 The first women’s shelter in Europe? Radegund’s Holy Cross ‘With the passion of a focused mind, I considered how to advance other women so that—the Lord willing—my own desires might prove beneficial for others. […] I established a monastery for girls in the city of Poitiers. After its foundation, I endowed the monastery with however much wealth I had received from the generosity of the king.’ – Radegund, Letter to the Bishops Radegund wrote these words while reflecting on her greatest achievement: the foundation of the convent of Holy Cross in Poitiers. She had every reason to be proud of this monastic house, which represented a triumph over the adversity she had faced previously in life—a manifestation of her personal resilience in stone. But was it something more? Had Radegund intended to create a sanctuary for women like herself, who had suffered everything that early medieval politics might inflict on highborn girls, to find refuge and peace? If Holy Cross was in fact a women’s shelter, then it was the first of its kind. Born a princess to the Thuringian royal house, almost 1500 years ago, the young Radegund endured a series of tragedies: orphaned in her earliest years, she then witnessed the invasion of her homeland by the Frankish king, Chlothar, who slaughtered most of her remaining family and took her as his war captive. The king placed her in one of his rural villas, where she was guarded, raised, and in some ways treated like a slave. While still very young, she was forced to marry him, despite her efforts to run away. Radegund endured her marriage until Chlothar ordered the murder of her brother, her only surviving close kin. After Radegund escaped her miserable marriage, but before she founded Holy Cross, she created her first institution for women in need: a hospital in a villa in Saix, which offered beds specifically for infirm women. ‘She herself washed them in warm baths, treating the putrid flesh of their diseases’, wrote one of her biographers. Radegund also provided treatment for men in Saix, but separately and without beds. This foundation can be fairly described as the first women’s hospital in Europe. “If Holy Cross was in fact a women’s shelter, then it was the first of its kind.” In her next effort to support her stated goal—the advancement of other women—Radegund founded Holy Cross in Poitiers. She accepted other highborn women into what became a religious house of considerable size, with around 200 nuns. Although the circumstances of entry are usually obscured from the historian, the example of Basina is both evidenced and instructive. The daughter of the Frankish king Chilperic I, Basina lost her mother, who was murdered at the hands of a rival—Queen Fredegund, who became Basina’s stepmother. Fredegund next turned her malevolent intentions to Basina, who was, according to the Histories of Gregory of Tours, ‘dishonoured by the slaves of the queen and sent into a monastery’. While most translators have interpreted the word deludere (rendered here as ‘dishonoured’) to mean something like ‘tricked’, it is much more likely that the word functioned as a euphemism for sexual assault, as suggested by Bruno Dumézil and explained in greater detail by Rachel Singer. Thus, historians have mistakenly thought that Radegund conspired in Fredegund’s trickery, when in fact she had offered refuge to a victim of sexual violence. Radegund ensured that Holy Cross served as a protective environment for Basina, who was sheltered from the consequences of political life outside its walls. When Chilperic tried to reclaim Basina and marry her to a Visigothic prince, for example, Radegund resolutely refused. This was a fear that Radegund herself knew all too well: she had long worried that her former husband Chlothar, might try to reclaim her. This possibility was, according to one of her biographers, a fate she feared worse than death. History records one occasion, when a terrified Radegund successfully implored a high-ranking bishop to urge Chlothar to change his mind. Legend records another instance, in which nature herself protected the former queen. In an incident known as the ‘Miracle of the Oats’, Radegund fled into a field to escape Chlothar’s grasp. Recognising the vulnerability of the holy woman, the oats quickly grew so high that Radegund was concealed from Chlothar’s view. When the king saw that he had no hope of finding his former wife, he abandoned his pursuit. Whether or not she was assisted by miraculous plants, Radegund ensured, just as she wrote in her Letter to the Bishops, that her efforts were beneficial not only for herself, but also for other women. Featured image by Marie-Lan Nguyen via Wikimedia Commons. OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world. 
 Antonina: a sixth-century military wife In our modern world, the spouses of major political figures may sometimes themselves spend quite a bit of time in the limelight, and be significant assets to the careers of their politician partners. In the sixth century, the wife of the most famous and successful Roman general of the day became nearly as powerful and famous as he was. Belisarius was the preferred general of Emperor Justinian (r. 527-565), and served his emperor by leading his armies to defeat the Persians, and to recover North Africa from the Vandals and Italy from the Ostrogoths. Antonina, his wife, was more than a smiling face dragged along for the ride. She was a serious political operative in her own right, and her partnership with Belisarius enabled both of them to reach astounding heights of power in the middle of the century. Belisarius and Antonina worked together to secure most of their greatest achievements. Antonina was famous in her own day for accompanying Belisarius on his military campaigns. The historian Procopius of Caesarea exclaimed, “she made a point of accompanying him to the ends of the earth!” Antonina traveled with Belisarius to Italy in 535 and was at his side when the general and his army triumphantly (and peacefully) entered Rome on 9 December 536. It had been 60 years since the Eternal City was ruled by a Roman Emperor. “Antonina was a serious political operative in her own right and, with Belisarius, reached astounding heights of power.”
