use their images, but given the very public nature of their exhibitionism, I assume I am okay—however, I have not included the more embarrassing or salacious pics I got that day in 2011):
For the visitor that does not like crowds or the “You Don’t Get This On the Bus Tour” folks, I suggest a visit to the other side of the hill, where only working agricultural fields lie below the Northern Tombs of Myra:
Meanwhile, back at the Church of St. Nicholas, we have not answered the questions posed in Part 1.1 We will address these and the question of Nicholas’ appearance in Part 3 (perhaps later today?) . . .
Thanks for looking!
1 I.e.: Who has the real St. Nicholas? Bari or Venice? Or, could his remains remain in Myra (Demre)?