Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

DOI 10.1007/s10761-016-0359-0

Religious Colonialism in Early Modern Malta:

Inquisitorial Imprisonment and Inmate Graffiti

Russell Palmer 1

Published online: 20 July 2016

# Springer Science+Business Media New York 2016

Abstract Early modern Malta was governed by three competing Roman Catholic
institutions—Order of St. John, Bishopric, and Roman Inquisition—all of which
ultimately answered to the Pope. By focusing on the inquisition, the institution most
directly controlled by the Vatican, this paper explores the role of imprisonment in
furthering the Vatican’s cultural and political control on the island. In doing so, this
paper offers an archaeological perspective on an early modern prison context. Through
analyses of the prison cells and the inmates’ graffiti, I argue that the inquisition’s ability
to imprison was crucial to the Vatican’s colonial position in Malta.

Keywords Inquisition . Malta . Prison archaeology . Graffiti . Roman Catholicism

Introduction

Over the last generation, historical archaeologists have examined institutions of con-
finement in a range of European and colonial contexts, and charted the emergence and
application of ideal institutional models from the eighteenth century onward. The
general lack of focus on earlier institutions, especially prisons, has contributed to an
impression that prisons dating to the sixteenth and seventeenth (and earlier eighteenth)
centuries were static, somehow still medieval, institutions. While early modern prisons
differ greatly to their later counterparts, there existed a range of civic and religious
institutions making use of confinement, each taking a more or less caring approach.
Within Europe, Roman Catholic (hereafter “Catholic”) inquisitions were among the
first judicial institutions to make use of imprisonment as punishment, as opposed to
custody during a trial (Given 1989, p. 343). Through the example of early modern
Malta, I wish to address this often neglected period of prison archaeology, exploring a

* Russell Palmer
russell.palmer@ugent.be

1
Department of Archaeology, Historical Archaeology Research Group, Ghent University, UFo,
Sint-Pietersnieuwstraat 35, 9000 Ghent, Belgium
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 549

potential forerunner to some of the ideas behind “modern” incarceration and troubling
the easy juxtaposition between “modern” and “pre-modern” penal institutions (Casella
2007).
Broadly covering this earlier period, the Roman Inquisition (1571–1798) (hereafter
“the Inquisition”)—not to be confused with the Medieval and Spanish Inquisitions,
which were also Roman Catholic institutions—constituted one of the three main
judicial authorities in Malta, sharing land and power with the Order of the Knights of
St. John (hereafter “the Order”) and the Bishop. In this paper I will consider aspects of
surveillance, discipline, compliance, and resistance as evidenced by the material
development of the inquisitorial prison and inmate graffiti. Furthermore, I will attempt
to show how, through its choice to punish by means of imprisonment, the Inquisition
exerted its power over the population and constituted part of a cultural and political
colonialism emanating from the Vatican in Rome. After briefly situating this study
within current archaeological approaches to prisons and inmate graffiti, I will sketch the
political and cultural context of early modern Malta and the development of the
inquisitorial prisons before turning attention toward the inmate graffiti. The paper will
end with a brief consideration of how the “imperial debris” of colonialism and
inquisition are engaged with today (Stoler 2008).