The restoration of Roman authority did not come without some growing pains, however. Within a few months, Belisarius and Antonina began to suspect that Pope Silverius, resident within the city, secretly favored the recently departed Ostrogoths. This was not an unreasonable suspicion, as Silverius owed his papacy to an irregular appointment by the Ostrogothic King Theodahad. So, late in March 537, Antonina and Belisarius together schemed to depose the pope and replace him with someone more loyal to the Roman cause. The anonymously authored Liber Pontificalis provides a vivid depiction of the deposition, suggesting that the couple received the pope in audience while Antonina was reclining on a couch and Belisarius was sitting at her feet. It was Antonina who then spoke, saying, “Tell us, lord Pope Silverius, what have we done to you and the Romans to make you want to betray us into the hands of the Goths?” The pope was then stripped of his vestments and hurried out of the room. A short time later, Belisarius and Antonina appointed Vigilius to be pope. This is a remarkable story that shows the power of Belisarius and Antonina when they worked together. More than this, the deposition of a pope by these two figures is essentially unprecedented. Before this moment, the last time a pope had been deposed and replaced was in 355, when Emperor Constantius II (r. 337-361) deposed Pope Liberius. A pope would not be deposed again until Emperor Constans II (r. 641-668) deposed Pope Martin I in 654. The deposition of a pope was perhaps a once-in-a-century event, and the other successful depositions were made possible only via the extraordinary pressure of the emperor. That Belisarius and Antonina could together depose Silverius, seemingly without much resistance, speaks to their authority and power. Beyond the restoration of Rome and deposition of Pope Silverius, Antonina was with Belisarius for most of his other signature victories. In 533, Belisarius led a Roman army from Constantinople to North Africa. The Romans romped through what is today Tunisia, defeating the Vandal army twice and securing control of the entire Vandal kingdom and its capital, the ancient city of Carthage. Antonina traveled with Belisarius and his army every step of the way. In 540, Belisarius and the Roman army victoriously entered Ravenna, the capital of the Ostrogothic Kingdom, after accepting the submission of the Ostrogothic King Vittigis. Antonina was right there as well. “It is just as significant that Antonina was not with Belisarius for his greatest failures.”
While Antonina was present for most of Belisarius’ greatest victories, it is perhaps just as significant that she seems not to have been with him for his greatest failures. On 19 April 531, Belisarius suffered a serious setback to his military career by losing to the Persians at the Battle of Callinicum. According to Procopius, the officers of the Roman army had pressured the general into offering battle when he thought it was not propitious. Antonina was not present with Belisarius for this campaign or battle, and one wonders whether she might have steeled him to resist the pressure from his subordinates. Similarly, in Summer 542, Belisarius made a serious political faux pas by speculating on who should take the throne next if Justinian, at that time lying sick with the plague, should die. The report of Belisarius’ musing was forwarded to the emperor, who recalled and disgraced his general. Once again, it seems that Antonina was not present at the time. With her political acumen, she might have helped Belisarius to manage the rumor mill and avoid this precipitous fall from favor. Antonina was the wife of a famous Roman general but stopping the description of her with that sells her short. She was a seasoned traveler and a wily political operative in her own right. It was the partnership of Antonina and Belisarius and their shared experiences that helped to propel them to the heights of success and power in the sixth century. Featured image: Basilica of San Vitale, via Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0. OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world. 
 The heavy burden of the past: the history of the conquest of México and the politics of today The history of the conquest of Mexico by Spanish conquistadors in the sixteenth century remains a complex topic of discussion. Various interpretations have emerged throughout the years, each offering unique insights into this pivotal moment in Mexican history. Andrés Manuel López Obrador, Mexico’s president, has taken up the issue and uses it to promote his populist policy. What are López Obrador’s views on this historical event, considering his emphasis on indigenous rights, historical context, and the importance of reconciliation in Mexico? Indigenous rights and empathyAccording to the supporters of the government, one crucial aspect of President López Obrador’s view on the Conquest revolves around his concern for the rights of Mexico’s indigenous populations. He acknowledges the suffering and displacement inflicted upon indigenous communities during the Conquest. López Obrador emphasizes the need to respect the rights, culture, and dignity of indigenous peoples today, highlighting the importance of rectifying historical injustices through governmental policies. His followers appreciate that President López Obrador often emphasizes the significance of understanding the historical context surrounding the Conquest of Mexico and stresses the deep-rooted impact of Spanish colonialism on Mexico’s social, economic, and political structures, which persist to this day. By examining the broader historical context, he claims to foster a critical dialogue about the long-lasting consequences of the Conquest. “López Obrador emphasizes the need to respect the rights, culture, and dignity of indigenous peoples today.”
