I might very well have left the matter there, as a minor anomaly amongst the sculptures in the south porch of Chartres cathedral, if I had not discovered, by reading further in my guidebook, that there was a second statue of the Queen of Sheba in the north porch. That porch, too, had been built between the years 1200 and 1225, and was devoted to an extensive portrayal of Old Testament themes.10
The Ark and the inscriptions
I suppose, on that first visit, that I spent two hours in the north porch trying to puzzle out the convoluted stories told by the sculptures.
The left bay contained several representations of the Virgin Mary and of the infant Christ together with Old Testament prophets like Isaiah and Daniel. There were also moral tales – notably one which portrayed the triumph of the Virtues over the Vices, and another which depicted the beatitudes of the body and soul as described by the great twelfth-century cleric Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.
The central bay was dominated by a group of Old Testament patriarchs and prophets, notably the figure of Melchizedek – the mysterious priest-king of Salem described in Chapter 14 of the book of Genesis and in Psalm 110.11 Abraham, Moses, Samuel and David were there also, as were Elisha and Saint Peter. Other scenes included the Garden of Eden, with its four rivers, and the Virgin Mary crowned and seated on the heavenly throne beside Jesus.
It was in the right bay that I found the Queen of Sheba. This time she was not an obscure statuette on the arch, as had been the case in the south porch, but rather a full-size statue. She was placed next to a figure of Solomon, which made sense given the biblical context. What immediately caught my eye, however, was that beneath her feet crouched an African – described in one of my guidebooks as ‘her negroid servant’,12 and in another as ‘her Ethiopian slave’.13
No further details were given. Nevertheless I had seen enough to be satisfied that the sculptors who had worked in the north porch of Chartres in the thirteenth century had wanted to place the queen unmistakably in an African context. This meant that I could no longer so easily dismiss the possibility that those sculptors might have been familiar with the Ethiopian traditions about her which, in the thirteenth century, had been set down in the Kebra Nagast. That, at least, would explain why an apparently pagan monarch had been given so much importance in the iconography of a Christian cathedral: as noted above, it had only been in the Kebra Nagast, and not in the Bible, that she had been described as a convert to the true faith of the patriarchs. At the same time, however, it raised another difficult question: how and by what means could the Ethiopian story have filtered into northern France at so early a date?
It was with such thoughts passing through my mind that, on a column between the central and right-hand bays, I came across a piece of sculpture that was to have an even more powerful impact on me. Miniaturized – no more than a few inches high and wide – it depicted a box or chest of some sort being transported on an ox-cart. Beneath it, in capital letters, were carved these two words:
ARCHA CEDERIS
Moving on around the column in an anti-clockwise direction I then found a separate scene, badly damaged and eroded, which seemed to show a man stooping over the same box or chest. There was an inscription here, too, a little difficult to make out:
HIC AMICITUR ARCHA CEDERIS (or possibly HIC
AMITTITUR ARCHA CEDERIS, or HIC
AMITITUR ARCHA CEDERIS, or even HIC
AMIGITUR ARCHA CEDERIS).
The style of the lettering was archaic, jumbled up and obscure. I realized that it must be Latin, or a form of Latin. However, having been obliged by my schoolmasters to abandon that subject at the age of thirteen (on account of my own linguistic incompetence), I made no attempt at a full translation. It seemed to me, however, that the word ARCHA must mean ‘Ark’ – as in Ark of the Covenant. I could also see that the box or chest depicted in the sculptures was about the right size (scaled against the other figures) to have been the Ark described in the book of Exodus.14
If I was correct in this assumption, I reasoned, then the positioning of an image of the Ark within a very few feet of an image of the Queen of Sheba strengthened the hypothesis that the builders of Chartres might, in some as yet unexplained way, have been influenced by the Ethiopian traditions set down in the Kebra Nagast. Indeed the fact the sculptors had placed the queen so unambiguously in an African context made this hypothesis look much more plausible than it had seemed when it had first occurred to me in the south porch. I therefore felt that it would be worth my while to establish whether the miniaturized devices on the columns were really images of the Ark and to work out the meaning of the Latin inscriptions.