Prisons and Inmate Graffiti in Historical Archaeology

The archaeological study of pre- and early twentieth-century prisons and other places of
incarceration has received significant attention in the past 15 years (see Beisaw and
Gibb 2009; Casella 2007; De Cunzo 2006; McAtackney 2014; Mytum and Carr 2013;
Spencer-Wood and Baugher 2001). However, archaeological research into prisons is
uneven in its geographical spread—being limited mostly to areas once part of the
British Empire—and has hitherto focused predominantly on the development of
“modern” prisons after the late eighteenth century (Casella 2001, p. 50). While most
were far from being “total” institutions, many attempted to replicate aspects of what
were considered “ideal” forms of architecture and space that were employed in order to
materially structure inmates’ lives and control their behavior (Spencer-Wood and
Baugher 2001, p. 9). Analyses typically employ Foucauldian power dynamics in which
dominant groups have power over and fear of “dangerous” and potentially contagious
society members, who are thus segregated and reformed. These institutions are
contrasted with their (often unstudied) predecessors, creating a juxtaposition between
a pre-modern (pre-1850s) corporeally punishing penal system and modern psycholog-
ically reforming system (Casella 2007); a contrast criticized by Michael Ignatieff (1981,
p. 156) for its “over schematizing [of] a complex story” long before most archaeolog-
ical studies of institutions.
A different pattern follows for the study of inmate graffiti. The archaeological study
of ancient and classical graffiti has a long history in the Mediterranean and more
contemporary examples are starting to be explored (e.g., Orengo and Robinson 2008),
with discussions of prison graffiti generally limited to matters of conservation (e.g.,
Alberghina et al. 2010). Within historical archaeology, textual and graphic graffiti is
recognized as a writing practice, a conceptualization that is “is crucial to understanding
graffiti, not only as a mode of communication, but also as a performative and dialogic
550 Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

undertaking” (Frederick and Clarke 2014, p. 51). By materially locating such commu-
nicative practices within their social and historical contexts, archaeologists have ana-
lyzed graffiti from diverse environments, from hidden communities (Giles and Giles
2007; Orengo and Robinson 2008), to quarantine stations (Clarke and Frederick this
issue) and the lives of prison inmates (Casella 2007; McAtackney this issue).
Reoccurring functional types of graffiti—testimony, separation, diversion, resis-
tance—have been identified within nineteenth- and twentieth-century inmate graffiti
(Casella 2014), but do these categories resonate with an early modern prison
environment?
Far from being medieval dungeons or akin to the infamous early modern Newgate
Prison in London (Grovier 2009), early modern inquisitorial prisons were “the best
maintained in Europe” (Peters 1995, p, 31). Furthermore, many forms of non-corporeal
punishment used by religious courts often predated significantly their introduction into
secular courts (Spierenburg 1995, p. 51). I aim to explore the usefulness of applying
approaches currently employed in analyzing nineteenth- and twentieth-century prisons
and inmate graffiti to an early modern context. Rather than stretching the ideals of
“modern” institutions back in time, the Inquisitor’s prison cells and surviving inmate
graffiti will be investigated in terms of assessing efforts made to create a centralized
prison complex and the extent of surveillance and routine afforded, along with the
potential for resistance, compliance, and expression of non-Catholic identity.

Historical Background

The Order ruled Malta from 1530 to 1798 and consisted of men from landed and noble
families in Catholic Europe who, akin to the bishop and inquisitor, were not local; the
latter being chosen by the Vatican. Established in sixteenth-century Italy to combat the
threat of Protestantism, the Roman Inquisition inherently threatened the sovereignty of
any state in which it operated (Martin 2003, p. 51), as its tribunal held precedence over
all others (Tedeschi 1990, p. 87). Furthermore, the dual role of the incumbent as
Inquisitor and Apostolic Delegate (the Pope’s direct representative) ensured that epis-
copal power in Malta was greatly overshadowed (Brogini 2005, pp. 399–481). Dis-
putes over areas of jurisdiction between the Grand Master, Bishop, and Inquisitor
created an often changing and always unbalanced power triad: “Malta was close to a
theocracy as the three separate jurisdictions of the island—the Grand Master’s, the
Bishop’s, and the Inquisitor’s—all considered the Pope as their ultimate earthly head”
(Cassar 1993, p. 436). But while the Order owed their existence to papal privilege, the
Vatican was aware of the Order’s usefulness, especially in creating the ideal of a unified
Catholic Christendom against Islam (Buttigieg 2011, p. 100) and in the face of growing
Protestantism. It is from this uneasy power (im)balance that I argue Malta was
effectively a colony of the Vatican, with the Order, Bishopric, and Inquisition all
institutions, to greater or lesser extents, under its control. All three institutions profited
from the appropriation of land (Cassar 2000, pp. 32, 64), which along with taxation,
control of food supplies, and reduction of the traditional systems of power and
representation bear the hallmarks of many colonial enterprises (Given 2004, p. 37).
The financial security of early modern Malta came from the Order’s European
priories and estates, cotton exports, and the activities of the Order’s navy, supplying
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 551

