On your left is the site of the Church of Saint-Amatre. Focus on the ground here, because the real history is quite literally buried. We are standing on what was once Mount Autricus, a sprawling Gallo-Roman cemetery sitting just outside the shifting walls of early Auxerre.
This was a place where ancient worlds collided, and the transition from a pagan burial ground to a Christian sanctuary was not exactly subtle. In fact, one of the most striking discoveries near this spot was a criobole. A criobole is a massive pagan altar designed specifically for the bloody sacrifice of a ram, a cornerstone of ancient rituals. The early Christians of Auxerre did not just destroy this towering symbol of the old gods. Instead, they deliberately hollowed out the center of the heavy stone, erasing a pagan dedication to Roman consuls from the year 228, and used the altar as a humble Christian coffin. Talk about a spiritual power move.
The man who truly anchored the new faith to this hill was Bishop Amâtre, who led the congregation in the late fourth century. Bishop Amâtre was an uncompromising figure with a bold vision for sacred structures. Born into a wealthy merchant family, he was forced by his father to marry a noblewoman named Marthe. But at the altar, the presiding bishop unexpectedly consecrated the couple to God rather than giving them a standard marital blessing. Taking it in stride, Amâtre and Marthe vowed to live together in absolute chastity. This radical devotion fueled his fierce leadership. He systematically replaced the pagan shrines on this hill with Christian oratories, establishing a sanctuary that drew pilgrims for centuries.
For over a thousand years, a grand church stood on this spot. But the boundaries of sacred ground are rarely permanent. During the French Revolution, the government decided the city had too many parishes. Saint-Amatre was crossed off the list, sold as a national asset, and immediately dismantled for scrap stone. Faced with the destruction of his sanctuary, the church's last prior took a highly practical approach. He simply signed the new government agreements and took a job at another parish across town.
Today, the church above ground is entirely gone. Yet, hidden beneath the soil remains a twelfth-century hexagonal crypt. After the revolution, winemakers built a modest house directly on top of the crypt's broken vaults. Down in that dark, buried space sits a stone sarcophagus from the Merovingian era, the first dynasty of French kings, embedded directly into the wall. Even the columns holding up the crypt ceiling are salvaged Roman pillars, dragged here from older ruins. It is a beautiful puzzle of a space, proving how this city constantly redefines its borders and its faith using the rubble of the past.
Our next destination holds even more secrets beneath the soil. Let us head toward the Church of Saint-Pierre, a nine minute walk from here, where recent archaeological discoveries are bringing more ancient foundations into the light.
