Time’s Tapestry - Ancient Clocks and Towers
~ part two ~
As I settled into my cozy writing nook, enveloped by the gentle hush of the first snowfall of the season, I found myself inspired to revisit my favourite subject: time. In the previous blog post, we delved into the intricate tapestry of time, exploring the various calendars that have marked the passage of days and seasons. Now, as I sit surrounded by the subtle magic of winter's first descent, I'm drawn to unraveling the historical threads that led us to the calendars we use today.
My fascination with time leads me to Dionysius Exiguus, who, around 500 years after the birth of Christ, crafted a calendar that secured approval from the Church and continues to mark our days. However, before Dionysius, how did our ancestors measure the passage of time? To answer this question, we embark on a historical exploration, tracing the evolution of timekeeping from ancient to medieval times.
In the realm of medieval miniatures, time is captured in delicate strokes of ink, depicting the celestial dance that dictated the passing hours. Our exploration extends further, venturing into the heart of Chioggia and Nuremberg, where the gears of timekeeping were set in motion. But how far back should we go to untangle the threads of time's genesis?
Let’s picture our ancient ancestors, not with pocket watches or digital calendars, but with keen eyes fixed on the cosmos and nature's subtle cues. Long before Dionysius Exiguus penned his calendar, humanity sought guidance from the celestial dance of the sun and moon. The sun, faithful in its daily rising and setting, graciously marked the rhythm of a day, while the ever-shifting phases of the moon hinted at the passage of a lunar month. It was as if our forebearers held celestial hourglasses, measuring time in the grand amphitheater of the sky.
The changing seasons, with the sun taking center stage in its annual journey, became the master conductor of this cosmic orchestra. Observing the sun's position and the length of daylight, our ancestors choreographed the dance of months and years, creating an early, if not entirely precise, calendar of the heavens.
Yet, in this primitive chronicle of time, there were no ticking clocks or synchronized watches—just the rustle of leaves, the song of birds, and the blooming of flowers. Imagine an ancient sage, contemplating the migration of birds or the blossoming of specific plants as indicators of the changing seasons, weaving nature's cues into the fabric of their perception of time.
So, how far back should we venture to witness the genesis of time? It's a journey through the ages, where even the earliest attempts to grasp time are as enchanting as the first snowfall of the season.
In the annals of ancient times, our narrative unfolds in the heart of Rome, circa 263 BCE. Enter Manius Valerius Maximus, a Roman war hero whose conquest of Catania during the First Punic War left an indelible mark on history. (despite its name, not a battle of puns, but a serious showdown between Rome and Carthage where they fought over more than just who had the wittiest wordplay – turns out, puns couldn't protect your prows from being purloined!) So, anyway, Valerius, having brokered the crucial treaty at Syracuse, returned to Rome not only with military trophies but with a modest yet transformative object.
Among the war booty from Catania, where the prows of captured enemy ships adorned public centers like the Forum, was a seemingly mundane item. This unassuming artefact, looted by Valerius, would change the lives of ordinary Romans—and ours—forever. A relic brought from the sun-drenched shores of Sicily, this object was no less than a sundial, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of time in the heart of the Roman Republic.
But how did it look like? Well, imagine a grand block of marble in which a hemispherical cavity had carefully been chiseled out. At the top of the cavity was a bronze pointer (or gnomon), and lines carved into the marble acted as the time-telling scales on to which the gnomon’s shadow fell. It marked Rome's first venture into public timekeeping. Yet, as the citizens adjusted to this new timekeeping technology, sundials became both a marvel and a source of frustration.
Valerius Maximus, in displaying this sundial, unwittingly unleashed a timekeeping revolution. The Forum, once a stage for Rome's most famous orations, now featured a silent conductor of daily life. However, as sundials multiplied across the city, controlling the rhythm of activities, some citizens grew uneasy. Playwrights and critics, exasperated by the intrusion of hours into daily life, poured scorn over the sundials.
And as they grumbled about the proliferation of sundials, one can't help but wonder how a modern-day comedian, perhaps a witty soul like Robin Williams, would have tackled the situation. Picture him, with his rapid-fire humor and trademark energy, taking the stage to quip, 'Back in ancient Rome, they had sundials on every corner. Can you imagine? You're just trying to grab a quick toga snack, and the sun's like, 'Hold on, let me cast a shadow first.' I miss the good old days when your stomach was the only sundial you needed. Now, even eating is scheduled around the solar calendar. The struggle is real, folks!' The echoes of laughter in the ancient Forum may have been different, but the sentiment remains timeless.
Calls to tear down sundials with crowbars echoed, but it was too late. Public sundials became an enduring feature across the Republic, marking the inexorable march of time.
Fast forward from the bustling Forum to another ancient city, where a different marvel awaited – the Tower of the Winds. Some thousand kilometers from Rome, in the Greek city of Athens, they didn’t just stop at sundials. They went all out with a Tower of the Winds, which was like a timekeeping Swiss Army knife – sundials, weathervane (i.e. the original social media for the wind, telling everyone which way it's trending, one gust at a time) and a water clock. The Greeks didn’t mess around when it came to measuring time and catching the breeze. I can almost hear them saying, “Let’s thrown in Triton for good measure!”
