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This chapter discusses the evolution of pagan iconography in Late Antiquity, examining how depictions of traditional gods and rituals changed between 300 and 700 CE. It challenges earlier interpretations that associate this period with artistic decline, instead emphasising continuity and transformation in the representation of pagan themes across various media. Drawing on legal, literary, epigraphic and archaeological evidence, the chapter provides a comprehensive perspective on the artistic and religious landscape of the period. It discusses key examples such as the Arch of Constantine, which repurposed older sacrificial motifs, and later fourth-century artworks like the Symmachi ivory diptych, which continued to depict pagan sacrifices despite the growing influence of Christianity. The chapter also examines the selective destruction of pagan imagery, particularly the mutilated reliefs from the Aphrodisias Sebasteion, demonstrating how sacrificial depictions were specifically targeted. The chapter concludes by noting that while sacrificial iconography faded, other pagan motifs – especially those associated with gods like Dionysus and Venus – remained prevalent in mosaics, silverware and textiles. This enduring presence underscores the adaptability of pagan imagery, which continued to influence artistic traditions long after the fall of the Roman Empire.
Two networks transformed the early modern world. The first was the Iberian network of discoverers and conquerors that helped usher in an age of European world domination and colonialism. The second was facilitated by a new technology, printing, which helped unleash the huge religious and political disruption we know as the Reformation. What Niall Ferguson describes as a “religious virus that came to be known as Protestantism” disrupted an ancient ecclesiastical hierarchy, fractured into many pieces Europe’s Catholic Christianity, and ushered in a long era of violent conflict. This chapter investigates religious networks within the Lutheran, Reformed, and Radical wings of the Reformation and highlights the formation, evolution, suppression, and ultimate survival of the Jesuit Order as a classic transnational network within Catholic Christianity.
This chapter examines the production and significance of early Christian sarcophagi, emphasising their role in the development of Christian iconography and funerary practices. It explores a wide range of materials to provide a comprehensive understanding of how these objects were crafted and used. A key argument is that Christian sarcophagi were not a completely new artistic form but evolved from earlier Roman traditions. They were produced using techniques similar to those of their pagan counterparts, with artisans carving reliefs into marble chests, often on commission. However, Christian sarcophagi introduced new imagery, incorporating biblical scenes, martyrs and theological themes that conveyed the Christian hope for resurrection. The chapter challenges the assumption that sarcophagus production declined abruptly, instead demonstrating that Christian sarcophagi remained in use well into the fifth and sixth centuries, particularly in centres such as Rome, Gaul and Constantinople. Ultimately, the chapter argues that early Christian funerary art was both a continuation of tradition and a medium for transformation. Sarcophagi, in particular, were not merely burial containers but also status symbols for the Christian elite, reflecting their social aspirations and religious identity.
During the century-and-a-half slumber of social contract theory the idea of universal adult suffrage became commonplace. It had long been assumed that formal political equality would more than suffice to defend the less advantaged against class legislation (although the worry shared by Ireton and Mill, that majority rule would enable class legislation favoring the less advantaged, has never disappeared). Rawls argued that a well-ordered constitutional democracy must guarantee the fair value of the equal political liberties (and those liberties alone: The others come within the difference principle in its special form). Rawls complained that this position seemed “never to have been taken seriously.” Rawls suggested a number of devices to secure fair value: promotion devices, such as subsidies of political parties and public debate; insulation devices, such as limits upon campaign contributions and expenditures; and anti-accumulation devices, such as inheritance taxes and public ownership of the means of production. Why, though, would parties in the original position insist on the fair-value guarantee? One argument extends the argument for the priority of the whole family of basic liberties, with special emphasis on stability “for the right reasons” and the shared sense of justice essential to it.
This Element supports Gwich'in, Iñupiat, and all Alaska Natives' collective continuance and reparative justice from the perspective of a settler in the traditional territories of lower Tanana Dene Peoples. It stands with Alaska Natives' recovering and safe-keeping: kinships obstructed by settler-colonialism; ontologies and languages inseparable from land-relations and incommensurable with English-language perspectives; and epistemologies not beholden to any colonialist standard. These rights and responsibilities clash with Leopoldian conservation narratives still shaping mind-sets and institutions that eliminate Indigenous Peoples by telling bad history and by presuming entitlements to lands and norm-making authority. It models an interlocking method and methodology – surfacing white supremacist settler-colonialist assumptions and structures of Leopoldian conservation narratives – that may be adapted to critique other problematic legacies. It offers a pra xis of anti-colonialist, anti-racist, liberatory environmental-narrative critical-assessment centering Indigenous experts and values, including consent, diplomacy, and intergenerational respect needed for stable coalitions-making for climate and environmental justice.
This chapter examines the urban development of Alexandria in Late Antiquity, tracing its transformation from a Hellenistic metropolis into a vital centre of Roman and Byzantine administration, commerce and religion. It analyses architectural and archaeological evidence to explore how the city’s infrastructure evolved in response to political shifts and economic changes. Particular attention is given to Alexandria’s grid-plan layout, monumental public buildings and role as a Mediterranean trade hub. The chapter outlines key construction phases, including Ptolemaic urban planning, Roman imperial projects and late antique renovations. Excavations at Kom el-Dikka provide crucial insights into the city’s residential, commercial and academic landscapes, revealing lecture halls, baths and artisanal workshops. This study also examines the impact of religious transformation, documenting the conversion of pagan temples into Christian churches and the rise of new ecclesiastical structures. Further emphasising Alexandria’s role as a major intellectual centre, the study highlights its famous auditoria and the persistence of scholarly activity even after the decline of its classical library tradition. Despite the challenges posed by modern urban expansion, ongoing excavations continue to refine our understanding of Alexandria’s resilience and adaptability in Late Antiquity.