bounty from captured vessels in the form of goods and (mostly Ottoman) human cargo
(Cassar 2000, p. 107). These harbor-focused activities brought unintended repercus-
sions; the Catholic Maltese came into close contact with a large population of Islamic
slaves with whom magic and sorcery were closely associated and who significantly
influenced popular religious beliefs (Buttigieg 2011, p. 123). To counter these interac-
tions, moral and religious regulations were enacted by the Inquisition while civic
authority was imposed through the Order’s Castellania (Court of Justice). The two
institutions differed greatly in practices and punishments. The Inquisition distinguished
itself through its belief in redemption and a move toward “de-publicization” of bodily
suffering (Spierenburg 1984), epitomized in the use of imprisonment as form of
punishment.
While inquisition trials have a lurid reputation, trial by torture was highly regulated,
conducted in secrecy (therefore de-publicized), and aimed at revealing “truth” and the
operation of power (Foucault 1991, p. 55); in this case the power and redemption of
God enacted on earth through the Pope and the Vatican. Heretical crimes investigated
included apostasy, blasphemy, freemasonry, immoral life, polygamy, possessing
prohibited books, and sorcery. From 1744 to 1798, 33.8 % of 3,049 denunciations
related to blasphemy, and another 29 % to witchcraft (Ciappara 2001, p. 90). Sentences
were based not only on the severity of the infringement but also the nature of the
confession and apparent repentance. Four capital punishments were ordered, all dating
before 1700 and all carried out in effigy (Gambin 2006, p. 59). More frequent
punishments included public shaming, public whipping, exiling, imprisonment, and
for the worst offenders, a spell on the Order’s galleys. However, many prisoners appear
to have been released with only salutary penances or no further punishment, their time
in custody being considered penance enough (Ciappara 2001, p. 468). The Inquisition
bore the cost of imprisonment, with sentences typically lasting one to six months and
custody anything between one day and 13 months. In the second half of the eighteenth
century (the date of most graffiti presented below), of the 147 imprisoned, 34.7 % were
arrested for sorcery (52 % “Turks,” 25 % “women”) and a further 32.0 % for
blasphemy; 37 were sentenced to further imprisonment (figures based on sentences
transcribed in Ciappara 2001, pp. 285, 518–538).
The Inquisitor’s Palace was housed in the Order’s former Court House in
Birgu (Fig. 1), meaning that it was already equipped with a tribunal and some
prison cells. Between 1574 and 1798, the site was expanded by purchasing
adjoining houses to add palatial living quarters and a new prison block (see
Vella 2013). By 1600, there appear to have been eight communal cells spread
round the Castillania courtyard and north side of the complex, which it is
thought changed function after building new cells (Balzan 2013, pp. 51–52).
In the 1640s, Mgr. Pannellini built seven prison cells (three large and four
smaller) along a central corridor (Gambin 2013, p. 27), of which only the three
larger survive (Fig. 2). High lancet windows face onto the street below and
provided air and light (Fig. 3a). The height was sufficient to prevent visual
face-to-face contact with the outside world, although oral communication was
possible (Evans 1715, pp. 37–38). The last adjoining house was purchased in
the 1660s (Balzan 2013, p. 55), parts of which were reformed into a prison
yard and cells by Mgr. di Messerano (1698–1703, Fig. 3b). What survives of
the ground-floor prison complex constitutes three larger Pannellini cells, four
552 Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

Fig. 1 Location of Inquisitor’s Palace, Malta

smaller (probably Messerano) cells, and a room believed to have contained the
torture chamber (see Fig. 2). While conditions were not salubrious, water was
provided from a cistern accessed from the prison courtyard and the inmates
were supplied with a bed, a straw mattress, and basic bedding, as well as some
lamplight (Gambin 2004, pp. 31–32). Food was provided in the form of bread,
cheese and onions, although those with funds could purchase supplementary
food items and tobacco via the gaoler, who visited twice daily at 6 am and
2 pm (Ciappara 2001, pp. 489–492).
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 553