Reconciliation and nation-buildingAnother key aspect of López Obrador’s views on the Conquest is the importance of reconciliation and nation-building in Mexico. According to the president, healing historical wounds is crucial for fostering unity in the country. López Obrador promotes acknowledgment of the past, aiming to create a more inclusive society. He encourages an open examination of Mexico’s history, recognizing both its triumphs and its darker moments, such as the Conquest, in order to move forward as a nation. Efforts towards reconciliationPresident López Obrador has implemented various initiatives aimed at fostering reconciliation and addressing the historical consequences of the Conquest. One such effort is the campaign to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the fall of Tenochtitlán, the Aztec capital. By highlighting the achievements of pre-Hispanic civilizations and acknowledging the resilience of indigenous communities, López Obrador seeks to honor their contributions and restore a sense of pride in Mexico’s rich cultural heritage. Furthermore, his administration has taken steps to provide reparations to indigenous groups affected by historical injustices. These initiatives include financial compensation, land restoration, and the promotion of indigenous languages and cultures. López Obrador’s government has also prioritized infrastructure development in marginalized communities, aiming to address historical inequalities and improve the living conditions of indigenous populations. “One of the primary criticisms leveled against President López Obrador’s views is the oversimplification of complex historical events.”
Oversimplification of historyOne of the primary criticisms leveled against President López Obrador’s views is the oversimplification of complex historical events. His narrative often presents the conquest of Mexico as a morally clear-cut clash between indigenous peoples and Spanish conquistadors, neglecting the diverse dynamics and complex interactions that shaped this pivotal period in Mexican history. By reducing the conquest to a simplistic dichotomy of good versus evil, López Obrador overlooks the nuanced political, social, and cultural realities of the time. Historical anachronismAnother significant criticism of López Obrador’s perspective is the application of contemporary standards to judge historical events. It is important to acknowledge that the values, norms, and perspectives of the sixteenth-century differ greatly from those of the present day. While recognizing the atrocities committed during the conquest, it is crucial to avoid projecting contemporary moral judgments onto historical actors. President López Obrador’s approach risks disregarding the historical context and complexities that influenced the actions of both indigenous peoples and the Spanish. Exacerbation of social divisionsPresident López Obrador’s views on the conquest of Mexico have also faced criticism for their potential to exacerbate social divisions within the country. By emphasizing a simplistic narrative of victimhood, he risks perpetuating a sense of grievance and fostering resentment between different ethnic and cultural groups. While it is crucial to acknowledge historical injustices, a balanced approach that promotes understanding, reconciliation, and national unity is necessary to address the complexities of Mexico’s history and the multicultural nature of its society. Marginalization of indigenous agencyCritics argue that López Obrador’s narrative of victimhood often marginalizes indigenous agency and undermines the rich history of indigenous resistance, adaptation, and cultural preservation during and after the conquest. By portraying indigenous peoples solely as victims, he fails to acknowledge their resilience, cultural contributions, and role in shaping the Mexican nation. Such a one-sided portrayal overlooks the complexity of indigenous societies and their interaction with European colonizers, ultimately perpetuating a distorted understanding of Mexico’s history. “Critics argue that López Obrador’s narrative of victimhood often marginalizes indigenous agency.”
Diminished focus on contemporary challengesBy directing excessive attention to the conquest of Mexico, President López Obrador’s views risk diverting focus from pressing contemporary issues that require urgent attention, such as poverty, corruption, inequality, and violence. While historical reckoning is important, an excessive emphasis on the past can distract from addressing current socio-economic challenges. Critics argue that López Obrador’s approach to history risks neglecting the pressing needs of the Mexican people and hampering progress in areas that demand immediate attention. President Andrés Manuel López Obrador’s views on the Conquest of Mexico reflect his emphasis on indigenous rights and national reconciliation. By acknowledging the atrocities committed during the Conquest, he seeks to rectify historical injustices and build a more inclusive Mexico. Through his initiatives and policies, López Obrador aims to honor the contributions of indigenous communities, promote dialogue, and foster a sense of national identity that is rooted in both the pre-Hispanic past and the multicultural present. However, his policies also give rise to criticism which revolves around concerns of oversimplification, historical anachronism, the exacerbation of social divisions, the marginalization of indigenous agency, and the potential neglect of contemporary challenges. Featured image by Diego Rivera, via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0) OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world. 
