So, Wednesday was our last official site visit in Rome
before moving south to Castellamare di Stabia. It’s incredible to think that we’ve been here for two weeks
already; the time has spun by in a jumbled blur of ancient history and modern
adventures. I think we’ve all
agreed that we just don’t want this trip to be over and return to America and
reality.
Our last class site visit was to the Basilica di San
Clemente, a church located a few block’s walking distance from the Colosseum,
which has over the course of these past few weeks become a normal part of the
skyline—something to navigate by!
The Basilica is located in a quieter, greener, more residential-looking
area than many of the other monuments we’ve visited thus far, and the entrance
blends into the other buildings on the street well enough that I was initially
a bit surprised to discover we had reached it—it was nothing like the Pantheon,
surrounded by shops and apartments and sticking out like a sore thumb.
I got over the initial surprise quickly, as I had been quite
looking forward to this site visit.
The Basilica has a long and interesting history that plays into many of
the themes I’ve been pondering on as we’ve made our way through our overview of
Roman culture. It is, in fact, not
a single church from the 12th century, but a building with three
architectural levels, each from further in the past and each having served a
different purpose from the other.
The lowest level of the structure is that of a
republican-era house, upon which the next levels were built. This house was destroyed in the Great
Fire of 64 CE, through which Nero supposedly fiddled. While there were many accusations that Nero himself began
the fire (and later blamed it on the Christians), there is little evidence to
back up such a claim.
The next level is house of Roman consul Titus Flavius
Clemens. I found the history of
Clemens to be an interesting one.
He was of the senatorial class and actually a member of the imperial
family—the great nephew of Vespasian and the second cousin of both Titus and
Domitian. In addition to his
patrician lineage, he makes appearances in both Jewish and Christian traditions—in
fact, I found at least three different stories about the life of this Titus
Flavius Clemens. It was
unclear from the little research I was able to do whether the mentions of
Clemens in each tradition are references to the same man, but both stories
refer to a man by his name who served as Roman consul—I suppose from there, it
is up to the historians to determine what parts are fact and which are myth.
According to the Jewish Talmud, Clemens and his wife were on
a ship in the Mediterranean when they were caught in a storm. Convinced they were going to die, they
instead witnessed the Rabbi Akiba ben Joseph praying on deck for the seas to
calm—and they did. Through study
under ben Joseph and other contemporary Jewish thinkers, Clemens and his wife
eventually converted to Judaism.
Under the reign of the emperor Domitian (remember, Clemens’ second
cousin!), an edict was put out that all Jews and Christians should be
slaughtered. In a development
reminiscent of the Hebrew Bible’s story of Esther, Clemens was urged to use his
position as consul to do everything he could to stop the edict. He eventually turned himself in and
allowed himself to be executed, thus forcing a new consul to be chosen in his
place and delaying the passing of the edict. (http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/5268-domitian)
In Christian tradition, Clemens is a Catholic Saint, thought
to be one of the earlier Christians among the Roman noblemen. Here, Clemens continues to assume the
role of the staunch supporter of the illegal, underdog faith, this time by
allowing his house to be used as a gathering place for Christian worshippers in
a time when the faith was illegal to practice. The Basilica’s website also claims that Clemens authored a
Roman epistle and was exiled and eventually killed, not under Domitian, but
Trajan. The story becomes clearly
mythical as the accounts that document this execution also claim that the water
later receded, revealing a miraculous tomb.
Finally, classical sources list a Flavius Titus Clemens
being killed suddenly under the reign of Domitian, and make mention to only his
“contemptible laziness.” (http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Suetonius/12Caesars/Domitian*.html#15)
But, that’s enough of his life! In the 2nd century CE, the basement of this house
was converted into a mithraeum, a temple of worship of the god Mithras. This god was the center of a mystery
religion practiced in Rome during this time period and is often depicted as
being born from a rock and sacrificing a bull, an image depicted in every
Mithraic temple. There are, as
usual, several theories as to
Mithras’s origin as an object of worship in Rome, with some claiming Persian or
Zoroastrian roots, while many modern scholars actually claim he was a product
of Rome itself, springing up in opposition to Christianity. Whatever the source, very little is
known about the rituals practiced by Mithraic followers. What has been gleaned from
archaeological studies indicates that the rites often involved feasting and
occurred in the midsummer.
But, the Mithraic temple could not last. In the 4th century CE, the
basement was filled in and the temple converted into a Christian church, with
the expanded floorplan laying roughly over what was once the Mithraic house of
worship. This first church was
dedicated to Pope Clement I—a first century Christian who many historians
believe to be the one and only Titus Flavius Clemens, owner of the original
house.
Finally, we come to the third layer, the one at today’s
ground level and the most recent.
This layer, a second basilica built over the first when that was
destroyed, dates to 1100 CE and is the level of the church a visitor will first
come to on their visit.
I was unaware of most of the history of the Church of San
Clemente and as such, I had little idea of what to expect. I knew that the church, as all of the
monuments we’ve visited, was filled with layers of history; I knew that it was
all at once a church, a house, and the site of an ancient pagan temple; I knew
that an aqueduct ran right under it and that you can still hear the water
flowing through the pipes. I
imagined a dank, spooky place; the kind that looks like it came right out of
Dracula and that may possibly be haunted.
So, I was a little surprised when we came into the first
level of the basilica and everything was intricately decorated and covered in
gold. There were pillars down each
side, a raised altar at the front, and chapels in enclaves off to each side,
flickering candles whispering prayers in front of each of them. It was beautiful, but nothing like I
was expecting. However, once we
entered the stairwell to descend to the lower levels, I knew instantly that it
would be even better than I could have hoped.
The stairwell and first level looked exactly how I imagined
them. Dark, dimly lit by electric
lights made to resemble torches, this cool chamber would have been eerie to
descend into by myself. Around the
corner, the temple of Mithras stood in much better condition than I could have
hoped, the centerpiece depicting the god’s earthen birth and sacrifice standing
in the middle of the room. Further
down, there was what appeared to be a Christian altar or tomb, dedicated to the
saint. As we descended further,
the sound of the water got louder, and once we were at the level of the ancient
republican house, it was easier to find the aqueduct source spilling water out
underneath us.
What I was probably most overcome by was the smell. The entire place just had an earthy
smell, one that conveyed its age.
Everything there was so old, and even though it was still standing,
something about the air just reminded me that I was standing in a centuries old
temple, one that held so much history, life, sacrifice, and faith.
The visit to San Clemente reinforced an idea that I have
been thinking on for most of this trip.
Rome is a city built on top of itself; there are literal, physical
layers of history under your feet at any given time. This is SO DIFFERENT from what I know as a
European-descended American. My
history isn’t something I’m standing on; it’s a story that’s only recently come
to the soil I’m standing on. When
something new is built, we have enough space to build it without destroying our
culture’s current achievements, and we don't need to dig through multiple
intellectual eras in order to get to the archaeological site we're interested
in. Certainly, some have fallen into
disrepair or been destroyed, but for the most part, as a white American, I have
two hundred years of history, and that is simply not enough time to even fill
up all the physical space we have with history, much less start piling history
on top of itself. We, as white
Americans, really don't have much to stand on, and this really gave me a
stronger appreciation for those peoples who are literally living on top of
centuries of their people's history.
I honestly wonder if Italians realize how incredible it is that their
classical history is part of the soil they’re standing on. Or if, as white Americans, we really
thought about what that means, we would have more respect for the indigenous
groups on our continent, whose history really is piled beneath our feet.
~ Bailey Strom
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