Fig. 2 Reconstructed plan of prison cells in the Inquisitor’s Palace, Malta

Inmate Graffiti

In October 2012, Jeroen De Reu and I embarked on systematically recording all known
stone-carved graffiti at the Inquisitor’s Palace. The project was conceived of in three
parts: (i) to trial a tested 3-D recording procedure based on multiple flash-aided 2-D
images and ground control points (see De Reu et al. 2013) in the dark, humid and dusty
conditions of the prison cells (dust and humidity both being potentially hazardous for
the photographic equipment), hopefully rendering the chronological sequencing and
form of the graffiti more visible (for other 3-D recording techniques see McAtackney
and Devlin 2014); (ii) to provide a social and archaeological interpretation of the
graffiti; and (iii) to provide a digital archive of the eroding cultural resource, eventually
to be hosted online by Heritage Malta. The following analysis is based primarily on
some of the 15,000 2-D photographs produced—the 3-D imaging was not completed
by the time of going to press. Most of the Inquisition-period graffiti is pictorial, with the
small number of textual graffiti (<30) written in Arabic or Greek. A sample of key types
will be presented from three cells (see Fig. 2)—a larger Pannellini cell (cell 3
[5.77 × 2.72 m; 18 ft. 11 in × 8 ft. 11 in.) and two smaller Messerano cells (cells 4
[2.47 × 1.83 m/8 ft. 1 in × 6 ft.] and 5 [2.60 × 2.22 m; 8 ft. 6 in × 8 ft. 3 in.)—that reflect
the ongoing nature of this research but also cover inmate graffiti dating from the
formation of the prison “block” (1640s) until the end of Inquisition in Malta (1798).
Occasional exceptional graffiti will be drawn from other cells and the prison yard. It
should be noted that figures painted in black and red on the NE wall and ceiling of a
554 Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

Fig. 3 a Lancet windows in cell 3; b Prison Yard; c Painted figures on NW wall of room above cells 4 & 5; d
Pannellini corridor

room or cell above cells 4 and 5 (see Fig. 3c) have led Balzan (2013, p. 56) and others
to suggest that the room was used as a prison chapel (the Inquisitor’s chapel was
previously used). Most cells exhibit the remains of multiple paint layers and/or
plastering. Figure 4 demonstrates that the Inquisition graffiti is underneath these layers,
which were created by the British Army in the nineteenth century and during subse-
quent 1930/40s renovations when the building was converted into a museum (National
Archives Malta CSG01-866-1937), therefore it is assumed that no attempt was made by
the Inquisition to systematically cover up inmate graffiti. The majority of the graffiti are
situated between one and two meters in height from the floor, although window
recesses and door lintels are also marked.
Ship graffiti appear in cells 3 (four on NE wall, two on NW wall) and 4 (five on NE
wall, one on SW wall). While most are clearly recognizable as galleys or galleons,
some appear as two or three lines representing the hull (Fig. 5a and b). Two stylized
anchors are located on the SE wall of cell 5 (Fig. 5c). Numerous examples of count
marks appear in each cell, some clearly demarcated by a surrounding box, others
merely a closely associated collection of scratch marks.
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 555

Fig. 4 a BStratigraphy^ of paint layers, SW wall of prison yard; b detail, the earliest layers relating to
nineteenth-century painting and layers 3 and 4 likely relating to the application of Rainex in the 1930s
(National Archives Malta CSG01-866-1937 1937); c 1756 graffito showing that layer 1 was painted after
carving

All cells contain religious crosses of various forms: two clearly visible instances of
the Maltese cross can be found on the NE wall of cell 3 (Fig. 5d), the then predom-
inantly Catholic altar cross is found on the NW wall of cell 4 (Fig. 5e), and an example
of the double-barred Patriarchal cross is found on the NW wall of cell 4. Simple
Christian crosses are found in all the cells.
Carved circles are a common feature in cell 5, with at least 7 single circles, one
interlocked set of four forming a triangle, two interlocking linear series, and one rosette.
The regular size of the circles within their groups (3 and 7 cm diameter) suggests a
make shift compass was used (Fig. 5f). Carved representations of human forms are rare,
although cell 3 contains a carved relief what appears to be a dead man hanging from the
gallows (Fig. 5g).