 Xenophon’s kinder Socrates “Of Socrates we have nothing genuine but in the Memorabilia of Xenophon,” Thomas Jefferson wrote to a friend in 1819, comparing Xenophon’s work favourably with the “mysticisms” and “whimsies” of Plato’s dialogues. More recently, many philosophers have taken the opposite view; a typical verdict is that of Terence Irwin in 1974, who described Xenophon as a “retired general” who presented “ordinary conversations.” The idea that Xenophon’s Socratic dialogues entirely lacked the philosophical bite or intellectual depth of Plato’s had become a commonplace in a philosophical discourse which prioritised abstract knowledge over broader ethics. Both Jefferson and Irwin were right in identifying the characteristics of Xenophon’s depiction of his teacher—his overwhelming concern with providing practical advice for living a good life, and for managing relationships with family and friends. But both missed Xenophon’s lively wit, and his use of the dialogue form to put Socrates in conversation with Athenians, both friends and family and more public figures whose identity adds some spice to the discussion. Xenophon depicts a Socrates who offers pragmatic solutions to the difficulties his Athenian friends face, from Socrates’ own son’s rows with his mother to his friend Crito’s difficulties with vexatious lawsuits targeting his wealth. Where Plato shows Socrates leaving his conversation partners numbed and distressed by their recognition of their ignorance, as if attacked by a stingray, Xenophon takes more care to show how Socrates moved friends and students on from the discomfort of that initial learning moment. He offers practical solutions and friendly encouragement, whether persuading warring brothers to support each other or finding a way in which a friend can support the extended family taking refuge in his home. His advice is underpinned by an ethical commitment to creating and maintaining community. It is not that Xenophon’s Socrates is afraid to show the over-confident the limits of their capabilities; while he offers encouragement and practical advice on personal and business matters, he rebukes those who want power and prestige without first doing their homework. His Socrates demonstrates to the young Glaucon that he needs to be much better informed about the facts and figures of Athenian civic and military resources before he proposes policy to his fellow citizens in Athens or seeks elected office. Socrates’ forensic uncovering of the young man’s ignorance of practical matters is sharpened for readers who recognise that this is Plato’s brother, depicted in his Republic as an acute interlocutor, able to follow Socrates’ most intellectually demanding arguments. In the conversation Xenophon presents, Glaucon is reduced to mumbling one excuse after another: “Then first tell us,” said Socrates, “what the city’s land and naval forces are, and then those of our enemies.” “Frankly,” he said, “I couldn’t tell you that just off the top of my head.” “Well, if you have some notes of it, please fetch them,” said Socrates. “I would be really glad to hear what they say.” “Frankly,” he said, “I haven’t yet made any notes either.” (Memorabilia 3.6.9)
Xenophon might be making a very ordinary claim here, that good leadership decision-making rests on a firm grasp of practical detail. But it gains depth when read against Plato’s argument in the Republic for handing over political leadership to philosopher kings, trained in theoretical disciplines. Xenophon argues that rule should be grounded from the bottom up; he is a firm believer in transferable skills, and that the ability to manage a household might equip someone to lead an army or their city. Xenophon does not leave Glaucon quite as discomfited as Socrates’ interlocutors in Platonic dialogues become, such as the Euthyphro where the titular character hurries away rather than go through another round of being disabused of his opinions. He shows how Socrates moves on from the low point of the realisation of ignorance and starts to rebuild his interlocutors’ self-confidence, now underpinned by knowledge and self-awareness. Socrates offers Glaucon a careful recommendation for developing his management skills and gaining credibility before returning to public debates as a more impressive contributor. With another student, Euthydemus, Socrates switches from the argumentative mode familiar from Plato’s work—the Socratic “elenchus” or refutation—to exhortation and encouragement, as teacher and student become more familiar with each other and learn together cooperatively. “Responding to Plato’s dialogues with a less intellectualist account of the capacities that leaders need, Xenophon made a case for the importance of leadership skills and knowledge as the basis of public trust.”