I sat down on the paving of the north porch and pored through my guidebooks. Only two of them made any mention at all of the decorations on the columns I was interested in. One offered no translation of the inscriptions but confirmed that the scenes depicted did indeed relate to the Ark of the Covenant.15 The other provided the following translation – which I found interesting, but also rather suspect:
ARCHA CEDERIS: ‘You are to work through the Ark.’
HIC AMITITUR ARCHA CEDERIS: ‘Here things take their course; you are to work through the Ark.’16
Even my schoolboy Latin was sufficient to suggest that these interpretations were probably incorrect. I therefore decided that I would have to refer the matter to an expert for clarification and it occurred to me that in just a few days I would be passing quite close to the home of a man well qualified to help – Professor Peter Lasko, an art historian and a former director of the University of London’s Courtauld Institute, who now spent six months of every year living in southern France. The father of a close friend of mine, Lasko had made a lifetime study of the sacred art and architecture of the medieval period and could probably give me an authoritative opinion – or at any rate point me in the right direction.
Accordingly I carefully copied out the inscriptions and then stood up to try to produce a sketch of the whole north porch. As I was doing so I noticed something else that was possibly significant: the Ark tableau, though standing to the front of the porch on the supporting columns, was positioned exactly midway between Melchizedek, the Old Testament priest-king whose statue dominated the central bay, and the statue of the Queen of Sheba, which dominated the right-hand bay. Indeed I found that I could draw a neat triangle connecting up all three pieces of sculpture – with Melchizedek and the Queen of Sheba at either end of the long base and the Ark of the Covenant at the apex of the two shorter sides.
Nor was this all. As I studied the layout of images in the two bays I realized that the Ark on its little cart had been depicted as moving away from Melchizedek and directly towards the Queen of Sheba – along the side of the triangle I had drawn. Given the cryptic nature of much of the sculpture at Chartres, and the way in which different figures were often deliberately juxtaposed in order to tell stories and convey information, it seemed to me that this particular arrangement was unlikely to have been accidental. On the contrary it looked very much like another piece of evidence to support my evolving hypothesis that the builders of Chartres must, somehow, have been exposed to the Ethiopian legend of the Queen of Sheba as related in the Kebra Nagast. Though there was far too little to go on here to justify any firm conclusions, it was at least possible that the curious iconography of the north porch did contain echoes of the tradition that the Ark of the Covenant had been taken away from ancient Israel (represented by the priest-king Melchizedek) and to Ethiopia (represented by the Queen of Sheba).
I therefore paid special attention to the statue of Melchizedek before leaving the north porch. He had caught my eye when I had first arrived, but now, as I sketched him, I began to notice more details. Dangling beneath his right hand, for example, was a censer very similar to those that I had often seen in use in Ethiopian church services – where copious quantities of incense were routinely burned. Meanwhile he held in his left hand a long-stemmed chalice or cup containing not liquid but rather some sort of solid cyl
indrical object.
I searched through my guidebooks again, but could find no reference to the censer and only conflicting explanations of the cup. One source said that Melchizedek was intended here to be viewed as a precursor of Christ and that the chalice and the object within it were thus meant to represent ‘the bread and the wine, the symbols of the Eucharist’.17 Another captioned its photograph of the statue with these words: ‘Melchizedek bearing the Grail cup out of which comes the Stone’, and then added (somewhat puzzlingly):
With this we may connect the poem of Wolfram von Eschenbach, who is said to have been a Templar – though there is no proof of this – for whom the Grail is a Stone.18
None the wiser, I eventually left the north porch and joined my wife and children in the gardens behind the great cathedral. The next day we drove south from Chartres in the direction of Bordeaux and Biarritz. And some time after that, now heading east towards the Côte d’azur, we arrived in the département of Tarn-et-Garonne near the city of Toulouse. There, with the aid of a good map, I eventually found the home of the art historian Professor Peter Lasko whom I had telephoned from Chartres and who had expressed a willingness to talk to me about the sculptures in the north porch – though, he had modestly added, he could not claim to be an expert on them.