Discussion

In a religious prison it is unsurprising that we find religious graffiti. Yet the choice of
depicted religious symbols and paraphernalia suggest more than imitation of or adherence
to prescribed ritual. Emanuel Buttigieg (2011, p. 102) has suggested that the Hospitallers

Fig. 5 Inmate Graffiti at the Inquisitor’s Palace: a rigged ship, NW wall cell 3; b galley, NW wall cell 3; c
anchor, SE wall cell 5; d Maltese cross, NW wall cell 3; e altar cross, window alcove, SW wall cell 5; f
triangular, interlocked, and rosette circles, NW wall cell 5; g gallows, SE wall cell 3; h recent graffito BArnold
‘heart’ Josephine. 1.1.13.^
556 Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

incarcerated in civic prisons craved crosses as a “means to focus their prayers and as a
symbol of redemption and penitence,” but the presence of altar and patriarchal crosses in
the Inquisitor’s cells suggest a level of resistance against Catholic doctrine. The Catholic
altar cross was only used during Mass and processions by the priest and as such would be
out of the control of the laity. Within the context of the early modern Mediterranean, the
patriarchal cross almost certainly refers to Greek Orthodoxy (Murray and Murray 1996, p.
126), an identity that stands counter to the Inquisition’s role in fighting non-Catholic forms
of Christianity and can be read as an act of defiance. The positioning and small size of
these crosses do not suggest that Mass or any other official ceremony was being recreated
within the cells; rather they can be interpreted as appropriations of a symbol associated
with power by the disempowered. While the crosses are easily recognized, other religious
imagery is more opaque. The triangle of four interlocked circles is similar to those found in
magic books of the time (Ciappara 2001, p. 314). The series of interlocking circles
resemble graffiti in the Great Mosque at Divriği, Turkey, that are thought to represent
the geometric symmetry in Islam (Bakirer 1999), as are the ornamental rosettes, which
have been found on Muslim ships (Agius 2007, p. 106). Further strengthening the Islamic
association are two much more explicit representations of roses that occur in combination
with Ottoman tulips and Arabic inscriptions found in prison block (Fig. 6). The roses are
often interpreted as the Rose of Muhammed and would suggest being created by educated
male hands, most probably those of Muslim slaves imprisoned for apostasy or sorcery.
Given the frequency with which enslaved Ottoman men were imprisoned for sorcery, it is
perhaps understandable that not only does the symbolism overlap but the so too does the
gendering of the sorcerers. Sexual male-male practices were considered widespread
among Muslim slaves in Malta and they were perceived as feminized (Buttigieg 2011,
pp. 123, 156), uniting them with local females as “non-male” practitioners of “popular
magic.” As magic symbols and/or religious imagery, the crosses, circles, and roses
represent a continuance of the practices for which the inmates are likely to have been
imprisoned, displaying a disregard for, and potential resistance to, Inquisitorial authority.
Ship and anchor graffiti are very common in the Mediterranean and when associated
with churches and chapels, the traditional explanation has been that they are ex voto
(Muscat 1999). Both can be read as signs of hope (of freedom and home) or fear (of a
sentence on the galleys), complying with Casella’s (2014, p. 110) category of

Fig. 6 Roses and tulips with Arabic inscriptions a SE wall of middle Pannellini cell; b SW wall of prison yard
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 557