One reason that Xenophon was motivated to show a Socrates who encouraged his students to make useful contributions to public life was to rebut critics who presented him—not entirely without cause—as the teacher of some of the leaders of the brutal regime of the Thirty, which briefly overthrew Athens’ democracy after the end of the Peloponnesian War. Xenophon insists that these former students had abandoned Socrates’ teaching in favour of an aggressive pursuit of power. Xenophon recognised the usefulness of a wide range of practical experience. A businessman might well make a useful general. But he makes Socrates insist that leaders must show practical knowledge and analytical skills in order to persuade others to follow them and to deliver successful outcomes, whether in business or in battle. The combination of knowledge and skill, which his students label basilikē technē, the “royal art”,” is an essential attribute of leadership. By responding to Plato’s dialogues with a less intellectualist account of the capacities that leaders need, Xenophon made a case for the importance of leadership skills and knowledge as the basis of public trust. In a contemporary context where trust in leaders and educators alike is low, perhaps there is a powerful and accessible case for the role of expertise in government and society, which Xenophon makes through his memories of Socrates’ conversations. Featured image: “The Death of Socrates” by Jacques-Louis David via The Met (public domain) OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world. 
 How long can the historical associations of places be remembered? In Archaeology of Jesus’ Nazareth, I discuss a first-century building in Nazareth probably believed by the end of the seventh century to be where Jesus was brought up. Earlier, Egeria—the Western Roman woman writing in the 380s—says that the house of Mary, mother of Jesus, was on what may be the same site. This raises the question—of much wider applicability than just to first-century Nazareth—of whether local memory of an association between a place and the people who lived there could really be preserved for more than three centuries. The answer to this question once seemed clearcut. Sociologists, historians, and social anthropologists such as Maurice Halbwachs and David Henige, working in the late twentieth century, stressed the ways in which the communal recollection of memories could be adapted and altered to fit the current concerns of people in changing circumstances. They doubted that anything historically reliable could persist purely in the shared memories of non-literate people for more than about 200 years. In terms of religious history, although this has no significant implications for the reliability of the Gospels as historical texts—they were all written well within that c.200-year bracket—it has major implications for the authenticity of those places associated with Gospel passages by fourth-century Christian pilgrims to the Holy Land. When these pilgrims claimed that specific places were the exact locations of particular events in the Gospels, without any written evidence later than the Gospels themselves, one would, according to this “200-year rule,” be inclined to disbelieve these identifications. No association between places and events, it was said, could reliably be remembered simply by word-of-month testimony from the early first to the fourth centuries. “Can local memory of an association between a place and the people who lived there be preserved for more than three centuries?”
However, twenty-first century studies challenge this twentieth-century scholarly consensus. Several striking instances of correlation between archaeological discoveries and topographical traditions have cast doubt on the existence of a 200-year “historical horizon.” There are so many examples of this that here I can give just a few examples. Only this year, for instance, a rescue excavation at Leicester cathedral in England confirmed the local story that a Roman temple formerly stood on its site. The present cathedral originated as an eleventh-century church, and no Roman temple in Britain can be shown to have been in use after the early fifth century—so there was an approximately an 700-year gap between the temple and church. Even assuming that Roman ruins discovered during construction of the church in the eleventh century most likely led to the post-medieval legend, the memory of this would have had to have been preserved by the people of Leicester in unwritten form for centuries. This is nowhere near the longest time that unwritten knowledge seems to have preserved the historical associations of a place. The anthropologists Frances and Howard Morphy have recently drawn attention to scores of inland indigenous Yolngu place-names in Arnhem Land, in the north of Australia, which give details of an earlier coastline identified by twenty-first century geological research and otherwise invisible for about 3000 years. Consequently, there seems no other possible conclusion than that local people, living in the same—but geomorphologically altered—landscape, preserved detailed topographical knowledge of the former coastline over three millennia through their unwritten names for these places alone. Returning to the Nazareth, a local story recorded in 1881 by the nuns of the Sisters of Nazareth convent said that a big church had once stood on the present Sisters of Nazareth convent site. This place had indeed been the site of a large church, probably razed to the ground by fire in the capture of Nazareth in 1187—694 years earlier. Yet the existence of that church was only discovered during the nun’s subsequent excavations, when they found its ruins buried metres deep below ground-level. “There seems no doubt that the 200-year rule cannot be taken as the sort of cultural law that it once seemed.”
Of course, by no means all such topographical legends and traditional stories have a basis in fact. Many are certainly no more than fabrication and others contain embellishment or “editing” in later centuries. But judging from archaeological and anthropological cases of this sort of correlation—and the list of them is growing constantly—there seems no doubt that the 200-year rule cannot be taken as the sort of cultural law that it once seemed. While it is impossible to use this to say that the legendary associations of a place always have some basis in historical fact, it may show that they can. This brings us back to the “house of Jesus.” It is plausible on this basis that the historical associations of a place—even a place in Nazareth—could have been remembered between the early first century and the 380s, or even 670s. But we cannot tell for sure that it was. OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world. 
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