The year 1989 marked the six hundredth anniversary of the defeat of the Christian Prince of Serbia, Lazard I, at the hands of the Ottoman Empire in the “Valley of the Blackbirds,” Kosovo. On June 28, 1989, the very day of the battle’s anniversary, thousands of Serbs gathered on the presumed historic battle field bearing nationalistic symbols and honoring the Serbian martyrs buried in Orthodox churches across the territory. They were there to hear a speech delivered by Slobodan Milosevic in which the then-president of the Socialist Republic of Serbia revived Lazard’s mythic battle and martyrdom. It was a symbolic act aimed at establishing a version of history that saw Kosovo as part of the Serbian nation. It marked the commencement of a violent process of subjugation that culminated in genocide. Fully integrated into the complex web of tragic violence that was to ensue was the targeting and destruction of the region’s architectural and cultural heritage. As with the peoples of the region, this heritage crossed geopolitical “boundaries.” Through the fluctuations of history, Kosovo’s heritage had already become subject to divergent temporal, geographical, physical and even symbolical forces. During the war it was to become a focal point of clashes between these forces and, as Anthony D. Smith argues with regard to cultural heritage more generally, it would be seen as “a legacy belonging to the past of ‘the other,’” which, in times of conflict, opponents try “to damage or even deny.” Today, the scars of this conflict, its damage and its denial are still evident. However, there are initiatives that are now seeking to use heritage – architectural and otherwise – as a way of fostering respect and dialogue between the cultures still reeling from the effects of the conflict. Having been seen as an originating factor in the conflict and made into a target for attack during the war, heritage is now seen as a facilitator for peacekeeping. As is to be expected, this is a complex, polemic, fraught and contested process.

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Vous dites: il faudrait montrer dans ce livre le rôle que peut jouer Rome dans la vie d'un homme à Paris; on pourrait imaginer ces deux villes superposées l'une à l'autre, l'une souterraine par rapport à l'autre, avec des trappes de communication que certains seulement connaîtraient sans qu'aucun sans doute parvînt à les connaître toutes, de telle sorte que pour aller d'un lieu à l'autre il pourrait y avoir certains raccourcis ou détours inattendus, de telle sorte que la distance d'un point à un autre, le trajet d'un point à un autre, serait modifié selon la connaissance, la familiarité que l'on aurait de cette autre ville, de telle sorte que toute localisation serait double, l'espace romain déformant plus ou moins pour chacun l'espace parisien, autorisant rencontres ou induisant en pièges.-Michel Butor, La Modification (1957) AbstractThe guidebook is not merely a registration of the city and its historical evolution or of the changing preferences of visitors but rather a device that selects and arranges aspects of the city-real as well as imaginary-into a coherent representation of that city. This is particularly the case in Rome, a city composed of three different entities: the ancient, the Christian, and-from the second half of the seventeenth century onward-the modern capital, each with their own monuments and histories. From the sixteenth century onward, Roman guidebooks use the categories of Roma antica, Roma sacra, and Roma moderna to define and represent these three components.In this essay, we argue that the changing application of these labels in the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries reflects not only the far-going physical transformation of the city during that period but also new ways of thinking about the identity of Rome. The reconfiguration of the three "Romes" in the space of the guidebook,

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