“separation,” but a simple reflection of maritime life cannot be ruled out (de Vries 1976,
p. 13). Although it is unlikely that many, if any, of the inmates will have captained a
galley, the detail on some graffiti suggests familiarity with these vessels, signifying
captured slaves or lowly members of the Order’s navy: groups both subjugated by the
law of the Inquisition, and by extension the Vatican. Scratch marks and occasional
dates may provide evidence of testimony, although dates usually occur in conjunction
with other graffiti. The representation of a hanged man is interesting; as a form of
punishment used only by the civic authorities, its presence in a religious prison may
suggest a contemporaneous blurring in the popular perception of civic and religious
authority.
Although it is impossible to tell who was carving the graffiti, those in custody or
those serving sentences, the presence of graffiti suggests that imprisonment can be
regarded as punishment without successful religious indoctrination. More important
was instilling a general sense of moral rehabilitation, in an attempt to produce govern-
able inhabitants (Ciappara 2001, p. 498; Foucault 1991). The routine of the prison,
though undeveloped compared to “modern” institutions, encouraged compliance with
Catholic doctrine; from not eating meat on Fridays to attending Mass. Foucault (1991,
p. 122) observes that short prison sentences such as those issued by the Inquisition were
not conducive to forming habits. Despite the possibility of auditory contact with the
outside world, when compared with modern prisoners in purpose-built facilities whose
worlds were mainly directed inwards, the increased tendency to build smaller cells,
possibly for solitary confinement or gender separation, demonstrates a move toward
closer architectural regulation of the prisoners’ activities. The high walls of the prison
yard restricted outside views to the sky and oral interactions with those beyond the
prison boundaries. Contact between social groups (the inmates and others) was “reg-
ulated through the manipulation of spatial components” (Gilchrist 1994, p. 160); access
to the prison diverted inmates away from the public spaces of the palace (see Fig. 2)
and the potential use of cell 4 as a chapel would further contain the inmates. Graffiti in
the yard suggests a high degree of inmate mobility during daylight hours, a lack of
active surveillance, and a general lack of censure for graffiti production. However, a
direct line of sight runs SE-NW from the entrance to the prison to the end of the
Pannellini corridor (see Fig. 3d), which, coupled with the general lack of graffiti in the
corridor, suggests that inmates were either in their cells or in the courtyard, rather than
freely roaming.
In the eighteenth century, the most common offences for which the prisoners would
have been sentenced were blasphemy and sorcery (Ciappara 2001, pp. 518–538);
widespread crimes best punished in an acceptable manner that accommodated
European-wide moves away from public spectacles of suffering (Spierenburg 1984,
p. 184). Imprisonment contributed to fostering a culture of stigmatized shame (Casella
2007, p. 63), but it also enabled the Inquisition to display its compassion and offer
redemption. Prisoners, as others sentenced, were marginalized in society by their
crimes and punishment, but they also defined the border between acceptable and
deviant behavior (Geltner 2008, p. 153). As such, they formed an important section
of society on whom the Vatican could shower its benevolence. Twice yearly, inmates
could apply to the Supreme Court in Rome to have their sentences commuted
(Ciappara 2001, p. 476), and many were successful. Prisoners were also released on
the grounds that a family may be left destitute without an inmate’s ability to
558 Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561

economically provide. To paraphrase Scott (1990, p. 54), these gifts enhanced the reputa-
tion of the Vatican for pious generosity, thereby promoting their position on the island.
The system of punishment and absolution offered by the Inquisition, like any other,
did not deter absolutely and there were cases of recidivism. Yet it created a framework
through which the Vatican could implement its political and cultural domination; that
the Vatican officials saw themselves as ruling elites is indisputable. The grandeur of the
baroque palace is in itself a portrayal of their domination and “flattering self-portrait”
(Scott 1990, p. 54). Unlike states that were ruled by a monarch (e.g., Venice), the
Inquisition’s powers in Malta were not diminished by political and commercial ma-
neuverings, and even the Order had to submit to the Pope.
This case study shows that in contrast to later forms of institutional confinement,
labor was not one of the “essential mechanisms for cultivating improvement of the
mortal soul” (Casella 2007, p. 61). Indeed, the number of graffiti and the detailed
carving of some (e.g., the roses in Fig. 6) suggest that inmates had considerable time on
their hands. Bodily and mental exercises were encouraged through the prescription of
mass attendance, observances of Saints’ days, and fasting. Neither historical records
nor the distribution of the extant graffiti suggest that inmates were classified or
segregated by offence. The lack of common uniforms and intensive supervision
designed to strip inmates of their identity separate the Inquisition’s prison from later
penal institutions: the religious graffiti strongly indicates that inmates were able to
graphically articulate their individual religious identities. Yet the attempt to create an
integral block with, albeit limited, architecturally directed surveillance, free medical
care and food, and the use of imprisonment as a potentially (spiritually) rehabilitative
punishment mark it from contemporaneous civic prisons. In this light it is possible to
see imprisonment within the wider role of the Inquisition, in identifying and regulating
socially “dangerous” members of society and thereby sustaining Malta as a Catholic
territory.