The Tower of the Winds, this marvel frozen in time, emerges as one of antiquity's best-preserved wonders. Picture this: an octagonal marble tower, standing proudly at the bustling foot of the legendary Acropolis in Athens, where the cacophony of a vibrant marketplace meets the elegance of ancient engineering.
Rising 14 meters into the sky and spanning eight meters across, the tower was a spectacle that captivated the crowded city. Its external walls told a story in vibrant hues, adorned with reliefs and mouldings portraying the eight winds that swepped through the streets. Each of the eight walls, along with a semi-circular annexe, still hosts a sundial, turning the tower into a celestial timekeeper.
Stepping inside, and the spectacle continued. The ceiling, painted a mesmerising blue and adorned with golden stars, created an illusion of the heavens above. At the heart of this grandeur lay a water clock, drawing from the sacred source high on the Acropolis known as the Clepsydra. This water clock once powered a celestial model akin to a planetarium, unveiling the cosmic dance of the stars.
As for when this architectural masterpiece emerged from the hands of brilliance, mystery veils its birth. Some tales attribute its creation to the skilled architect Andronikos of Kyrrhos in the 1st century BC. Regardless of the precise moment it graced Athens, the Tower of the Winds remains a testament to ancient ingenuity, a beacon of timekeeping echoing through the ages. Beyond its practical role in providing Athenians with the time of day as they navigated their daily lives, the Tower carried a deeper symbolism.
The gods of the winds, depicted in vibrant reliefs that adorned its external walls, served as allegories of the world order. The sundials that adorned each face of the tower were not just timekeepers; they were markers of a wider cosmic harmony. Step inside, and the celestial panorama painted on the ceiling, coupled with the water clock created a symbolic representation of cosmic order. The stars within, together with the mechanical replica of the heavens, transformed the tower into an astonishing spectacle - a convergence of art, science, and a profound understanding of the universe.
As the Tower of the Winds stood as a testament to cosmic order in Athens, across the ages and continents, new chapters in the story of timekeeping were being written. Like Valerius' sundial, proudly installed in Rome, the Tower of the Winds may have carried a further message, a hidden story woven into its very stones. Some historians propose that the Tower might have been the vision of Attalos II, the king of the Greek city of Pergamom, erected to commemorate the Athenian victory over the Persian navy in 480 BCE.
In peacetime, this towering structure would serve as a vivid reminder of the military strength of the state and the discipline needed to uphold it. And as we journey further through time, another intriguing possibility emerges. Imagine the city of Verona, once part of the Roman Empire but ruled by Theodoric, a Gothic king. Here, within the city walls, a monumental acoustic clock tower housed a huge water clock, synchronised by the sun. This remarkable creation not only displayed the time but orchestrated an extravaganza of sound. Documents from a scholar in Theodoric's court describe musical instruments producing strange voices through the violent springing up of waters. Theodoric himself clarified the purpose of this clock tower: to enable the people of Verona to 'distinguish the various hours of the day and thus decide how best to occupy every moment.' In a city where a sundial might be overlooked or misread, the monumental acoustic clock tower, resounding with the passage of time just outside the city walls, ensured that the order implied by time could not be ignored.
As empires around the world expanded, the sight and sound of time from lofty towers became not just a measure of the day but a proclamation of power and order. Long before Verona's acoustic clock tower graced the cityscape, the rhythmic beats of drums or the resonant tolling of bells echoed over imperial Chinese towns and cities. Often centered on bustling marketplaces, these towers served not only to organize the lives of people but also to project a message of authority.
Over a thousand years later, in the late thirteenth century, Marco Polo, with his keen eye for the extraordinary, visited Kublai Khan's capital city of Dadu, today's Beijing. There, he encountered two towers standing sentinel over the city center. One tower housed drums, the other a bell, both sounding every evening to mark the onset of a strict curfew. Anyone daring to linger in the streets after the curfew risked arrest and a not-so-friendly encounter with troops patrolling the city on horseback – because nothing says 'bedtime' like a drumbeat and a curfew, enforced with equestrian finesse.
Across imperial Japan, from at least the eighth century onward, each major city and distant outpost boasted its clepsydra and a tall tower. From these heights, time was announced to the public, and the towers doubled as sentinels, raising alarms in the face of danger from fire or attack. In the intricate fabric of daily life, clock towers became indispensable components of the ordering infrastructure, marking not just the passage of time but the pulse of power and the rhythm of societal discipline.
Public time has been on the march for thousands of years. It's easy to assume that public clocks are an inevitable feature of our lives, but as we turn the pages of history, we discover the delightful tales they have to tell. Our next stop in this historical escapade brings us to the ancient Italian canal-city of Chioggia, a medieval technological crucible where time unfolded with both precision and a touch of Renaissance flair. Here, the canals sang their aquatic rhythms, and the clatter of artisans' tools provided a lively backdrop to the march of time.