An Ethiopian connection?
I spent an afternoon with Peter Lasko at his house in the village of Montaigu de Quercy. A distinguished, grey-haired man in his sixties, I had met him several times before and he knew that, as a writer, I specialized in Ethiopia and the Horn of Africa. He therefore began by asking me why I had suddenly taken an interest in medieval French cathedrals.
I replied by outlining my theory that the sculptures I had seen in the north porch of Chartres might in some way have been influenced by the Kebra Nagast: ‘Melchizedek with his cup could represent Old Testament Israel,’ I concluded. ‘He was priest-king of Salem, after all, which a number of scholars have identified with Jerusalem.19 Then the Queen of Sheba with her African servant could represent Ethiopia. And then we have the Ark between the two, going in the direction of Ethiopia. So the message would be that the Ark had gone from Jerusalem to Ethiopia – which is exactly what the Kebra Nagast says. How does that sound to you?’
‘To be perfectly honest, Graham, it sounds preposterous.’
‘Why?’
‘Well … I suppose it’s just possible that Ethiopian traditions could have filtered into Europe as early as the thirteenth century – in fact, come to think of it, there has been at least one scholarly paper which does suggest that this could have happened. I rather doubt that view myself. Nevertheless, even if the Kebra Nagast story was known in Chartres at the right time I just don’t see why anyone would have felt motivated to translate it into the iconography of the cathedral. That would have been a most peculiar thing to do – particularly in the north porch which is mainly about the Old Testament forerunners of Christ. Melchizedek is there for that very reason, by the way. He’s specifically identified with Christ in the book of Hebrews.’20
‘He’s shown holding a cup in the sculpture and there’s also some kind of cylindrical object in the cup.’
‘Probably meant to represent bread – the bread and the wine of the Eucharist.’
‘That’s what one of my guidebooks says. But there’s another one which identifies the cup with the Holy Grail and which argues that the cylindrical object is a stone.’
Peter Lasko raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard such a thing before. It sounds even more far-fetched than your theory of an Ethiopian connection …’ He paused reflectively, then added: ‘There is one thing though. That scholarly paper which I mentioned – the one that talks about Ethiopian ideas finding their way into medieval Europe …’
‘Yes.’
‘Well oddly enough it’s about the Holy Grail. If I remember rightly it argues that Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Grail – which was a stone, not a cup – was influenced by some sort of Christian Ethiopian tradition.’
I sat forward in my chair: ‘That’s interesting … Wolfram von Eschenbach was also mentioned in my guidebook. Who was he?’
‘One of the earliest of the medieval poets to concern himself with the Holy Grail. He wrote a book-length work on the subject called Parzival.’
‘Isn’t that the name of an opera?’
‘Yes, by Wagner. He was inspired by Wolfram.’
‘And this Wolfram … when did he write?’
‘Late twelfth or early thirteenth century.’
‘In other words at the same time that the north porch of Chartres cathedral was built?’
‘Yes.’
We both remained silent for a while, then I said: ‘The paper that you told me about which argues that Wolfram’s work was influenced by Ethiopian traditions – I don’t suppose you happen to remember the title of it do you?’
‘… Ah. No. I’m afraid not. It must have been at least twenty years ago when I read it. It was by someone or other Adolf, I think. That name sticks in my mind, anyway. Wolfram was a German so you really need to talk to a specialist in Middle High German literature to find out more details.’
Silently resolving that I would do just that, I then asked Peter if he could help me with a translation of the inscriptions that had so intrigued me at Chartres. My guidebook, I told him, had rendered ARCHA CEDERIS as ‘You are to work through the Ark’ and HIC AMITITUR ARCHA CEDERIS as ‘Here things take their course; you are to work through the Ark.’ These interpretations, however, were in his view completely wrong. ARCHA certainly meant Ark and CEDERIS was most probably a corruption of FOEDERIS – meaning Covenant. On this reading, therefore, ARCHA CEDERIS would translate very simply and logically as ‘Ark of the Covenant’. Another alternative, however, was that the word CEDERIS was intended as a form of the verb cedere – meaning to yield or to give up or to go away. The tense was unorthodox, but the best translation of ARCHA CEDERIS if this was the case would be ‘the Ark that you will yield’ (or ‘give up’ or ‘send away’).