Afterlives of the Roman Inquisition

The Inquisitor’s Palace is today a museum housing “displays on Malta’s religious

traditions as consolidated by the Inquisition” (see http://heritagemalta.org/museums-
sites/the-inquisitors-palace). Despite its more recent colonial occupation as a
nineteenth-century British Army officers’ mess, the Inquisition-period and contempo-
rary Catholic festivals dominate its interpretation. In the 1930s, concerted efforts were
made by the first curators to “undo” the modifications of later military intrusions and
restore the baroque palace (National Archives Malta CSG01-866-1937). Amongst
growing anti-British colonial and Maltese nationalistic feeling, the Inquisition repre-
sented a pre-British period in which Malta was more closely connected to the Vatican
and its sustained Catholicism. The early restoration attempts can be seen as an enduring
aftermath of this period; the “imperial debris” of a religious colonialism that persisted
throughout British colonial rule. Efforts are now being made to research and display the
full history of the site but it is the lure of the inquisition prisons that attracted most of its
35,153 (30,000 tourists) paying visitors in 2013 (Cassar pers. comm.; also see Casella
and Fennelly, and McAtackney this issue on the attraction of places of incarceration).
An international conference on the Roman Inquisition was hosted in September 2014,
Int J Histor Archaeol (2016) 20:548–561 559

and two recent popular evening events drew on popular perceptions of the Inquisition:
“Dark Tales of Birgu” (November 8) saw a ghost hunt at the palace and on October 10,
26 individuals paid to spend a night in the cells as part of L-Għid tal-Erwieħ [All Souls
Eve] (Cassar pers. comm.). The cells and graffiti offer visitors a tangible link to past
human experiences and it is unsurprising that they are a popular and well-advertised
feature of the museum’s ongoing history, with the occasional visitor adding their own
contribution (see Fig. 5h).

Conclusion

Imprisonment was a crucial part of the Inquisition’s ability to safeguard Malta not only
as a Catholic territory but also maintain Papal authority in a land ruled by a Sovereign
Order, which was not always compliant. The prison itself evolved from a dispersed
collection of cells to an integral block with a central courtyard, cut off from the outside
world, yet supplied with food and medical care. The graffiti demonstrate not only the
perseverance of religious practices contra to Catholic doctrine but also conform to some
of the themes found in inmate graffiti identified in later secular prisons (Casella 2014,
p. 110): separation, resistance, and testimony.
By building on studies of more recent prisons and inmate graffiti it has been possible
to analyze the inquisitorial prison from a comparative, archaeological perspective.
While direct parallels between the prison block and later prisons—and the regimes
running them—must be cautious, it has been useful to make comparisons in order to
situate the site within broader contexts. However, it must be remembered that the
Inquisitor’s prisons will never fit neatly into a chronology or story of prisons while the
dominant archaeological narratives focus almost exclusively on English-speaking
contexts. In the nineteenth century, under British colonialism, Malta became just that,
and English is today its second national language. The complicated layering of
multiple-colonial aftermaths makes interpretations representing the Inquisition as much
part of the “imperial debris” of British colonialism as that of earlier powers, all at a time
when history writing in the Republic of Malta is focusing on the “Maltese” rather than
colonizers (Mitchell 2003, p. 390).

Acknowledgments The photographing of the graffiti was conducted with Jeroen De Reu, who is now in the
process of creating 3-D imagery. Eleanor Casella, Wim De Clercq, and Michael Given read earlier versions of
this essay, each providing detailed feedback, for which I am very grateful. The interpretations offered have
benefited from discussions with Emanuel Buttigieg and Suzanne Spencer-Wood, and helpful editorial
direction was provided by Laura McAtackney. Lastly, thank you to Heritage Malta and the staff of the
Inquisitor’s Palace Museum, especially Kenneth Cassar, who always makes my research stays pleasant and
productive. All errors and omissions remain my own.

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