Chapter 13 on Common but Differentiated Responsibilities and Respective Capabilities provides a critical analysis of this cornerstone principle of international climate law and its implications for climate litigation. The principle recognises the differentiated responsibilities and capabilities of countries in addressing climate change, acknowledging the historical contribution of developed nations to global greenhouse gas emissions and the greater capacity these nations possess to mitigate climate change and adapt to its impacts. The author critically analyses key cases where the principle has been raised, and assesses the legal reasoning employed by courts and tribunals that have given it a specific meaning. The author then identifies instances of emerging best practice where the principle has been interpreted and applied in ways that enhance climate justice outcomes. She notes that such instances do not yet constitute a uniform trend but they nonetheless illustrate the potential of this principle in shaping the delineation of responsibilities in climate lawsuits, considering fairness, equity, and historical responsibility.
This chapter examines the architectural development of early Christian churches, focusing on their transformation from modest worship spaces into monumental basilicas and centrally planned buildings in Late Antiquity. Drawing on archaeological findings, architectural studies, historical texts and artistic analyses, it traces the evolution of church architecture from the fourth to the seventh century. It argues that early Christian churches did not develop in isolation but were heavily influenced by existing Roman architectural traditions, pointing out that the standard basilica model, with its central nave, aisles and apse, was adapted from Roman civic buildings, while centrally planned churches were inspired by imperial mausolea. The chapter also explores regional variations, such as the preference for polygonal apses in Constantinople and straight-ended churches in North Africa and the Levant, demonstrating how local traditions shaped Christian architecture. A key argument is that church architecture was not only functional but also symbolic, reinforcing Christian identity and imperial authority. The use of precious materials, elaborate mosaics and grand designs reflected the growing prestige of Christianity. The chapter also highlights the influence of emperors, particularly Constantine and Justinian, in shaping the architectural landscape of the early church, setting a precedent for later developments in Byzantine and Western medieval architecture.
This chapter examines the early Islamic period, focusing on the transformation of Iberia, North Africa, the Middle East, Central Asia and Sind following the rise of Islam. It explores how Islamic expansion reshaped these regions, highlighting both continuities with Late Antiquity and the emergence of new cultural, political and religious structures. The chapter discusses vital sources, including chronicles, hadith collections, inscriptions, coins and archaeological findings. It analyses the establishment of early Islamic cities, such as Kufa, Basra and Fustat, and the role of garrison towns in governance. Architectural evidence, including early mosques and urban structures, provides insights into Islam’s growing influence. A central argument is that Islam’s expansion was not an abrupt break from the past but a gradual transformation. Many aspects of administration, language and daily life remained unchanged, while Islam introduced new religious and political dynamics. The chapter also emphasises the role of material culture, including coins and inscriptions, in projecting Islamic identity. In this way, this study illustrates the complex interplay between continuity and change in the early Islamic world, arguing that archaeological research is essential for understanding the period’s long-term developments beyond textual sources.
This chapter explores Byzantine military architecture between 400 and 600, concentrating on the design, function and strategic significance of fortifications. It examines various defensive structures, including urban walls, military forts, civilian refuges and large-scale linear barriers. The chapter argues that fortifications were not merely passive defensive measures but played an active role in military strategy. It challenges the idea that increased fortification indicated imperial weakness, instead asserting that these defensive networks provided greater operational flexibility. Fortifications allowed armies to delay enemy advances, launch counterattacks and protect key urban centres. Additionally, the chapter highlights the evolution of fortification techniques, such as outward-projecting towers, deep ditches, reinforced gate structures and expanded urban wall circuits, demonstrating how these innovations responded to changing military threats. Ultimately, the chapter concludes that Byzantine military architecture was as much about psychological warfare as it was about physical defence. Well-designed fortifications not only deterred invasions but also reinforced imperial authority and boosted the morale of defenders, serving as both strategic and symbolic bulwarks of the empire.
This chapter examines the phenomenon of spolia in Late Antiquity, focusing on the reuse of architectural and sculptural elements in new contexts. It explores examples from Rome, Milan, Ravenna, Thessaloniki and Constantinople, analysing how materials were repurposed for practical, aesthetic and ideological purposes. The contribution differentiates between indiscriminate reuse for construction and the deliberate selection of objects for symbolic or propagandistic reasons. One major discussion centres on the Arch of Constantine (312–15 CE), which incorporates second-century reliefs from monuments dedicated to Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius. The chapter considers whether this reuse was driven by practical necessity due to a lack of skilled artisans or intended as an ideological statement aligning Constantine with past emperors. In religious contexts, the Lateran Basilica and Old St Peter’s in Rome reused columns and marbles, transferring imperial grandeur to Christian spaces. This study also investigates the role of spolia in fortifications, with repurposed materials found in city walls, cisterns and military installations. Highlighting how this practice continued into the medieval period, when spolia became more prominent in church facades and mosques, the chapter argues that reuse in Late Antiquity was not simply a result of economic constraints but a deliberate process that shaped architectural and artistic traditions.
This chapter defines the theoretical terms – networks, nodes, and nuclei – explains the choice of dates between two revolutions in communication (print and the internet), and gives some concrete historical examples of the tangible benefits of looking at the history of Christianity through transnational flows and networks. This approach allows us to cross national and denominational boundaries and borders and to think more deeply about the underlying social and cultural conditions promoting or resisting adaptation and change. It also enables us to explore the crossroads or junction boxes where religious personnel and ideas encountered different traditions and from which something new and dynamic emerged.