As to the longer inscription, the problem was the obscurity of the fourth letter of the second word. My guidebook had presumed it to be a single ‘T’. It was much more likely to be an abbreviation representing a double ‘T’, however (because there was no Latin word spelt AMITITUR with a single ‘T’). If a double ‘T’ had indeed been intended then the phrase would read HIC AMITTITUR ARCHA CEDERIS, meaning something like ‘Here it is let go, the Ark that you will yield’, or perhaps ‘Here it is let go, Oh Ark, you are yielded’, or alternatively – if CEDERIS was a corruption of FOEDERIS – ‘Here it is let go, the Ark of the Covenant’.
It was also possible, however, that the fourth letter of the second word was a ‘C’ of some kind (which was actually what it looked like). If so then the relevant phrase became HIC AMICITUR ARCHA CEDERIS – which would translate either as ‘Here is hidden the Ark of the Covenant’, or ‘Here is hidden the Ark that you will yield’ (or ‘give up’ or ‘send away’).
‘Even the word “hidden” isn’t definite,’ concluded Peter as he closed his Latin dictionary. ‘Amicitur in this context could equally well mean “covered up” – although that does convey the same sort of idea doesn’t it? I don’t know. The whole thing’s a bit of a puzzle really.’
I agreed wholeheartedly with him on this point. The whole thing was indeed a puzzle. It was, moreover, a puzzle that I felt challenged, intrigued and tantalized by and that I very much wanted to solve.
During the remainder of my holiday in France my thoughts kept wandering back to the north porch of Chartres where I had seen the little sculptures. What I could not forget was the way in which the relic on its ox-cart had appeared to be moving towards the Queen of Sheba; nor could I dismiss from my mind the possibility that this suggested movement or a journey towards Ethiopia.
I knew that I was indulging in wild speculation for which there was no academic justification whatsoever and I fully accepted Peter Lasko’s argument that the sculptors of Chartres wou
ld not have allowed themselves to be influenced by an Ethiopian legend in their choice of subject matter. This, however, left me with a much more exciting possibility to contemplate: perhaps those responsible for the north porch of the cathedral (which had also been called ‘the door of the initiates’21) had been drawing a cryptic map for future generations to follow – a map that hinted at the location of the most sacred and precious treasure that the world had ever known. Perhaps they had discovered that the Ark of the Covenant really had been let go, or yielded (or sent away?) from Israel in Old Testament times and that it had subsequently been hidden (or covered up?) in Ethiopia. Perhaps this was the true meaning of the little sculptures with their puzzling inscriptions. If so then the implications were truly breathtaking and the Axumite traditions that I had so readily dismissed in 1983 would, at the very least, merit a close second look.
Mary, the Grail and the Ark
When I returned from France at the end of April 1989 I set my research assistant to work on the problem of the scholarly paper that Peter Lasko had mentioned to me. I knew that it might have been written by someone named Adolf and I knew that the subject matter had to do with a possible Ethiopian influence on Wolfram von Eschenbach’s story of the Holy Grail. I did not know where, or when, the paper had been published, or even in what language, but I advised my researcher to contact the universities to see if there were any specialists on medieval German literature who might be able to help.
While waiting for an answer on this I went out and bought a number of different versions of the Grail ‘romance’. These included Chrétien de Troyes’s Conte du Graal, left unfinished by the author in AD 1182,22 Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’arthur, a much later epic dated to the mid-fifteenth century,23 and last but not least Parzival, which Wolfram von Eschenbach was thought to have written between the years 1195 and 121024 – dates that coincided almost exactly with the main phase of construction work on the north porch of Chartres cathedral.
The Sign and the Seal Page 6