Navigating these medieval waters, the stories of ingenious clockmakers and the city's unfolding chronicles will ripple through the ages like a finely crafted timepiece, leading us to the looming bell tower of St Andrew's Church (Orologio della Torre di Sant'Andrea) on the main Corso del Popolo piazza. As we approach this venerable structure, the echoes of centuries past become ever more pronounced, inviting us to unravel the threads of time in this enchanting medieval tableau.
Now, let's set the stage for Chioggia – a place so timeless that even I can't remember where I first stumbled upon it, probably in some documentary lost in the vast expanse of Youtube channels. Luckily David Rooney's book swooped in like a literary polymath, offering a wealth of knowledge and saving me from the clutches of forgetfulness. And what did I learn? Well, Chioggia proudly cradles what is heralded as the oldest mechanical clock in the world, a contraption that started its rhythmic dance more than 600 years ago (in 1386, to be exact). Back then, mechanical clocks were like the trendy gadgets of the time, having only been around for about a century. Yet, none older than Chioggia's clock has managed to weather the centuries, though Salisbury Cathedral in the UK boasts another clock from the same birth year. Talk about a clock-based rivalry – move over sports, it's all about the ticking hands!
But wait, there's more to Chioggia's horological fame. It's not just about ticking off the years; it's about the tick-tock mastery of two of the world's most celebrated medieval clockmakers: Jacopo de Dondi and his son Giovanni. Their clockwork planetarium from 1364 has not only thrilled scholars and collectors but probably raised a few eyebrows in the celestial realms. 'Look at these Earth-dwellers, trying to mimic the cosmos!' You can almost hear the planets chuckling from afar.
Jacopo and Giovanni came from a city that stood resilient in the face of adversity. Picture this: a thriving town, once bustling with life, brought to its knees by the twin terrors of the Black Death and a brutal economic struggle between the mighty powers of Genoa and Venice. The population, decimated by the plague and ravaged by war, faced the daunting task of rebuilding their beloved city from the ground up.
Now, why did I settle upon Chioggia in this narrative? Because amidst the ruins and the echoes of suffering, something extraordinary happened in 1386. In a city reeling from the scars of devastation, the city council made a decision that would shape Chioggia's destiny. They gathered, amidst severe budget cuts and slashed expenses, and unanimously agreed to pay a clockmaker, the skilled Pietro Boca, for the ongoing maintenance of the city hall's clock. This wasn't just any clock; it was a symbol of hope, a beacon of order in a city that desperately needed it.
The decision to invest in a working tower clock, overlooking the main piazza, was a testament to the city's resilience. In a time when crucial city council offices faced drastic cuts, including the loss of medics, legal staff, and trading-standards inspectors, the commitment to maintaining the clock spoke volumes about the significance placed on the heartbeat of Chioggia. Was the clock new, second-hand, or a refurbished relic from a bygone era? The details may be lost to time, but what remains crystal clear is the city's unwavering belief in the importance of marking time, even when the world seemed to be unraveling. Chioggia, through its clock tower, declared to the world that it would not succumb to the shadows of its past, but rather, it would stand tall, ticking away as a reminder of the city's indomitable spirit.
As empires rose and fell, the symphony of time played on. The sounds of clocks, from the melodious chimes of water clocks to the rhythmic beats of drums in distant towers, echoed through history. The notion of marking different moments of the day with distinct sounds became a captivating idea. How could these timekeepers not only measure time but also announce it to the world?
Cue in Nuremberg, a city that would become a centre of craftsmanship in the medieval era. In this vibrant hub of innovation, a masterful clockmaker named Peter Henlein emerged. His ingenuity would propel timekeeping into a new era. The clocks crafted in Nuremberg were not mere timepieces; they were works of art, ticking with precision and chiming with a resonance that captured the essence of each passing hour.
Part two of the Tapestry concludes in the heart of Nuremberg, where the symphony of craftsmanship harmonises with the ticking of finely tuned clocks. The journey through time, marked by sundials, towers, and celestial wonders, now enters a new chapter. Part three beckons, promising a closer look at the artistry of watchmaking, the allure of miniaturisation, and the passion that binds humanity to these timeless companions.
But before we wind up this chapter of our temporal journey, a humble nod to the countless tales, treatises, and ingenious devices that dot the vast landscape of timekeeping. The history of horology is a labyrinth of intricacies, and attempting to capture every facet would be akin to chasing time itself – an endeavor both thrilling and impossible. Imagine, if you will, the literary equivalent of a time-traveling TARDIS. Alas, our narrative must resist the temptation to meander through every nook and cranny of history, from al-Jazari's Castle Clock described in the fascinating Book of Ingenious Devices, to George Daniels’ Watchmaking compendium.
These are chapters in the grand book of time that deserve their own spotlight, perhaps even a West End play or two! So, as we bid adieu to part two, our tapestry is rich with threads of ancient sundials, grand towers, and the symphonies of clocks. And yet, like the eccentricities of a British tea party, there's always room for more. So, to those patient enough to sit until now, as we step into the cobbled streets of Nuremberg, let us revel in the wit of Peter Henlein's creations, knowing that the horological adventure continues. Onward to part three, where the world of watches beckons, and the whimsy of time unfolds in delightful miniaturisation.
